Truly Madly Royally

by Debbie Rigaud

  “I understand,” I say, hiding my disappointment. Still, I’m grateful we can hang out on campus. We enter the library, and Owen sits with me at a study cubicle. He pulls up a chair while I start unpacking my bag.

  “I’ll leave you to your studies, but if it’s not too uncomfortable, I’d like to invite you to dinner at my place.”

  Oh!

  “Is this all some elaborate scheme to get me to come over?” I ask with a teasing smile.

  Owen fights to hide his own smile. “We won’t be alone. Colin will be in the next room. I don’t want you to feel obligated or uncomfortable. In fact, I would understand if you’d rather not—”

  Owen is clearly nervous he’s overstepping, but it’s all good.

  “No, you’re fine,” I chuckle. “Thanks for the invite, it sounds nice. When were you thinking?”

  “I know you mentioned you have a special event to go to Friday, and I have some boring function to attend due to royal duties.” He makes a face. “I was thinking Saturday?”

  The Gala is on Friday—I’ve been trying not to think about it. Now Saturday will get the butterflies going, too. “That works for me,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too agreeable. Only when Owen exhales a puff of air does it occur to me that while waiting for my response, he had been holding his breath.

  “Can I pick you up?” he asks. “Will you be home?”

  “Yes. I was just planning on spending the day in to catch up on some much-needed studying.”

  “Why, has something been distracting you lately?” he asks, back to his relaxed playfulness.

  “I wouldn’t say something, it’s more like someone,” I tease him.

  He smirks but at the same time seems to smile at me with his eyes. I look back at him, remembering how very close he came to kissing me the other day.

  “What is it?” he asks, obviously catching a wordless message in my expression. My face is always telling on me. I wish it would stop being so transparent.

  “Oh, nothing,” we both say at the same time, only Owen says it in a high-pitched voice and with an American accent.

  I crack up and throw a balled-up scrap of paper at him. Too bad he ducks just in time for it to blow past his face.

  “IT WAS just here not a second ago, and now it’s disappeared!” I exclaim.

  I want to cry. When did my dresser top get so cluttered? And why is my nail polish already chipping?

  Gala night has arrived. And my just-in-case speech is nowhere to be found.

  “Calm down, we’ll find it. It couldn’t have just walked away,” says my mom. She’s all dressed up in a flattering black cocktail dress and rummaging through the mess on my bed, shaking out my damp towel, looking under the two backup dresses I’ve laid out. I can tell she’s getting worked up—her forehead is glistening. She grabs the piece of paper sitting on my bed and starts fanning herself.

  “That’s it! My speech!” I point to her makeshift fan. “You found it.”

  “This?” She stops fanning and hands it to me before plopping herself on my bed to put on the shoes she walked in carrying.

  The speech goes in my hidden side pocket. Dresses with pockets are the dopest kinds. This one is in a cool violet shade. It’s got a fitted boatneck, sleeveless design, and it flairs a bit at the hip before tapering at the hem above the knee.

  “Everything’s going to go great tonight. Your dad will behave and you’ll enjoy the evening, whether or not you get the top prize,” Ma is saying.

  I nod and take one last look in my flimsy closet door mirror.

  I smooth down the skirt of my dress. I check my right pocket one more time for my speech and make sure my touch-up lipstick is in the left pocket. Okay.

  “Good to go, Zora?” says John from the doorway. Sensing the frantic mood is neutralizing, he’s reemerged. As the newest member of the family, John fades to the background when we crave space and shows up when we’re in most need of help. He’d been retracing my steps around the house, in search of the now-found piece of speech paper.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I say. My worries about Daddy’s behavior keep bubbling up and threatening to spill out in tears.

  “Your mom is right. It’ll all go well tonight.” He smiles at Ma. “Babe, make sure you take a pic of our girl when she’s standing up there accepting her award.”

  There’s pride in John’s voice, and it makes my heart smile. It also makes me feel guilty about complaining about my dad. Here I am with two father figures willing to stand with me, and that’s something cool to focus on to calm my nerves.

