It’s small. When I look out the window, all I see is another brick facade.
I miss the ocean. It’s pathetic how homesick I feel. Slumping down on my sofa, I lean back and wonder for the millionth time if this was all a mistake.
Then my phone dings, and I see an unfamiliar number on the screen.
Unknown number: Hi Cara, it’s Jordan. We met at Miss Dorothea’s studio. I was wondering if you were free tonight? My friend’s band is playing at a bar and I’ve got no one to go with.
I stare at the message, reading it and re-reading it. Is that…a date? I remember Jordan. We met on my first day and I’ve seen him a couple of times since. He’s got long, dark hair that falls to his shoulders. Most days, he wears it in a low bun. He’s handsome, in an artsy sort of way. Like a tortured singer who loves nothing more than to make you melt with his voice.
He wants to go out with me?
It feels wrong. I don’t want to go out with Jordan, no matter how angelic his voice is.
But as I listen to the honking cars outside and inhale another lungful of stale air, I know I need to get out. The only way I’ll survive in this city is if I make friends and shake off this homesickness.
I type out a quick answer and then jump in the shower to get ready. My stomach twists into knots, and my thoughts fly to Theo.
I don’t want to go out with another man, but I do want to get out of this tiny shoebox apartment. Maybe I can just be clear with Jordan that I only want to be friends. I can go out, listen to music, and forget about the oppressive sadness that clings to my every pore.
A couple of hours later, I walk into a busy, dimly-lit bar. The band is already playing, and I spot Jordan sitting at a worn, wooden table. His eyes meet mine, and he raises a hand. A brilliant smile flashes across his face.
He really is very good looking, objectively speaking. Not in the makes-my-body-burn kind of way, but I can appreciate his particular brand of attractiveness.
When he wraps an arm around me and kisses my cheek, a flush creeps up my neck.
“Drink?” Jordan asks.
Instinctively, I put a hand to my stomach. I shake my head. “Just a seltzer water.”
We sit at the bar and listen to the music. Jordan tells me about growing up in New York City with two musicians as parents. He tells me about a show of his coming up and asks me to come along. He tells me a million things, but doesn’t ask me anything about myself.
By the end of the evening, I’m drained.
And still homesick.
When I get home, I kick off my shoes and slump down onto my creaky old sofa. I lay back on the scratchy pillows and stare at a jagged crack in the wall, sighing.
Is this homesickness? Or is it my brain and my heart trying to tell me that I made a mistake?
Singing used to bring me joy. It used to invigorate me.
Now, I mostly just feel tired.
And sad.
And nauseous but still somehow hungry—but I think that has more to do with the baby growing inside me than the fact that I’m away from home.
I wonder if my letter made it to Theo. I wonder if he read it and decided not to answer. Maybe the fact that I left was enough for him to walk away, whether or not I’m carrying his child.
Picking up my phone, I type his name into a search engine. My eyes widen when I see news of his coronation. I didn’t even know it was happening today. I click on a video and watch the news coverage of the ceremony. My heart squeezes when I see his face on the screen, and I hold my phone just inches from my nose.
A tear leaks out of my eye, and I brush it away.
I have no right to be sad about this. I left. I said goodbye. I chose New York over Argyle. Myself over him. My dreams over his duty.
I was never meant to be Queen.
This is for the best. It’s what I wanted.
…Right?
The video cuts to Theo on the palace balcony, with his father by his side and his brothers standing behind him. This time, I don’t brush my tears away.
He looks regal. Strong. He smiles, waving to the thousands of Argylians that have gathered at the palace gates to greet their new king. My heart aches at the thought that I could have been there beside him.
Turning my phone’s screen off, I toss it aside and sob into my hands.
In the silence of my tiny apartment, as the crowd’s cheers are still ringing in my ears, I know I’ve made a mistake. I should have told him how I felt. I should have gotten over my own stupid pride and my misplaced desire to be independent.
I should have realized the thing that was smacking me in the face: I’m in love with Theo. Desperately. Hopelessly.
I love him more than I could have imagined. It burns a hole right through my chest, sending daggers of pain through to my fingers and toes.
Is love supposed to hurt this much?
My sobs turn to trembling whimpers, and I lay on the couch in the fetal position. I wrap my arms around my stomach and squeeze my eyes shut.
Theo is King now. That in itself is like the final nail in the coffin. I’m nothing but an aspiring singer. The youngest daughter of an Olympian and a wannabe socialite who failed to live up to her parents’ expectations of marrying well.
But none of that matters. I don’t want to be Queen.
I just want to be with Theo.
As I stare at the brick wall outside my window, exhaustion settles into my spirit. Theo has other responsibilities, and the flame of our love affair has died out. My hands curl around my belly, and I turn my thoughts to my baby.
Maybe, this child is the most precious gift Theo could have given me. It’s a piece of him. A piece of his love. A piece of the pure happiness that I felt while on tour with him.
My baby is a reminder that even though things come at a cost, there are beautiful things in the world.
I dry my eyes and take a deep, shaking breath.
Theo might be out of reach, but that doesn’t mean I can’t live a full life.
