His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  Derek nods and turns to the bar. It feels like a sharp dismissal.

  “Whit? You comin’?” Ryan asks.

  “Derek? It’s not…”

  He glances back and his eyes look right through me as he nods in Ryan’s direction. “Your friend’s waiting for you.”

  “Derek—”

  “I’m tired, Whitney,” he says, his voice so harsh I take a step back. “Not tonight. Yeah?”

  He turns to the bar and I’m left standing there behind him, looking foolish. I can’t make myself move. I stare at his back, trying to shove all of my emotions down beneath the surface, but it’s proving harder than ever. Only a moment ago, our hands were linked together and our night held all the possibilities I could imagine, but now he won’t even look at me. He stands there, waiting for the bartender, his rigid body warning me to leave him alone. He clearly wants some space.

  I turn and make my way back to the table. Ryan is there, eyes unfocused as he runs a hand through his hair. Our beers sit untouched in front of him.

  I come up to stand beside him and thank him for the drink. He doesn’t say a word.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer quietly.

  It’s an apology that’s long overdue.

  He leaves it there, lingering uncomfortably, before he finally speaks up.

  “How long have you been into Derek?” he asks as we continue to eye our untouched beers.

  The words come rushing out of me too emphatically. “I’m not.”

  “Could have fooled me.” He laughs wistfully. “It’s funny…the signs were there. It was pretty obvious you weren’t into me, but I didn’t want to believe it, you know?” He stands and shakes his head. “I’m gonna head home.”

  I grab his sleeve, my face expressing all the anguish I feel inside. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I’m sorry.”

  “Nah, don’t be, you know. I was shooting out of my league.”

  Then he turns, tugs his arm out of my grasp, and shoves through the crowd. As he disappears, tears start to blur my vision.

  I’ve never felt so disappointed in myself. I was cruel. I should have been honest with Ryan from the very beginning. I wish he would come back. In fact, I want to shout his name and beg him to let me explain everything. I don’t, though. It would be a selfish move, a way to assuage my own guilt. Why would Ryan care about my history with Derek? It doesn’t change tonight’s outcome for him. He has feelings for me that I can’t reciprocate. I hoped I could, but I can’t, and now he knows it. I owe him space.

  I wipe my eyes, trying hard to hide my public meltdown. I’ve never cried in a bar before. With the neon beer sign buzzing near my head, I might as well be starring in a music video on CMT.

  I drag my gaze back to the bar and find Derek’s still right where I left him, waiting for the bartender, elbows resting on the bar, focus straight ahead. Suddenly, I’m determined to talk to him even if he is tired, even if he wants to be left alone. I can’t let tonight end like this. I wipe my cheeks one more time and that’s when I notice the brunette from earlier—the one who fluffed her hair when he first walked in. She’s standing behind him, gathering courage. She straightens her blouse and then leans forward, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and glances down at her. I stand frozen, watching them. She speaks and gives him a kind smile, rocking back on her heels before extending her hand. He returns her smile and accepts her hand. Their connection is a blow I didn’t see coming. The bartender finally gets around to taking Derek’s order. He turns to the brunette, asking something before holding up two fingers.

  Two drinks. One for him and one for her.

  My heart burns like someone’s holding a lighter to it.

  Me. I’m the one flicking the starter, cradling my hand around the flame so it doesn’t blow out. It’s my worst fear come to life. Derek with someone else. Derek with a beautiful woman, flirting with her right in front of me. My first instinct is to leave, but I need to witness this. Rip off the Band-Aid all at once. Ready, go. Hold your breath and live through the pain. You’ll survive, I tell myself. You’ll reach the other side and you’ll realize it wasn’t so bad. The pain only existed inside your head. Seeking proof of that, I look down at my chest, and just as expected, there’s no flame pressed against my heart.

  Back at the bar, the woman takes the free stool beside Derek and angles her body in his direction. Her knee brushes his thigh. She leans in close to speak to him, and he does the same, trying to hear her over the sounds of the bar. Their mouths are too close. I watch her glance down at his. She wets her lips, subconsciously, I’m sure. She wants him. She’d be a fool not to want him as badly as I’ve wanted him all these years.

  Her hand touches his shoulder. My shoulder.

  Mine.

  Derek smiles at her, and that small gesture is the fatal blow. I turn back to the table, grab one of Ryan’s beers, and chug it, letting some of it spill down my chin. I swallow and sputter and cough and wipe the back of my hand across my face and then I turn to leave. Exhaustion has caught up to me. I feel like I’m wading through thick syrup, carrying the world on my back as I find the exit, push the door open, and walk outside.

  I make it five steps, just to the edge of some overgrown hedges, before I lose my stomach. Chugging a beer without eating dinner first was stupid, but that’s not why I’m sick. Another heavy wave of nausea racks through me.

  A gentle voice behind me asks if I’m okay and I wave it off, too embarrassed to look and see who it is. I know Carrie’s still inside. God I wish I could go get her, but I can’t go back in like this. Not when I have vomit on her shirt. Not when she’s finally turning a corner with Thomas. Not when Derek is sitting at the bar, getting to know someone new, having forgotten all about me. I wonder if he’ll buy her that taco he owed me.

