His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  It has to be. Right?

  My stomach is knotted when Derek strolls in with confident steps. His boots echo around the quiet room.

  He doesn’t even have time to greet me before I pounce, tone accusatory. “Did you send Ryan away?”

  He tugs at the collar of his emerald green coat, straightening it. When he speaks, he has the authoritative tone of a real prince. “Send him away? You make it sound like he’s left the country. No. He’s been transferred.”

  “Why?”

  There’s a coolness about him this morning, almost like he’s irritated by my line of questioning. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been placed here to play your prince. Last week, I was training. It was a temporary arrangement. You saw how confusing it was to the guests to have Ryan and me both standing here in costume.”

  “Right, but Ryan wanted this job.”

  “Yes, and I’m only tolerating it.”

  Tolerating me, he means.

  I look away, stung.

  “For the time being, I’ll play His Royal Highness.”

  “And for the holiday parades? Surely Ryan will be doing those.”

  He clears his throat. “Unfortunately not.”

  The news is shocking to say the least. Last week, I felt suffocated by my residual feelings for Derek and he was only here a few hours a day, standing in the background. Now he’ll be by my side during every shift? Rehearsing for the parade? I gulp.

  “If you’re disappointed that I’m here instead of Ryan, take it up with Cal. I had nothing to do with it.”

  To say my first day working alone with him goes deplorably is an understatement. Word of Derek’s placement as His Royal Highness spreads like wildfire through the park. Whether the guests know who he is or just find him particularly handsome, it doesn’t matter. My meet-and-greet line doubles. For every picture I take with a child, he takes one with a teenager or a mom. They fan themselves and make little quips. Derek stays quiet, his brown eyes as sharp as knives each time our gazes meet.

  A few times, we’re asked to take a photo together. Come on, you two! Squeeze in! As if nervous that I’ll protest, Derek always moves quickly. He grabs ahold of my waist, tugs me close, and there I stand, crowded in by his size, his dominance. I might as well be a prop with the way he moves me to and fro. I’m sure when the guests return to their hotels and scan through their photos, they’ll wonder why I look so off, why my smile is so strained, why my cheeks are so flushed, my eyes glassy. I probably look fluish. I want to apologize and tell them to come back another day, preferably a few months from now when Derek is no longer posted here. Then, I’ll give them the dazzling smile they’ve come to expect.

  The absolute worst is when they beg us to kiss. They’re relentless with their teasing. They don’t drop it when it becomes clear we won’t do it. Or rather, Derek won’t. He doesn’t even kiss my cheek like Ryan would have. I know we’re characters in a fictitious fairytale, but the rejection still hurts.

  All day, I feel feverish and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s his mood I’m picking up on. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s still the composed, stoic man I’ve come to know, but beneath his marble exterior, I can tell there’s a storm brewing.

  At the end of the shift, he leaves without a word, and I resist the urge to run after him, pound my fists against his back, and beg him to stop.

  The entire week drags on like this.

  * * *

  Saturday night, Ryan invites me to play mini golf.

  Whitney: Seriously?

  Ryan: Oh…my bad. Was I supposed to invite you to do something cooler? Not too late to hit up a rave or something.

  Whitney: A RAVE?! Stop while you’re ahead.

  Ryan: So…yes?

  It’s such an innocent request, and I’ve had such a strained week, so I happily accept. Since most of the staff don’t keep cars on site, Ryan shows up at my dorm with two bikes in tow. One is his. The other he borrowed from a friend.

  He holds up a chunky black helmet, and I take it with a laugh.

  “The mini golf course isn’t far, but it’d take forever to walk there. You up for it?”

  I plop the helmet on my head in reply. He smiles and steps forward, helping me adjust the straps so they fit snugly under my chin.

  “Sorry. My friend has a big head.”

  I laugh and he bends closer, fiddling with the buckle. It finally clicks into place. His eyes meet mine and his smile fades. I think he wants to kiss me. He’s going to kiss me, but then I knock my closed fist on the helmet and declare it a perfect fit.