No matter what happens, I’ll cherish this baby like the gift that it is. I’ll love Theo from afar, knowing that a small part of him lives on in our child. A child that I get to care for and love with my whole heart. A child that I get to raise and adore. A child that will bring me more adventure than any international trip ever could.
Even through the pain of my heartbreak, I can feel the truth of the sentiment. This baby is everything to me, with or without Theo.
25
Theo
I’m surprised when Luca answers my phone call. His voice is gruff. He’s still in Singapore, and based on the reports I’m getting from the doctors, he’s doing well. They think he might even walk soon.
Maybe his spirits are up, and that’s why he finally decided he wanted to talk to me.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re the King now. Sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“It’s fine. I’m just glad you answered. It’s been too long since we spoke last.”
A weight lodges itself in the pit of my stomach. He doesn’t know that Cara and I had a— What did we have? An affair? A relationship? A fling?
He doesn’t know that I spent three blissful weeks with her. He doesn’t know that she’s gone.
Does he care? He hasn’t spoken to her in over a year.
“The doctors seem to think your recovery is going well.” My voice is thin. I don’t even know how to talk to my own brother anymore.
“They’ll have me trying to walk soon. I’ve been able to move my toes for a couple of months now. Feeling’s coming back to my legs. I’ve got pins and needles all the time, but I’m too weak to move them. Sick of rolling around in a wheelchair, though.”
“Three years is a long time.”
Luca grunts in response, and silence settles between us.
“I sent you a card,” Luca says after a pause.
“You did?”
“It’s not much, just a card and a small gift. You’re our new King, after all. Thought I should congra
tulate you.”
“I haven’t received it yet.”
“I sent it to the P.O. box. Didn’t want anyone else getting my address. Can’t stand the thought of a surprise visit from Father.”
Nodding, I grunt. I’m pacing back and forth in my father’s—no, my—study. Images of all of Argyle’s kings stare back at me, with a bare spot on the wall where my face will soon be hung.
“Haven’t checked the P.O. box in months. And you’re probably safe on the visit-from-Father front. He’s weak.”
“How weak?”
“Weak enough to make me King.”
Luca lets out a dry snort. He sounds flat. Nothing like the vibrant man I used to know. “Check the P.O. box if you want a lame card, then. I don’t know why I was expecting you to get it already. I guess you haven’t had any reason to look for mail in that P.O. box,” he says. “Not since Cara stopped talking to me.”
I frown. Luca’s voice is bitter. The way he worded that sounds like he partially blames her for the demise of their relationship.
That’s not how I see it at all. I witnessed Cara try and try and try to call him, to go visit him, to reach out to him. I saw my brother push her away, and I saw how much it broke her.
I realized too late how much she was suffering. That I hadn’t been there for her, either.
Now, she’s gone.
Both Luca and I let her go.
It’s for the best. I keep telling myself that, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“Have you seen Cara lately?” Luca sounds tense.
My heart thuds, and I’m not sure how to answer. Should I tell him what happened between me and Cara? Or would telling him only hurt more? Has he seen the rumors online about me and her?
I take a deep breath and settle on a half-truth. “Not for a couple of weeks. She’s left to study singing in New York City.”
Luca grunts in response, and a bitter taste coats my mouth. We say our goodbyes, and I let out a deep breath.
That felt wrong, but what am I supposed to say? Cara’s gone. She’s pursuing her dreams. I’m King of Argyle, and I have responsibilities. Telling Luca about my affair with Cara would only cause more pain. There’s no point.
We say goodbye, and I let out a sigh. That felt wrong. I was lying to my brother and to myself.
I square my shoulders and head out the door. The P.O. box is located on the lesser populated side of the island a fifteen-minute walk away. I nod to my personal bodyguard, waving him away, then dodge through the hallways. When I get to my chambers, I grab the tiny key that opens the P.O. box lock, and then head out the door again, praying I won’t meet anyone who will have a thousand and one things for me to deal with.
When I get outside, I suck in a deep breath. Fresh air reminds me of being with Cara. It reminds me of feeling the wind in our hair and hearing her laughter skip across the waves toward me. It reminds me of being happy.
I walk quickly, ducking through a side gate of the palace grounds towards the post office box.
This is a fresh start for me and Luca. He’s talking to me now. He’s asking about Cara. Soon, he’ll try walking again. Maybe he’s ready to let us in. Maybe, I’ll have my brother back and we’ll be able to be a family once more.
Cara left, but maybe Luca will come back. It’s cold comfort, but it’s something.
The post office box stands on the side of the street, out of view of the nearest house. My key slides in the lock, and I open it up. Frowning, I see not one, but two items inside. Luca’s package is a small box wrapped in brown paper.
The other envelope is the one that catches my attention. It’s from the United States, and the return address is New York City.
My breath comes fast. I’m practically hyperventilating as I tear the edge of the envelope, my hands trembling so hard I slice my finger open. A drop of blood beads on my finger as I swear under my breath, sticking the finger in my mouth for a second to lick the blood away.