  Ma gets us into New York City in good time. Besides a little traffic at the Holland Tunnel toll, we manage to beat the Friday-night rush hour before it starts. I hope my dad makes it before the roads get super congested with clubgoers and barhoppers looking to party in the city.

  The crowd is still thin when we arrive at the dimly lit grand ballroom. Despite the grandness of the space, the cathedral ceilings, and the textured, ornate drapery hanging on the walls, the setup doesn’t feel false or over-the-top. The classical music sets the tone you’d expect of an event giving away tens of thousands of dollars to organizations. The back of the space is dotted with tall, slender cocktail tables and is perfect for mingling. There’s even a small dance floor in the back center. The front area near the stage is for dining. Some of the waitstaff in crisp black and white are carrying shiny silver trays through a maze of round dining tables, while others are smoothing down the white tablecloths and arranging cutlery and dishes. A man in a black suit is onstage at the podium, plugging in wires. A few elegantly dressed people are seated at different tables, absorbed in murmured conversations.

  “Let’s go find out where we’re sitting,” says Ma.

  There are seating assignments, and a helpful waiter escorts us to table 8. I immediately take my phone out of my pocket and text my dad.

  We’re here. Come to table 8.

  “Did you let him know where we’re sitting?” Ma asks. Her face looks strained. In all of my concern over myself, I haven’t thought about how Daddy’s presence would affect her. My parents split up almost a decade ago, and throughout that time, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve seen them chill together. Even at Zach’s high school graduation, they sat apart. We weren’t sure if they’d take pictures together, but for Zach’s sake they did. I know people whose parents aren’t together, but they still do the occasional thing as a family. Not mine. My parents are not friends.

  When we were younger, Ma was very careful not to badmouth Daddy in front of me and Zach. She wouldn’t even let us do it. But now that we’re older, she doesn’t go out of her way to mask what she thinks of him—if not verbally, physically. Like now. Her shoulders are practically level with her ears, and she’s obviously texting one of her sisters for moral support, because she has her phone nearby with its screen faced up, which is highly unusual for my mom, the queen of enforcing screen-free zones at dinner tables.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her.

  She looks away from her phone and gives me the eye contact she’s famous for. “Sure, baby. I’m excited for you.”

  “No, I mean, with Daddy coming tonight.”

  She forces a smile and reaches out to place her hand on mine.

  “Don’t you worry. I’m telling you, it’ll be a great night. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I’m just glad to be spending this night with you both—especially you, Ma.” I grab ahold of one of her fingers and give it a loving squeeze.

  “Aw, thank you, Zora,” she whispers, and exhales a bit. “Hey, let’s get some comfort food going. You wanna go grab us an appetizer so we can have something to munch on while we people watch?”

  “Good idea.” I sniff away the sentimental moment before I get teary eyed. “I’ll see what they have floating around.”

  I stand up, smooth down my dress, and head to the cocktail area of the ballroom. There are a lot more people there now, chatting with drinks in hand. A few of them look arou
nd my age, and I figure they must be the other honorees from surrounding area schools.

  There’s a clear path to the buffet table, where chafing dishes are lined up and ready to be mined. Halfway down my runway, I’m drawn to the sight of one guy’s wavy ginger hair. From the back, he reminds me of Owen. My grandma always warned me to be careful about staring too long at someone or they’ll sense you doing it. Sure enough, the guy must feel my eyes on him because he turns to face me just as I’m walking by.

  It is Owen.

  My Owen is here?

  I almost run up and throw my arms around him, until I see who is by his side. Kelsey is standing with him.

  “Zora!”

  “Owen!” I say at the same time.

  We beam at each other.

  Kelsey turns around and gives me a look of recognition. She’s taller than me by a few inches, but that’s not the only reason she’s looking down on me.

  “Zora, this is Kelsey Reston,” Owen says cordially. “Kelsey, meet Zora Emerson.”

  “We’ve met,” I say. “In class. How do you know each other?”

  “I’ve known Kelsey a long time,” he says. “We went to school together back home. She’s the daughter of the American ambassador to Landerel.”