  I stand and prop my hands on my knees and inhale a deep breath. The chilly autumn air hits my lungs like ice and I start the short walk back to my dorm.

  I fantasize about what I’ll do when I get there. Cry. Beat my fists into my pillow. Pen a letter to Derek then tear it to shreds and burn it. Or maybe I’ll just sleep.

  That sounds like a good plan. I manage to make it home, wash my face, and change into the softest pajamas I own. I’m tucking myself into bed when I hear a knock on my door.

  “Whitney, are you still awake? Hey, it’s Alexa from 3B. I know we’re supposed to put formal complaints in your mailbox, but Kelly is eating my Pringles again—”

  I throw a pillow at my door. “GO AWAY!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Derek

  The woman who introduces herself to me at the bar doesn’t want a drink. I offer, to be nice, but she says she already has wine back at her table. So, I only buy two beers. One for me and one for Whitney. It’s an accident. As soon as I put in the order, I remember Whitney already has a drink courtesy of Ryan.

  Her pal.

  I probably could have handled that situation a little better, could have clapped Ryan on the shoulder and acted like I was happy to see him, but honestly, I wasn’t. I’m sick of seeing his face. Sick of him standing in my way.

  While I wait on the bartender to bring back the beers, the woman tries hard to carry the conversation for the both of us. I can’t remember her name right after she says it and she has to ask a question twice before I realize she’s waiting for an answer. I smile and apologize. She tries one more time to make conversation, and when I reply with a one-word response, she finally just gives up and walks away.

  I’m glad to see her go. I didn’t come to the bar to make small talk. I came for Whitney and now she’s off somewhere, alone with Ryan.

  That bitter thought keeps me planted on my stool. If I’m going to have to face them together, I need more couth than I can muster at the moment. I stay at the bar and sip my beer, half-focused on the football game playing on the TV in front of me.

  I try on a brave face, relaxing my fists so they don’t accidently inflict bodily harm on Ryan. I’ve never been a jealous
barbarian. Dragging Ryan out of the bar by the collar won’t solve my problems. Besides, he doesn’t deserve that.

  Eventually, I force myself to get up, but it’s too late. It took me too long to compartmentalize my feelings for Whitney because by the time I grab her beer and what’s left of mine then turn to find them, they’re gone.

  “Are you looking for Whitney?” a girl asks. I recognize her from rehearsals, but I don’t know her name off the top of my head. I think she’s one of the elves from the Enchanted Forest.

  I nod.

  She points to the door. “She left a while ago.”

  “With Ryan?”

  Apparently, my annoyance over the idea is visible because her eyes widen. I consciously loosen my grip on the neck of my beer in an effort to look less like a lunatic.

  “No. They left a few minutes apart. It looked like they were fighting or something beforehand. Anyway, someone said Whitney was sick outside, throwing up. Not a good look, if you ask me.”

  I didn’t ask you.

  Without another word, I drop the drinks on a nearby table and head for the door. If she’s still out there, I’ll help her. Even with everything going on, I’ll help take care of her if she needs me.

  Once outside, I look for her, circling the entire bar, but she’s gone.

  The idea of her walking home by herself pisses me off. I know we’re still on the Knightley Company property and it’s a relatively safe area, but still, she was drinking, and as far as I know, she skipped dinner.

  I reach for my phone, about to call her, but then I realize we still haven’t exchanged numbers. I curse and call Heather instead.

  She’s not at all happy to hear from me, something about boundaries and not bothering her after hours. I tell her she can take an extra day off whenever she wants it before instructing her to pull up Whitney’s employee file on her computer. I need her phone number.

  After she’s done, she says, “Make it two days off,” before hanging up.

  I head to my car and unlock it as I place the call to Whitney. It rings forever and then goes straight to voicemail. I try again as I sit down in the front seat and close the door. She finally picks up.

  “I swear if this is someone complaining about Pringles, I’ll scream.”

  “What?”

  There’s a long pause. The metal ting of a lamp being switched on in the background.

  “Whitney? It’s Derek.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s a muffled groan like her face is pressed against her pillow.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sorry. I was nearly asleep. Groggy, I think. Did you need something?”

  She’s dropped her friendly tone.

  I tip my head back against the headrest and rub my eyes.

  “Someone said you were sick outside the bar. I wanted to check if you were okay.”

  “Oh, well…that wasn’t me. Must have just been a raccoon or something. I’m in tiptop shape. In fact, I was nodding off before you called. Don’t let me keep you from your night.”

  “My night?” I ask roughly.

  “With Ms. Fluffy Hair.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The brunette at the bar.”

  “The one I talked to for five minutes?”

  “Is that all it took to convince her to go back to your apartment? I underestimated you.” Her icy attitude grates on my nerves.

  “I’m sitting in my car, alone. And what about Ryan? Is he there beside you?”

  “You saw how small my bed is. There’s no way an adult man would fit on here with me. He’s on the floor.”

  My stomach clenches. Then I realize she’s joking. It’s not funny.