When I pull the jagged, ripped pages of a notebook out and see Cara’s handwriting, I practically faint. Sitting down right there on the ground next to the P.O. box, I start reading.
My vision blurs when I read about how she cares about me. She feels the same way I do. My heart starts to stutter, and hope flames to life in my heart.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe she would come back. Maybe we could be together. Maybe we could live happily-ever-after.
Then, I read something that makes the whole world fall away. In Cara’s loopy, slanted handwriting, two words stare back at me. As soon as I read them, I know my life is about to change forever.
I’m pregnant.
I blink, reading it again.
I’m pregnant. It was that first night at the villa when we didn’t use protection.
My breath quickens. My heart feels like it’s trying to burst out of my chest. My hands tremble as I reach for my phone, and I struggle to dial her number. My hands are too sweaty to get the screen to work, and a new smudge of blood swipes across the screen.
“Ahhh,” I whisper-scream at my phone before wiping my hand on my pants and trying again.
I can’t see straight as I put the phone to my ear, so I just squeeze my eyes shut. I lean my head on my knees as I sit on the dirt near the post office box, knowing that I make a very pitiful king right about now.
It doesn’t matter.
Cara is pregnant with my child. She left the country with our baby inside her belly. I pushed her away, thinking it was what’s best for her. I told her I didn’t want to marry her, when I should have been wrapping my arms around her and never letting go.
The phone beeps, and a robotic female voice speaks to me. The number has been disconnected.
I groan, dropping my head. Of course it’s been disconnected. Cara left the country.
As I pick myself up off the ground, I wipe my dirt- and bloodstained pants with equally dirt- and bloodstained hands. Lifting my head up, I stare at the distant walls of the palace and the blue skies beyond. Palm trees wave at me as a soft, warm breeze washes over my skin.
I know what I need to do.
I’m rewriting that old cliché. If you love someone, you don’t let her go. You tell her exactly how you feel and beg her to come back to you. You fall to your knees and tell her that you need her desperately, the way you need air, and food, and shelter. You tell her that you want to be a father, a husband, a lover. You tell her that she’s your Queen, in every sense of the word.
If you love someone, you beg. You plead. You hold on tight.
You get on a plane and bring her back, and then never let her go.
26
Cara
I have my outfit picked out and my bookbag packed. Tomorrow is the first day of school. The first day of training my voice, developing my instrument, and becoming the kind of singer I’ve always dreamed of being.
Tomorrow, I take a step toward my dreams.
But are they really my dreams?
These days, it feels more like running away. My real dreams—the ones that wake me up in the night with a smile on my face—take me back to Argyle, to a villa hidden away on a lush, sparsely populated island. Every night, I’m transported back to Theo’s arms. Singing doesn’t bring me joy anymore. At least, not the type of singing I’m doing here. The thought of exploring the world on my own makes me want to curl up into a little ball and crawl into a hole.
I’m off-balance. He knocked me clean off my feet, and now I’m adrift in the world on my own.
Isn’t this what I always wanted to do? To explore? To discover? To see the world?
It doesn’t feel right, though. It feels lonely and cold and stinky. Fear has crept into my heart over the past few weeks, tainting all my decisions.
Is it too late to go home? My father seems to think coming here was the right decision. My mother isn’t speaking to me.
Dad doesn’t know about the baby, though. No one does, apart from Cathy and the doctor.
My phone buzzes, an
d Jordan’s name flashes on the screen. I sigh. I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want anything except friendship with him, but he keeps asking me out. Maybe his intentions are pure? Maybe he wants to be my friend?
Somehow, I doubt that. He has wandering fingers and he always hugs me for a second too long. I always come away from hanging out with him feeling slightly unclean.
I jump when my door rattles on its hinges. Someone is banging on the other side.
Glancing at my phone, I frown.
Is that Jordan? Why would he be here? Is he angry?
Clutching my phone, I take a peek at his message. It just says, Hey. No hint of anger. No sign as to why he would be trying to break down my door.
Someone calls out my name from the other side of the door, and I freeze.
Is that…?
It couldn’t be.
It’s not.
But that voice…
My heart thumps. The banging continues. Whoever is on the other side of that door really, really wants me to open.
I tiptoe forward, and the banging stops. I pause, listening for a noise. Something like shuffling, and maybe heavy breathing.
Then, the voice again, as if he’s leaning his forehead against my door. “Cara,” he sighs, as if saying my name is the greatest effort. “Are you in there?”
The poor hinges on my front door are taking a beating today. They nearly rip off the wall when I tear the door open.
Theo stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe.
“Theo,” I breathe, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
“I got your letter.” He gulps.
“Oh.” My heart hammers against my ribcage. Sweat gathers under my armpits as I struggle to swallow. My brain runs circles around me, but still I can’t quite manage to say anything else.
“Is it true?” Theo’s eyes shine.
I nod. My voice still isn’t cooperating.
Theo steps forward, closing the door behind him. We stand a few feet apart, staring at each other with wide eyes. I watch him gulp again, his hands clenching and unclenching.
Knocked Up by the Wrong Prince: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance Page 15