  Oh.

  I turn my attention back to Owen. “I didn’t expect—”

  Kelsey cuts me off. “Zora, do you mind taking a photo of me and Owen?”

  “Uh, sure,” I hear myself say. Kelsey hands me the phone from her exquisite wrist bag, and takes Owen’s arm. This is totally no more awkward than that time I did an entire class presentation with a piece of spinach stuck in my front teeth.

  As I center them in the screen’s vertical view, I have to admit, Owen and Kelsey look good as a couple. Kelsey in her jewel-toned minidress and Owen in black-tie classic.

  “Thank you.” Kelsey takes back her phone, and she doesn’t move from Owen’s side.

  I turn my attention to him. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” I manage to get out what I tried to say before.

  “I know. I saw your name in the program when I arrived and thought, this is mad!”

  “I’m in the program? Great, now I’m going to have to stop my mom from collecting every program she finds tonight,” I say to try to loosen things up.

  “She’s here?” Owen asks. “I’d love to meet her at some point, but I take it tonight’s not the best time.” I nod at him, feeling a tingly warmth from his thoughtfulness.

  “You found out why I’m here, but I still don’t know what brings you here,” I say.

  Kelsey has finished examining her picture with Owen and silently observes our back-and-forth. She cuts in to speak for Owen. “This event is sponsored by the royal family of Landerel. This is part of their philanthropy, helping young leaders of limited means.”

  Something in the way she said that offends me. I slo-mo replay it in my mind, and there’s nothing but factual statements in her words. But man, it stings. Was it the delivery? Or the messenger?

  “Yeah, well, not everyone was born with a silver spoon in their mouth,” I clap back cheerfully.

  Nasty nice, Skye calls it.

  Kelsey looks at Owen, then back at me. “I meant no harm.”

  “What makes you think I’m injured?” I shake off my annoyance and paint a polite smile on my face. I won’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know she got under my skin. “You stated a fact, and then I stated a fact.”

  Owen takes a sip of his drink. But I get the sense he’s somewhat pleased with my handling of Kelsey. I catch a twinkle in his eye, and it makes me smirk. If he could dab or throw me a high five right now, he would.

  “There’s my baby girl!” My dad cuts through the crowd and wraps his arms around me with what feels like his full weight. I take a stumble backward.

  Now it’s Kelsey who has the smirk on her face. Owen just looks perplexed.

  “Oh, hi,” I say in a feeble voice.

  Daddy looks handsome dressed in a smart navy suit. But unlike the majority of the men here wearing dark, solid tones, Daddy wears pinstripes like he plays for the Yankees. If the ballroom lighting were just a tad dimmer, the stripes would be tough to make out. But they aren’t. And he doesn’t stop there. Instead of a classic color shirt, Daddy’s is pink, and his tie is shiny violet with embossed patterns. “Fresh to death” is what he would call himself right now. I’m sure that was the last thing he said in the mirror before leaving home.

  “That traffic was a beast. I’m glad I left home early.” Daddy pulls back from his embrace a little and holds on to my arms. “Did I miss anything?”

  “No, no,” I say. I want to give him my full attention since he seems so relieved and amazed that he made it here on time, but it’s hard. I’m hyper-aware of Owen’s and Kelsey’s presence over his shoulder. The good thing is Daddy’s back is to them since he basically bulldozed his way into our circle, so he isn’t aware that he’s interrupted a group discussion. I’ll take advantage of this. My plan is to escort him away from here before he can embarrass me with one of his longwinded, outlandish stories.

  “Ooo-wee, look at this place!” He marvels at the tall ceilings. It’s a surprise he can see anything at all with his shades still on. The combination of the suit, sunglasses, and Bluetooth earpiece makes him look like FBI—well, a very bright, fly FBI agent. It’s no wonder a few people are craning their necks to get a good look at me. They must think I’m some VIP worthy of Secret Service protection. That would actually be Owen.

  “It is beautiful,” I say. “Let me give you a quick walk-through before we get to our table.” Daddy holds out his arm, which I gladly take.