  “Ready to go?”

  Since it’s a Saturday night, the mini golf course is extremely crowded. It doesn’t help that we’ve found ourselves smack-dab behind a large birthday party. The first three holes take thirty minutes. Time moves in reverse. Danny (I know his name because everyone is wearing matching DANNY IS 8! shirts) seems nice enough and I hate talking trash about him, but the kid can’t golf. On the fourth hole, his ball pings off the miniature windmill, collides with a tree, and then manages to hit Ryan directly in the face.

  Kids scream when his nose starts gushing blood. I rush to get ice from the main office. After that, we sit on the curb out front while Ryan tips his head back, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

  “Want me to go back and beat Danny up for you?” I tease.

  He laughs and then groans.

  “You don’t think it’s broken, do you?” I ask, eyes wide.

  “No. My nose bleeds really easily. I have a weak constitution.”

  I laugh, because it’s categorically not true. He’s tall, athletic.

  “It’ll stop in a second,” he assures me.

  Sure enough, after a few minutes, he moves the ice pack off his face and there’s no more blood, just a little bit of swelling and a faint red bump.

  He glances over and I smile.

  “It’s really not so bad. You were always missing the left half, right?”

  He leans over and playfully jostles my shoulder with his. I smile down at my feet.

  “I can’t believe we worked together for so long before I worked up the courage to ask you out.”

  One of my eyes narrows as I think it over. “Didn’t I technically ask you out first? Last week?”

  “That doesn’t count. We were never alone. This is definitely our first date.”

  “Wow. Date, huh?” I emphasize the word with an exaggerated smirk.

  “I knew I should have taken you to the rave.”

  I chuckle.

  His tone is more serious when he continues, “I’ve been wanting to take you out for a while, but you know…you’re kind of intimidating.”

  A laugh bursts out of me. Surely he’s joking.

  He’s not.

  “I mean, you’re you,” he says, gesturing to me as if I’m supposed to understand what that means. His declaration makes me slightly uncomfortable, so I pivot, trying to keep the mood light.

  “Is this because I beat you handily in the first three holes? Because I warned you, for someone who played absolutely no sports growing up, I have scary-good hand-eye coordination.”

  His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “C’mon, be serious.”

  No. That’s the last thing I want to be right now. I’ve been nothing but serious all week.

  “How do you like your new position in the park? You’re a huntsman in the forest now, right?” I ask. “Must be nice. I hear you can show up early and volunteer to test some of the roller coasters.”

  He looks away, disappointed. “It’s cool. Yeah. I mean, I didn’t want to leave my post, but I wasn’t really given an option.”

  “You can come back, you know. Derek’s only going to be working there for a little while. They’ll need someone again when he leaves.”

  He nods, peering at me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s it like working with him anyway?”

  It feels wrong discussing Derek with Ryan. So I don’t.

  I point to the snow co
ne stand across the street and promise to be right back.

  In a few minutes, I return with two heaping piles of sugary shaved ice. Syrup drips down the side of the Styrofoam cup and I urge Ryan to eat it fast. “Hurry! It’s dripping!”

  “I can’t! My nose!” he protests.

  We laugh as my hands turn into a sticky mess. In the end, I have to scoop bites for him and pass them over so he can wedge the spoon underneath his ice pack. It’s a disaster. All of it. But, we’re having fun, and even though I’m fighting back yawns, I know it’s not because he’s boring. He’s not. This has been the most eventful date I’ve ever been on, by far, but I haven’t been sleeping well the last few weeks and eventually my fatigue wins out.

  “Ready to go?” I ask, nodding toward our parked bikes.

  Ryan tosses his ice pack in the trash before we start the ride back home. The autumn air cools my cheeks as we race down the road, laughing when Ryan makes a joke about “catching some air” as he lifts his front tire in a faux BMX move.

  I try the same thing myself and manage to lift my bike only a fraction of an inch. Ryan, of course, acts like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.

