Royal Mess

by Jenna Sutton

  I know my father won’t step down until my numbers are as good as or better than his. It’s hard to change public opinion though, particularly when you’re reserved and undemonstrative like I am.

  To my disappointment, my approval ratings have really tanked since I left the navy two years ago. Back when I was flying jets, about fifty percent of Alsanians had a favorable opinion of me. Today, only twenty percent do.

  Think about it this way: if I were to pass ten people on the street, eight of them would frown at me, maybe even try to trip me or ram their elbow into my stomach. Only two would smile at me, and more than likely, their smiles wouldn’t show their teeth.

  Improving my image is my number one priority. It’s the reason I agreed to participate in a public service campaign to promote organ donation.

  Like most countries, Alsania has an opt-in policy for organ donation. That means people must register to be organ donors.

  Some countries, like Spain, have opt-out policies, which means you’re a donor unless you take steps to opt out. Those countries have much higher participation rates.

  Organ donation is a public health issue, and it’s something I truly believe in. I thought my involvement in an organ donation campaign would kill two birds with one stone: increase donor participation and improve my image.

  When I added my name and blood type to the registry, I didn’t expect to be a match for someone needing a liver transplant from a living donor. In retrospect, if I’d known that I’d be matched, I probably wouldn’t have signed up. I’m not that selfless. In that regard, I have a lot of company. Most people aren’t willing to sacrifice their organs unless they’re dead or unless it saves a family member.

  “Is she cute?” my brother asks.

  “Who?” I look sideways at him. “Tessa?”

  A smirk twists Marco’s lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you refer to a woman by her first name.”

  I think about that for a moment and silently concede that he may be right. Except for my mother, I always refer to women either by their titles or their honorifics. I guess I’m old-fashioned that way.

  “So, what does Tessa look like?”

  Sadly, there’s only one way to describe her. If I had any doubt about her need for a liver transplant, seeing her in person erased it.

  “Sick. She looks sick. Her eyes were yellow.”

  “Like cat’s eyes? That’s freaky.”

  “No.” Idiot. “The whites of her eyes were yellow. It’s a sign of liver failure.”

  Beyond that, I didn’t notice much about her appearance. Well, that’s not entirely true. I noticed her smile, mostly because I was surprised she could smile under the circumstances.

  It makes me wonder what she was like before she got sick and what she’ll be like once she’s well again. Because she is going to be well again.

  We reach the elevators and take a short ride to the ground floor. My driver is waiting for us with the limo when we exit the hospital. It’s sprinkling, which is unusual for this time of year. May usually gives us blue skies and warm weather.

  Once Marco and I are inside the limo, he grabs a couple of bottles of San Pellegrino from the built-in cooler and tosses one to me. As soon as I buckle my seat belt, I twist off the cap and take a long drink of the sparkling water. I let the cool liquid trickle down my throat and ease the dryness.

  “Why does Tessa need a new liver?” Marco asks.

  “She had a bad reaction to an antibiotic. It damaged her liver to the point where she needs a transplant.”

  Antibiotic-induced liver failure isn’t common, according to the research papers I read, and fifty percent of all liver transplants are related to alcohol-related disease.

  There’s a lot of debate about whether people with alcohol-related liver disease should receive liver transplants. Those against it point out that these people are responsible for destroying their liver and should suffer the consequences, even if those consequences are death.

  Intellectually, I understand the argument. Philosophically, I disagree with it.

  To me, that would be like withholding chemotherapy from people with lung cancer because they smoked. Or denying people with HIV the treatment they need because they contracted the disease by engaging in unprotected sex.

  I would have gone through with the donation regardless of the reason Tessa needed it, but her situation is no fault of her own. It’s bad luck, pure and simple. Who could imagine that an infected cut would lead to liver failure?

  Dr. Barchon didn’t tell me much about Tessa before the hospital visit, but his description of her intrigued me. She’s a remarkable young woman, he said. She sees the weeds but chooses to look at the flowers instead.

  Now that I’ve met Tessa, I understand exactly what the surgeon meant. I consider myself a realist, and delusional optimism has always angered me. But Tessa’s personality appeals to me. She’s positive without being idealistic.

  Marco takes a sip out of his bottle before leaning against the seat rest and rolling his head in my direction. “I’m not sure about this whole living donor thing. I know it’s riskier for the recipient, but something could go wrong on your end too.”

  Being a living donor isn’t risk-free. Fifteen to twenty percent of donors experience complications. Blood clots and infection are the most common, but in rare cases the liver doesn’t regenerate.

  Unlike Tessa, I’ve never experienced any life-threatening injuries or illnesses. Though I occasionally fall victim to a cold or a stomach bug, I’m healthy overall or else I wouldn’t be eligible to be a living donor.

  Back in Tessa’s hospital room, she asked me if I was afraid. I purposefully deflected her question and tried to reassure her. The truth is, I am afraid—afraid for myself and afraid for her.

  One of my favorite quotes is from Franklin D. Roosevelt: Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the assessment that something else is more important than fear.

