The Royal We

by Heather Cocks

  He cocks his head at Gaz.

  “Her man of honor,” Gaz says hopefully.

  “Her distinguished escort,” Cilla corrects him.

  “Quite right. The distinguished Mr. Bates will take Miss Porter around the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, like so, careful not to molest the poppies, and then bang on up the aisle for a bit past the cheap seats. Steady, that’s right. We’ll be at this for about five minutes so I hope you wear your trainers tomorrow, eh?”

  He chuckles, thrilling to this. We stare at the dean’s back, following diligently and practicing the walking cadence, as he drones on about the history of the Abbey and the “O Rare Ben Jonson” stone on the floor. (Legend has it that when the poet qualified for burial there, he couldn’t afford the square footage of a proper plot, so he bought one tile and had himself interred standing up.) After a minute of holding our joined hands at chest height, Gaz’s arm trembles.

  “A bit achy on the muscles, this,” he says. “I should make man of honor exercise routines. I’ll make a fortune.”

  “Right,” I say absently.

  “Oi, what’s the matter?” he whispers. “Nick was as grim as a reaper when he came in.”

  “I messed up, Gaz.”

  “How bad?”

  “Really bad.”

  “Cancel-the-wedding bad?” he asks jovially. “Shag-the-groom’s-brother bad?”

  I stiffen. Gaz grips my hand so tight I want to yelp. “I will neuter that git,” he hisses as we reach the gilded, semi-enclosed Quire.

  “Children’s voices raised in song, the swell of anticipation of seeing His Highness, magical feelings, you get the idea,” the dean calls to us, waving his hands as if he’s conducting the choir himself.

  “No! No shagging,” I insist. “But it’s complicated.”

  I can see Nick ahead, over the dean’s shoulder, and feel my throat threatening to close.

  “Just please don’t hate me later,” I plead. “And, please, do not trust Clive.”

  Gaz side-eyes me with surprise. The rest of the way, I try that old trick of floating above myself to take in as much of this as possible, in case the dry run is the only run. But fear and dread root me to the ground, small and scared in this towering place where countless reigns and love stories have begun and ended. Gaz deposits me next to Nick. The air is thick.

  “Right, then the archbish and I get to go all scold-y on you about marriage being a Holy Estate, don’t be wanton, blah blah blah,” the dean says, turning to face me and Nick with a dramatic swoosh. “Then we dish out some pressure to sprog up with some heirs, and then it’s my favorite bit, ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, where we look jolly mean and ask if anyone thinks you should call it off, and everyone hopes nobody’s exes had a tipple before the ceremony.”

  When Nick and I don’t laugh immediately, Gaz offers a loud guffaw, which kicks everyone else into gear. The dean looks elated, until he spies the tear escaping down my cheek.

  “That’s right, dear, let yourself be moved, that’s why we rehearse,” he says kindly.

  Nick does not even look at me.

  * * *

  I have been inside Westminster Abbey several times since I moved to England, most often to draw, and invariably it would be packed with throngs of gawkers glued to their audio guides—or, at the very least, some docents and a school field trip. But I can probably count on two hands the number of people in history who’ve seen the Abbey completely empty, and now Nick and I are among them. After our rehearsal, Nick had asked the dean for a moment alone for us to reflect on our big day, and the dean had been only too thrilled to escort everyone else around the Cloisters so that we could be properly reverent of our forthcoming sacrament. While Nick lights a candle that I assume is for Emma—he does this in every church he enters—I wait for him in the Henry VII Lady Chapel, a large, rounded marvel behind the altar where a bunch of kings and queens and other mighty personages lie in eternal state. It’s just me and the ghosts, all of whom I’m sure have a variety of notes, largely hypocritical, about my behavior. In the distance I hear Nick’s footsteps click across the marble floor. My skin crawls. I am afraid.

  And then he’s there. Nick makes for me briefly, instinctively, and then catches himself and clenches his entire body.

  “I’ve heard the most ridiculous story,” he says, his voice pitched high and tight. “About my brother snogging the woman I’m supposed to marry.”