  “You’ll go pro, for sure.”

  We turn the corner back to my street together and my dorm looms in front of us. I suggest we race to the finish, and Ryan agrees. We pedal fast, but then my gaze catches on someone sitting outside on the curb, a few yards ahead. Right in front of my building.

  I slow down.

  In the moonlight, I can tell the guy is tall with dark hair. I squint to make out his features, hoping—then berating myself for it.

  My stomach dips right as Ryan turns back to ask, “Is that…”

  “Derek.”

  He has his elbows propped on his knees and his head bent down. I know it’s him even before we’re dismounting and unbuckling our helmets. He glances up and our eyes meet. A familiar tug pulls me in his direction, and it’s painful to resist. He looks sad, though I doubt anyone else would notice. It’s the subtle way his dark brows are only slightly downcast, a shallow furrow between them. His full mouth is perfectly straight, and yet I swear he’s frowning.

  He’s wearing jeans and a Miami Heat t-shirt, the most casual I’ve ever seen him. His dark hair is rumpled and when he stands, my eyes follow his body. He’s just as athletic as Ryan, and though he’s taller, he carries himself with more grace and fluidity. It’s self-assurance, I think, confidence in who he is and what he wants.

  In his hands, there’s a hardback book. He sees me notice it and then tucks it under his arm.

  I yank off my helmet, attempting to control the insane mess of waves that were stuffed underneath. No doubt, it’s hopeless. I give up and let them fly.

  Ryan’s the first one to speak. He’s the only one of us currently capable of speech, I think.

  “Derek, hey.” He sounds out of breath. We both are. “What’s up?”

  Derek glances over at him and his scowl deepens. “What happened to you? Are you bleeding?”

  Oh right, the golf ball.

  “If you can believe it, I got a golf ball straight to the face courtesy of an eight-year-old. Don’t worry though, Whit here took good care of me.”

  Ryan laughs and looks at me like we’re sharing a private joke. I guess we are.

  “We were playing mini golf,” I explain, sounding guilty.

  There’s no protocol for this situation. No one knows who to defer to. Ryan glances between me and Derek. Derek studies the building across the street. I keep my focus pinned to the ground.

  “Well…” Ryan says, finally. “Looks like you guys need to talk. I’ll call you later, Whit, yeah?” He turns and kisses my cheek, catching the edge of my mouth.

  I watch Derek, trying to decipher if I’ve wounded him. The idea is ludicrous. I’m projecting what I want to see, not what’s actually there, visible in his dark brown eyes. Those eyes might compel me to spill the truth, but they do the exact opposite for Derek. A well of dark brown so deep I get lost searching for answers. I don’t even think to acknowledge Ryan until he’s wheeling the bikes away, yards down the sidewalk from where I stand.

  I throw a half-hearted goodbye in his direction, disappointed in myself. I had fun with him tonight. He deserves better.

  “I thought you said you and Ryan were just friends?” Derek asks once I turn back around to face him.

  I shrug. “We are.”

  “So that wasn’t a date?”

  “It was mini golf. Call it what you want.”

  Suddenly, I’m mad at Derek for being here, for ruining a perfectly good evening. I’ve suffered through his sour moods all week at work and now he’s here, after hours, reminding me of what will inevitably await me come Monday.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask, sounding accusatory.

  My arms are crossed over my chest. I try to stand an inch taller.

  “I want to talk.”

  “Then talk,” I shoot back.

  In an instant, I become aware of where we are. Out here, voices carry. I’m sure students inside the dorms can hear us. I would tell him we should save this for another time, but I want to hear what he has to say. It’s clearly important or he wouldn’t have been out on the curb, waiting for me.

  I sigh and nod my head toward the back door of the dorm. It’s co-ed, and there aren’t real parameters around who is allowed in as long as they sign in at the front desk. Still, I bypass that step and sneak him up the back stairwell, toward my room at the end of the hall. It feels better once we’re inside, safer now that we’re away from curious eyes.