  I’m not going to let my fear prevent me from donating my liver. Helping Tessa is more important than my fear.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Leo?” Marco asks quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Tessa Lulach is not going to die. Not if I can help it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tessa

  I’m never going to be able to wear a bikini again. From this moment on, it’s a one-piece. Or maybe a tankini. We’ll have to see how well my scar heals.

  I’m sure a lot of women would be devastated—rolling my eyes here—by the inability to strut their stuff in a revealing bikini, but I’m not. I’m just happy my transplant was a success. Because I only received a partial liver, there’s far less risk of my body rejecting it.

  So far, so good.

  Today marks the one-week anniversary of the surgery. I’m finally out of isolation, which means people can visit me without wearing masks, gloves, and paper gowns.

  Dr. Barchon says I’m recovering ahead of schedule. It’s amazing how much better I feel, though I’m still sore.

  Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my hospital suite, I study the scar that crisscrosses my stomach, just under my ribs. It looks like an upside-down T, at least eight inches wide and ten inches tall.

  No one promised the surgery wouldn’t leave a mark, and I consider it a badge of honor. If anyone ever asks me about it, I’ll just tell them the T stands for Tessa.

  I wonder if Leo has the same scar. His room is right next to mine, but I haven’t seen him or talked to him.

  It’s impossible to think of Leo as His Royal Highness or Prince Leo now. I’m not sure why. Maybe because he saved my life. Maybe because there’s a piece of him inside me now.

  My memories of the time right before the surgery are hazy—all except those of Leo. I remember being flat on a gurney as it was wheeled down the corridor. I remember turning my head when another gurney slid past. I remember seeing Leo’s face and seeing my reflection in his obsidian eyes.

  I remember reaching for his
hand and trying to hold on to his fingers as our gurneys took us in opposite directions. I remember mouthing “thank you” to him, but I don’t know if he caught my words or remembers them.

  After the surgery, when I came out from under anesthesia, I was desperate to know how Leo was doing, but no one would tell me. They all said: Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.

  Finally, Dr. Barchon told me that Leo’s surgery had gone well. He explained that he couldn’t say anything more because it would violate Alsania’s health privacy laws. But that didn’t stop me from asking about Leo.

  On the third day after the surgery, the day nurse, Mena, mentioned her neighbor—a handsome man who lives next door. She said this man helped a woman renovate her house, and he was very tired and sore afterward. Since I was doped up on pain meds, it took me a moment to figure out that she was feeding me information about Leo by talking about her invented neighbor.

  According to Mena, Leo is healing faster than expected and scheduled to be discharged from the hospital tomorrow. I can’t let him leave without telling him how grateful I am.

  I hear the phrase “announcement from the royal family” drift from the TV hanging from the wall. Letting my gown fall around my hips, I maneuver in front of the screen. King Carlo is there, standing behind a podium and looking a lot like his older son.

  “I have a brief statement to make about Prince Leo,” he says.

  Even though I know Leo’s fine, my legs feel a little wobbly. I drop down on the side of the bed with my eyes fixed on the TV.

  “As many of you know, Prince Leo recently registered to be an organ donor. He was a perfect match for someone who needed a partial liver transplant. Last week, he underwent surgery to remove roughly sixty percent of his liver, which was then transplanted into someone who would have died without it. He and the recipient are both doing well. As soon as Prince Leo is feeling up to it, he will address the Alsanian people. My family and I appreciate your thoughts and prayers for his continued recovery. Thank you.”

  King Carlo exits the room, and the news anchor takes the screen. As she discusses the king’s bombshell announcement, I tune her out.

  I wonder why the royal family decided to disclose this information now. Were they concerned the news would be leaked and wanted to get ahead of it?

  I hear a knock on the door a moment before it opens. The first thing I see is Mena’s backside, covered in hot pink scrubs, followed by a medical cart.

  Mena is Turkish, but she moved to Circo when her husband’s company transferred him ten years ago. She loves Alsania and is a huge fan of the royal family.

  “Tessa, my love, how are you feeling today?” she asks, flicking her long gray braid over her shoulder.

  “Stronger.”

  “Your body’s getting stronger, but you’ve never been weak.”

  That one sentence explains why Mena is not only my favorite nurse but one of my favorite people. It’s easy to get attached to someone who takes such good care of you.

  The thought of not seeing Mena every day saddens me. Tears burn my eyes, and I blink them away. Dr. Barchon assured me that it’s normal to be more emotional during recovery than I usually am.

  After Mena checks my IV and incisions, she logs onto the computer built into the wall. While she records my vitals, I shrug on my robe.

  “How’s your neighbor today?” I ask, code for How’s Leo today?

  “I just saw him.” The dark skin around Mena’s eyes crinkles as she smiles. “He’s much better. Hungry all the time. And cranky. I think he’s bored.” Her smile widens. “When we’re finished, why don’t you take a little walk down to the recreation room?”

  I stare at her for a moment. “Is your neighbor going to be there?”

  Mena nods. “He probably could use some company.”

  The beep that tracks my pulse increases. The thought of seeing Leo makes my heart beat faster. I can’t hide my response when a machine is monitoring my vital signs.

  A little laugh gurgles out of Mena. “Make sure to brush your hair before you go.”