  “If you’re calling to see if I’m all right, I am,” she continues in a biting tone. “Best I’ve ever felt. Great, in fact.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.”

  “Good night, Whitney.”

  She hangs up first.

  I sit there, battling the urge to call her again and continue this fight. I want to push it to its limit so we can air our grievances once and for all. I guess I’ll have to save it for tomorrow.

  * * *

  I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning most of the night. I wake up early and hit the gym, my frustration warning away anyone who happens into my path. A well-meaning trainer ventures in my direction. I shake my head and say, “Don’t.” He turns right back around, picking up his pace. I shower and push away thoughts of Whitney as the water streams down my chest and abs. With an angry twist, I cut it off and step out to greet my reflection. I’m quite the scowling beast this morning. I could convincingly play any villain in our theme park, and the thought only annoys me more.

  With a quick email to Heather, I inform her that I’ll be skipping my shift as His Royal Highness during Whitney’s morning meet-and-greet. She’ll be fine without me for a few hours. I’d like some time in the office to get work done before the parade this afternoon.

  I’m sure Whitney will appreciate that time away from me as well.

  “You’re in quite a mood this morning,” Heather says as we work together. I delegate tasks, check emails, add events and tasks to my calendar, and so on, tearing through work to keep myself busy.

  “Unless you have a comment related to work, I don’t really want to hear it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so harsh with her. I immediately regret it.

  “I’m sorry. Ignore me. I had a terrible night. Let’s continue.”

  We work straight through lunch, right up until the last possible moment before I need to head to the parade warehouse and get changed into my costume. Heather walks with me so we can continue working. With her pregnancy, it’s harder for her to keep up with me, and I forget to slow my pace. By the end of today, I’ll probably owe her half a year of paid time off.

  Two employees from the Costuming Department are waiting for me with my suit. I dismiss Heather and head into a dressing room. The costume is designed in a military fashion, similar to what British nobility would wear if they were getting married. I have black pants and a fitted red jacket with gold buttons stacked down the center. A royal blue sash cuts across my chest, accented by a yellow-gold collar and cuffs. There’s a family crest embroidered just below a medal that’s pinned over my heart. I feel slightly ridiculous wearing the damn thing.

  “Is everything where it should be?” I ask when I step out, and the two employees nod, eyes wide, silent.

  I walk out of the dressing room and head toward the back of the parade processional. Our float is last in line and the set designers have gone overboard decorating it in the theme of a royal wedding. It’s massive—at least two stories—complete with a mini version of Elena’s Castle near the back. Roses cover every square inch of the float, arching and swirling to create a backdrop for the raised platform on which we’ll stand. An engineer is stationed there now, going through a checklist to confirm everything is in working order. There’s no driver present during the procession. Each float is built with a mini computer on board pre-programmed with the parade route. Miles away, there’s a room full of engineers sitting at their desks prepared to troubleshoot any malfunctions.

  I climb the ladder and nod to the engineer before I notice the volume level inside the warehouse start to trickle off. The ensuing silence pulls my attention back toward the dressing rooms just as Whitney steps through a door.

  I stare, enraptured.

  It’s all just pretend. I know her wedding dress is just a costume, but still, she’s more breathtaking than any bride I’ve ever seen. A stunning contrast of white lace and dark red hair.

  It shouldn’t be such a shock to see her. She’s worn parts of her costume during rehearsal—the veil, the top, the skirt—though none of it all at once. Heather told me a team of seamstresses has been working on the dress night and day to complete it in time.

  Their efforts weren’t in vain. Whitney wea
rs it like a dream. The lace sleeves extend down to her wrists, the matching top narrows at her waist, and the skirt falls in soft pleats down to the floor. A V is cut into the high collar, revealing only a hint of cleavage.

  Her hair is down, a few strands pinned beneath her lace veil. There’s a small diamond tiara on her head—exactly what a princess ought to wear on her wedding day.

  Everyone’s eyes follow her as she walks. The parade warehouse is actually just an industrial space with concrete floors and exposed duct work, and yet Whitney might as well be walking down the center aisle of Notre Dame. Carrie walks beside her, holding her veil so it doesn’t drag on the ground. Whitney’s talking with her, unaware of the affect she has on the rest of us. It’s better that way. I need a moment to take her in, to catch myself. Remind myself of where we are. What we’re doing.

  When she nears the float, I climb back down the ladder, knowing she’ll need help getting up.

  Her eyes flit to me, down across my wedding suit. I’d forgotten I was wearing the damn thing, but she notices. Her cheeks flush with color and she looks away, back to Carrie.

  “Help me up the ladder, will you? I don’t want to fall and break my neck—or worse, tear this dress.”

  “I’ve got it,” I tell Carrie, and she nods, stepping back.

  “Carrie can help me,” Whitney insists, glancing back at Carrie over her shoulder. I can only imagine she’s threatening her friend with an urgent glare. Don’t you dare leave me alone with him.

  Too bad.

  I step forward and loop my arm around Whitney’s shoulders, turning her in the direction of the ladder. “Don’t be difficult. I don’t have the energy for it today.”

  She exhales an angry puff but listens to me all the same.