  I wish we were somewhere else, though. I never intended on ever bringing Derek into my dorm. It’s my personal space and he’s invading it. After setting his book down on my small dresser, he takes in my makeshift kitchen and desk. My twin bed has a simple white duvet and two pillows. Nothing else will fit. My books (some of which are his) are stacked beside my bed. I want to run over there and swipe the stack so it crumbles to the ground, preventing him from reading the spines, but it’s too late. I pray he doesn’t remember he ever lent them to me in the first place.

  He’s taking it all in, looking, examining, prying. He keeps his hands to himself, but he turns a slow circle in the room, curious about every single detail. I’m a specimen and he’s a scientist and I recall the very first time we ever met, when he was sitting across the table from me in the coffee shop, examining me with amusement.

  I have a feeling he’s doing the same thing now.

  I explode.

  “We’re here now, so talk.”

  I immediately regret snapping at him and I nearly apologize, but he does first.

  He turns to look at me over his shoulder, brown eyes awakening a swarm of butterflies inside me. “I’m sorry for how I handled things eight years ago,” he says, like it’s a matter of fact.

  “What?”

  I stand perfectly still, trying to figure out if I’ve heard him right. Maybe I got hit in the head with a golf ball too.

  He turns fully toward me and continues, “You’re upset with me because of how I left things back then, so here I am, apologizing.”

  It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t seem all that sorry. In fact, his tone is borderline angry. His posture is too proud for someone offering amends.

  I tilt my head as I think it over.

  “So if you could go back, you’d handle things differently?” I test, wanting clarification for my eighteen-year-old-self.

  His expression stays neutral. Nearly bored. “I didn’t say that.”

  I prop my hands on my hips. “So then you’re not apologizing at all.”

  He almost smiles. “I guess not.”

  Geez! The arrogance!

  He shrugs. “I can’t apologize for not pursuing you back then. In my eyes, you were still a kid.”

  “Kid or not, I still had feelings. In fact, I can still feel the sting of rejection when I got that generic form email informing me you would no longer be m
y mentor.”

  His eyes narrow. “You seem to think I wronged you back then, but let me be clear. Your email was charming and sweet. However, you sent it on the company email server.” It takes every ounce of strength I have not to cringe. I hadn’t even considered that fact. “Besides that glaring misstep, there was the obvious age gap between us. What did you want from me? A relationship? You were barely out of high school. I’d already finished my graduate degree and had one focus: work. For the last eight years, I’ve barely taken the time to glance up, but now, I’m looking, Whitney. I see you. You want me to grovel and beg for forgiveness over what I did back then?” He takes a step toward me. “I’d rather talk about the way I feel for you right now.”

  I hold my ground as he approaches, my chin tipping up in defiance. “That’s all well and good, but like I told you last week, I’m still the same girl. If you didn’t want me then, why should I care that you suddenly want me now?”

  I can practically hear a chorus of women cheering me on in my head. Yes! Go girl! Louder for the people in the back!

  His attention falls to my mouth. My lips part on an inhalation. “In spite of what you think, you have changed. You’ve grown up. This conversation proves it.”

  His hand curves around my waist. When it reaches the base of my spine, he tugs me toward him. I practically stumble. My hands hit his chest and he doesn’t budge, as sturdy as a brick wall.

  His other hand reaches up to cradle my chin and then he bends low, tipping my head just enough so our lips can make contact.

  Except they don’t. Derek stays there, frozen. My heart is in my throat. I’m breathing so hard, I sound like a crazed animal, pinned underneath a predator. It’s not a kiss at all, but my body is reacting like it is. I sag against him, breathing in his scent: the spiced confidence of a man I’ve wanted since I knew what it meant to want. I’ve imagined this moment for so long. It’s heady. I’m screaming out for a kiss in ways that don’t require words: my fingers dig into his shirt, my hips brush against his. I know he can feel it, and yet he doesn’t give in.