  Five minutes later, I shuffle down the corridor in my slippers. There’s not a lot of activity in this part of the hospital, which is designated for VIP patients. Except for the antiseptic smell, it feels like a luxury hotel.

  The portable IV pole barely makes a sound as it rolls across the flooring. It looks like distressed oak planks, but it’s really porcelain tile. I pass several framed paintings by a couple of famous Alsanian artists. I’m fairly certain they’re not reproductions.

  I should be on a different floor—one where non-VIP patients recover. But Mena told me that Leo demanded that I be placed in the room next to him.

  What Prince Leo wants, Prince Leo gets. Must be nice.

  Finally, I arrive at the recreation room. Furnished with oversized brown leather sofas and chairs upholstered in muted plaids and florals, it reminds me of a country home.

  A big-screen TV hangs on one wall, the channel tuned to a muted cooking show. Another wall features a massive aquarium filled with colorful fish and a dark bookcase stuffed with paperbacks and board games.

  Leo is sitting in one of the armchairs, doing nothing except staring off into space. Every breath of the air seems to rush from my lungs when I see him. His head jerks up at the sound, and our eyes connect across the room.

  He doesn’t look anything like the perfect, polished prince I met ten days ago. His hair has grown out a bit. It’s kinda messy ... kinda sexy. Inky stubble shadows his jaw and surrounds his mouth.

  My eyes lock on his lips as they stretch into a gorgeous smile that shows just the edge of his white teeth. I can’t help thinking, if this is what he looks like when he smiles, I never want to see him frown again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Leo

  I know the woman standing across the room from me is Tessa Lulach, but I barely recognize her. The woman I met ten days ago was dying. But this woman ... this woman is thriving. Her skin has lost its yellow tinge, and the whites of her eyes are actually white like they’re supposed to be.

  My liver did this. My liver gave this woman pink cheeks and clear eyes.

  That realization brings a huge smile to my face. I don’t think I’ve ever smiled so big, not even when a wave pulled down Marco’s swim trunks on a public beach a few years ago. I warned him the water was too rough, but he ignored his wise older brother. The whole world got a peek at Marco’s junk, and for a while, his nickname was Prince Prick.

  Better him than me.

  “Hi,” Tessa says.

  “Hello. I was just thinking about you.”

  I give myself a mental slap on the forehead. I had no intention of admitting that, but the words slipped past my lips anyway.

  I don’t want Tessa to know I’ve thought about her almost incessantly since I met her. I think a lot about those moments just before the hospital staff wheeled us into surgery ... when she reached for my hand. Every time I think about it I get a weird feeling in my chest.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asks.

  I wave my hand. “Please, do.”

  With her fingers wrapped around the IV pole, she slowly moves forward. Intent on helping her, I rise from my chair. I feel only a slight pull across my stomach where the incisions are.

  I’m still receiving intravenous morphine to manage my pain. It was pretty bad for the first three days, but it’s much better now.

  Grabbing my own IV pole, I make my way to her as quickly as I can. As I get closer, I notice her hair, a gleaming mix of auburn and bronze waves. There aren’t a lot of redheaded Alsanians. Most of us have dark hair.

  When I reach her side, I’m surprised by how short she is. I don’t know why I thought she’d be taller, but the top of her head is even with my pecs.

  “Let me help you,” I say.

  She looks up at me. For the first time, I realize her eyes are green like the olives I prefer in my dirty martinis. They’re pretty—her eyes, not the olives.

  “Thanks,” s
he replies. “The walk down here was a little more strenuous than I thought it would be.”

  Her honesty is refreshing. In my opinion, it takes a lot of strength to admit to weakness. I spent five years in the military with people who refused to do so, mostly because they were afraid of how others would react.

  Making sure to avoid Tessa’s upper stomach—I assume she has the same scar that I do—I gingerly hook my arm around her, just a little below her waist. She feels tiny under her thick robe, and I wonder if she’s normally petite or if she lost weight because of her illness.

  I make a mental note to ask Mena about Tessa’s eating habits. I want to make sure she’s receiving the right amount of calories and optimum nutrition. Of course, the nurse won’t tell me anything about her patient because it violates Alsania’s health privacy laws.

  When I finally came around after the surgery, my first thought was of Tessa. To my frustration, no one would tell me anything.

  I’m not used to people denying me anything, especially not information. I was on the verge of calling the minister of health to demand answers when Mena told me about her neighbor, an adorable florist whose car broke down. The nurse said it took a while to find the right replacement part, but now the woman’s car is running again.

  At first I was baffled and annoyed by Mena’s inane chatter. But then I realized what she was really telling me, and I became incredibly interested in everything her neighbor said and did.

  “How are you feeling?” Tessa asks.

  “Surprisingly good, given that my liver is half the size it was. How ’bout you?”

  “So much better,” she answers with a smile.

  “You look better.”

  And again, the words slipped out without me meaning to say them. It must be the drugs.

  Her smile widens. “No more Dijon mustard?”

  Returning her smile, I say, “No more Dijon mustard.”

  After a moment, I realize we’re just standing there, staring at each other and smiling like fools. Definitely the drugs.