  “Nick—”

  “I know, it’s mental, I didn’t believe it at first, either,” he says, his tone veering slightly hysterical. “Real forbidden passion stuff. Quite juicy. Can’t wait for the next installment.”

  “Nick, I’m sorry, and I love you,” I say, as fervently as I can. “I could say both of those things a thousand times every day for the rest of our lives and it wouldn’t come close to how much I mean them.”

  “You’ve an odd way of showing it.”

  “I know it looks that way,” I say, “but Nick, I promise you, we’re not in love, he’s not in love—”

  “Oh, good, then you were just pawing at each other for sport, that’s much better.”

  “I just mean that he’s mixed up. We both were. And it wasn’t pawing.” I try again. “Please don’t be angry at him, he was—”

  “Angry at Freddie?” he spits. “You’re worried about me being angry at Freddie? I’m angry at Freddie every other day. I can deal with being angry at Freddie. I’m not used to being angry at you. And I am so angry, Bex. I can’t fathom where I’m going to put all this anger so it won’t explode out of me.” He puffs out a breath. “I don’t even care about the press stuff. I could live with that. It’s the fact that it’s true. And now your first concern is for him—”

  “It isn’t, Nick. It’s for you. I’m just…” I can barely say it. “I’m scared that this is the end for you and me, and I don’t want you to lose us both on the same day.”

  Nick purses his lips and fights to keep from crying. My hands are shaking.

  “I almost wish Clive had told me,” he says. “Because I never have to see him again to relive that memory. But Lacey apparently gave Freddie a heads-up, and he thought he’d be considerate and tell me so that you didn’t have to. And it was so thoughtful. Really aces of him to break my heart right before my wedding rehearsal so I don’t have any happy memories of this whole experience at all, if it even happens.”

  And there it is.

  Nick flicks his eyes at me, then drops his head. “I can’t even look at you,” he whispers. “It used to be my favorite thing to do. And now…”

  “Can I explain?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard it.”

  “Not my side,” I say. “It didn’t happen without context, Nick, and maybe it won’t help, but please. Let me try.”

  Nick is vibrating from anger or sadness, possibly both. He climbs into one of the benches and sits down, facing me, arms resting on the wood rail.

  “All right,” he says. “Tell me how you kissed my brother and never told me. Twice. Shall we have the dean take your confession?”

  I absorb that one. I owe him that much. I don’t know how to defend myself against this, exactly, but maybe I don’t have to; maybe I just lay it all out there and let him accept me or not. I sit down on the opposite side of the chapel. The gulf between us is chilly, and it is horrible.

  “The first time, you and I were broken up, and Freddie and I were drunk, and lonely, and probably horny, and it was pitch black and we bumped into each other. It could have been anyone, and once our senses caught up with us, we freaked out,” I say. “I didn’t tell you because you specifically said, twice, that you didn’t want to know what happened while we were apart.”

  “I didn’t mean that with regards to my own brother.”

  “You’re totally right. I shouldn’t have listened to you. I thought it would stir the pot for no good reason, so when you offered me a way out, I took it,” I say. “Remember, th
ough, you practically turned green when we talked about you and Pudge, and this was just a kiss.”

  “Was there another time that wasn’t?”

  “Not with Freddie,” I say. If Nick and I have any chance, there needs to be nothing else left to catch him by surprise. “But I did sleep with Clive during that time. And yeah, I’m pretty skeeved out about it right now.”

  “There, we are in agreement,” Nick mutters.

  “I hadn’t seen you or talked to you since the breakup, and I swear, Nick, you try standing anywhere near Ceres de Whatever in fucking foot pants while she looks so perfect and perfect for you. I just could not,” I recall. “Clive rescued me and we got super-crazy drunk in Paris. I wanted to take it back right after it happened, and that was before he turned out to be a sleaze.”

  Nick rests his forehead on the rail of the choir pew. “Is there anyone else you shagged that I should know about?”