  “Uh, Zora, I’m sure Owen here is interested in meeting your … father, is it?” says Kelsey for the nasty-nice championship win.

  Daddy turns and notices the small audience for the first time.

  “Who do we have here?” he asks in his jovial way.

  “Daddy, this is Owen and his friend Kelsey.”

  “So, Kelsey, I know that you’re Owen’s friend,” Daddy starts. “But, Owen, I didn’t get your connection to my daughter.”

  I can feel my face getting hot.

  “Owen and I—”

  “Zora and I—”

  We both start at once.

  Now Daddy’s sunglasses come off, and his eyeballs ping-pong back and forth suspiciously between Owen and me. I’ve seen that face before. He’s picking up on a scent.

  “Zora, Owen can speak for himself,” he says.

  “How do you do, Mr. Emerson?” Owen manages to find his courage. My dad shakes his hand firmly and slowly. Owen’s Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows. “To answer your question, I met Zora at the Halstead University library, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since,” he says.

  Daddy nods and finally lets go of Owen’s hand.

  “Stayed in touch, you say?” my dad asks.

  “In—in close contact, sir,” Owen stammers a bit.

  “Close?”

  “In contact. We’ve remained in contact.” Owen’s bobbing Adam’s apple is all the satisfaction my dad needs. He’s sticking it to the rich, and he’s enjoying every moment.

  I don’t think Kelsey’s ever witnessed someone schooling a prince of Landerel before. Her eyes are popping out of her head, but she dares not utter a nasty-nice word to my dad.

  “Shall we grab you a drink before we get started on the tour?” I tug on Daddy’s arm.

  “Is that an open bar?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” I can’t bring myself to look at Owen. “Let’s go find out.”

  At the bar, Daddy shares jokes with the bartender, who is also a Black man of a certain age.

  “Thanks, brother,” Daddy tells him as we step away. “You be easy.”

  I don’t mention Owen, nor does Daddy ask any other questions about him. But he seems to be keeping the matter on his radar.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “And see how connected we are, Zora? My tie matches yo
ur beautiful dress. If this music had any type of flava, we’d turn this into a daddy-daughter dance.”

  That makes me smile.

  “Aw, thank you, Daddy. I noticed our matching colors. And you don’t look too bad yourself!”

  “You know I had to come correct, fresh to death,” Daddy says.

  I shake my head and laugh, which helps break some of the tension I’ve been feeling tonight. We’re still chuckling when we get to our table. Ma tucks in her pout when she sees the two of us joking around. She looks like she’s been fighting boredom while I’ve been away. More people have joined the table, but no one is sitting close enough to her for a chat. Her cell phone screen has just faded to black, which means her sisters have been filling her head with their usual gripes about my father “not knowing how to act” or “always showing his ass.”

  We take the two empty seats next to Ma, but of course, I position myself in between my parents.

  “Hello, Yvette.” My dad puts down his drink and pivots slightly toward my mother in greeting.

  “Kenney.” My mom nods her head and begins fidgeting with her phone.

  “And how are your sisters doing?” Daddy goes there immediately.

  “Everyone’s fine.” Ma clears her throat.

  I need to teach my mom how to be fluent in nasty nice.

  “Cheers to our exceptional children,” Daddy bellows to everyone at the table, holding up his glass.

  My mother seems to hold her breath for a minute, and then when everyone (but her) raises their glasses and shares a few jokes with Daddy, she begins nibbling the finger foods I brought her.

  Ma often says I get my familiar way with people from “the one and only Kenney.” But I disagree. As important and special as Daddy can make a person feel when he befriends them, he also has a knack for burning bridges. The minute a friendship turns sour—which his often do—he’ll feud with that person as if their bond never existed.

  On the other hand, Ma’s friendships are long-lasting and cherished. The only person I’ve ever seen her have a falling-out with is my dad. You can tell she’s not comfortable with things being so strained between them, but she prefers it this way. “Staying friends with Kenney would be exhausting,” I overheard her tell one of her sisters once.