  I smack my bench with both palms. “No,” I say. “No. There are plenty of high horses you can climb up on right now, but not that one. We were broken up. For good, as far as I knew. And if the papers are right, you used that time to screw every ex-girlfriend you had and more people besides. Don’t you dare shame me for anything I did.”

  His eyes flick up at me apologetically before returning to the floor.

  “You said the first time didn’t mean anything,” he says. “With Freddie. That implies the second time did.”

  “It did,” I say. “But not in the way you think.”

  “Do enlighten me,” he says, his cheeks bright with anger. “I’m on the edge of my pew.”

  “I was upset,” I say. “More than upset. I was wrecked. I was lonely, and I was overwhelmed, and you’d been gone for almost a year. I got scared that I was in over my head with all this.”

  “So you’re punishing me for being in the Navy?” he asks curtly.

  “I’m not punishing you for anything!” I spit back. “Do you really think that’s who I am?”

  He waits a beat before shaking his head.

  “But yeah, you know what, I was angry with you,” I continue. “Your first deployment was hard enough, but the second one did me in. I was mad at myself for telling you to go, but I might’ve been madder at you for letting me.”

  “How could I have known you didn’t mean it? I’m not psychic,” he points out.

  “Be fair, Nick. You knew it was crazy. But you wanted to go, so you believed whatever would justify it,” I say. “You didn’t want the facts to get in the way of your decision.”

  “The Navy isn’t just a lark to me!” he says. “I am useful out there. I am not useful here.”

  “You would have been useful to me.” The sheer need in my voice almost hurts my feelings, I hate it so much. “Look, I’m just trying to explain how jumbled my head was. I’m proud of your commitment. That’s why I never asked you to say no to the Pembroke. But you knew you were leaving me in shark-infested waters. How many times did you tell me you were afraid of bringing me into this life? We almost lost each other over that once. And we might lose each other over it again.”

  “No, I think that’ll be because you kissed my brother.”

  “That’s what I mean about context, Nick.” I breathe out hard through my nose. “I was spiraling. Freddie, too. We both felt lost in your family. Things got really emotional, and intense, and for a split second Freddie thought he was offering us both a way out.”

  “And that was a better plan than talking to Marj?”

  “I’m Marj’s job, Nick. I’m an equation she has to solve,” I say. “You are the only person who chose me. Everyone else on your side just has to make the best of the fact that I was the one person still standing when Daddy forced you to pick a bride.”

  Nick looks up at me. “I never intended to keep my side of that deal,” he says. “What was he going to do, remove me from the military under great public scrutiny? Crack me over the head and wake me up in Gretna Green? I just agreed so he’d let me join up.”

  “You never told me that. You never told me anything,” I said. “All I was hearing was that I was a desperate guy’s default option. And the way you charged off into the Navy and never looked back, it started to feel like maybe it was true.”

  “I don’t understand why it’s so easy for you to believe the worst,” he says.

  “It’s never easy, Nick, it’s agony,” I say, a sob rising in my throat.

  We’re quiet while he chews on the inside of his cheek.

  “I did not handle our breakup as well as I wanted to,” he says. “The longer we were apart, the more I missed…” He searches for the right phrase. “The feeling of family that you and I had. I wanted it again. I’d never had it with anyone except Freddie.”

  His voice catches on his brother’s name, but he keeps going. “So yes, I slept with old girlfriends, and some new ones, and yes, I imagined whether we could have a life together. All those girls would have been easy and palatable choices if any of us had loved each other, but we didn’t, and I realized I’d already had my choice and lost her.” His eyes are moist. “And then suddenly you and I were together again. I couldn’t waste it. The timing was ghastly with the Navy, but I was afraid if I waited, something might get in between us and screw it up again.”

  “And it did anyway. Again,” I say, feeling drained.

  “Maybe that’s our destiny,” he says. “Screwing up. Maybe we misread this all along.”

  The words echo off the walls, even though we are speaking quietly. Neither of us has moved, an aisle apart in fact but much further away in spirit. Nick gets up, as if to leave.

  “Wait,” I say, sliding out and crossing to where he is standing. This conversation is not finished yet. “I told you the Freddie kiss meant something to me, but I didn’t tell you why.”

  He half turns to listen to me, his head still down. “The first time, I learned I wasn’t over you,” I say. “And the second time, I learned I never will be. That’s why it mattered. I shouldn’t have let it happen, but when it did, it killed any doubt or fear I felt, and filled me up with you instead. I’m not marrying the monarchy. I’m marrying you. And however bad it gets with the press, or your family, or even mine, I will always choose you. I’m yours for life. Whether you want me or not.”

  Nick jams his hands in his pockets and spends what feels like forever rattling the change in there.

  “It’s not your fault he wanted you,” he finally whispers to the ground. “God knows I understand it. But it’s all I can see when I close my eyes.” His voice breaks. “Twice, Bex. Once before we were even engaged. If I’d known then…”

  “Okay, let’s play that.” I feel like I’m negotiating for the rest of my life. “You once asked if I’d have turned down your proposal if I’d thought twice about your Naval deployments. The answer is no. Even knowing that this is the way it played out, even if this is the end, I would do it again a hundred times.” I am crying in earnest now. “If I’d told you about Freddie then, would you still have chosen me? Do you still choose me now?”

  Nick does look at me this time, long and hard and sad.

  “I don’t know,” he says, and he walks out of the chapel, leaving me alone with the ghosts.

  Chapter Three

  Kira steps back and gives a triumphant hoot. “Nailed it,” she says. “You can barely tell.”

  She hands me a mirror. An hour and a half ago, I looked like what’s under the bandages after plastic surgery: splotchy and crimson, with eyelids like cocktail sausages. I’d retreated to The Goring and thrown myself into my mother’s arms, sobbing out to her and Lacey everything I’d had to hold in during the drive; then I bled myself to Gaz and Cilla and haltingly released them to process it in private, telling them that I would respect their choice if they could no longer support me. I pulled myself together a hundred times, only to pop the seams again five minutes later, and hid behind sunglasses on the ride to Buckingham Palace to prepare for tonight’s reception. When I took them off ins
ide the Spartan, utilitarian room earmarked for my styling team, Kira whispered, “Take me now, Lord.”

  But she has worked a miracle. She shrank my eyelids with a mixture of compresses, witch hazel, and Preparation H, giving me the faint perfume of hemorrhoid cream of which every young bride dreams. She flushed me out with a gallon of Visine and filled me up with a gallon of water; with all that, some thin white eyeliner on my lower lids, and some artful highlighter, you can’t even tell I spent the day running my heart through a meat grinder. Even I nearly believe the illusion. Apply enough spackle, and you can sell anything.

  Kira makes me blot my lips one more time, then holds up her hand for a high five, which Cilla obligingly attempts and bungles.

  “Watch the elbow and you’ll never miss,” I say.

  They try again. It’s perfect.

  “I can’t believe that works. Where did you learn that?” Kira asks, amazed.

  My throat constricts as I remember the day Nick taught me, after The Glug. “State secret,” I manage, feeling myself unspool.

  Kira stomps her foot. “No. You will not get all weepy on me. Aren’t you an artist? Do not spoil my masterpiece.”

  This makes me smile, which is its intent. Cilla hands me a bottle of water with a straw poking out so I won’t disrupt my lipstick.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “For everything. No one would blame you if you weren’t here.”

  “I would blame me,” Cilla says. “And not just because I’d be shirking my job. Although perhaps all this happening means I did shirk my job.”

  “Don’t even say that. Your job isn’t to babysit me, Cil.”

  “It is, a bit, but you’re also my friend,” Cilla points out. “I should have noticed on both ends how bad it had gotten.”

  “There has been a lot of why didn’t you tell me and I’m not psychic today, all of it earned,” I say. “Reminds me of when Nick and I broke up the first time.” I catch myself. “Hopefully the only time.”