Page 22 of Gilded Princess

Instead of feeling insecure and shameful about my little casual hookup with a stranger, I woke up today and decided to be grateful. I now know what I’ve been missing on all the dates over the last couple of years.

Spark, flame, passion. There was none of that with any of them.

I blow out a breath, lifting the loose strand of hair from my face. I wonder for the tenth time if I should call Lainey. I could use a good venting session, and since my sister has been MIA for most of the week, I’m running low on options.

I suppose a call to Lainey wouldn’t hurt, and maybe she’ll have some ideas about what to do to help Mary.

No one knows my sister like I do—our bond is unbreakable. I know she’s going through something right now, but I don’t know how to help her if she won’t talk to me. She’s barely home, and when she is, she spends most of her time in her room. I thought she might be stressed about summer classes or something, but she swears she’s fine.

I casually people-watch as I walk the last block to my favorite coffee shop. I’ve always enjoyed observing. There’s something so fascinating about watching the way people act when they think no one is looking. Occasionally, Lainey, Mary, and I will sit in Central Park and make up stories about the people we see. Mary’s stories always ended in practicalities, Lainey’s usually had a twist of forbidden, and mine? Well, they always had a happily ever after.

I credit my dad for that. When I was younger, he narrated the most elaborate fairy tales of knights rescuing princesses and slaying dragons. When I think about all those years I was convinced I was a princess, warm nostalgia covers my soul, and the ache of him lessens a little.

As much as I pretend otherwise, some part of me will always look for those happily-ever-afters, if only to make his absence less painful with happy memories.

A group of a few guys and one girl are a few feet in front of me, heading in the opposite direction. Something about them slows my steps and turns my head. I watch under the cover of my oversized sunglasses as one guy throws his arm around the girl’s neck, pulling her to his face and stealing a kiss. They look like the poster children for young love.

What really catches my attention is her other hand—and the fact that a different guy is holding it. Their fingers are laced together, and a glance at his face shows no signs of jealousy or irritation as his friend kisses his girl.

Huh, I guess Lainey isn’t the only one who’s openly playing with more than one guy.

They round the corner, and I lose sight of them. Honestly, I could’ve watched them longer just to figure out the inner-workings of that little group. I bet I could come up with some fun stories about them, that’s for sure. Hell, and maybe even get really creative with a few ideas and pass them along to Lainey.

I snicker, thinking about that conversation.

Hey, babe. So, I was just people-watching, and I got to thinking. How’s it going with your threesome—foursome—fivesome? Because I had a few different ideas you could try out.

She’d kill me, but seeing the look on her face might be worth it.

I see the awning for my favorite coffee shop, and my thoughts trail back to my mystery man. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see him again, despite his assurance that we aren’t done.

Just like most things in my life, I decide to leave it up to fate. And also, I already tried searching for him online, but without a name and a clear picture of his face, it’s like a needle in a haystack. I gave up after an hour of scrolling through photos on Dale’s page.

But I’m going to pretend I didn’t do that, because even thinking about it makes me feel like some sort of stalker.

I adjust my crossbody purse as I walk, ignoring the cabs whipping around the corners and hugging the curbs like they’re in the grand prix. I let the soothing sounds of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” fill my ears. I snagged one of Lainey’s playlists a few weeks ago, and I can’t stop listening to it.

Sweat slides down my neck, and my purse bumps against my hip with every step. Summers in New York can be brutal—it feels kind of like you’re in a giant oven—just you and a million other people baking on the sidewalk under the scorching sun. I heard them say it’s already shaping up to be a record-breaking heatwave this year—hence the rolling blackouts already.

Opening the door to the coffee shop, I sigh when the huge blast of air conditioning hits me in the face. Taking out my earpods, I beeline toward the counter.

“It’s a hot one, huh?” Jerry asks from behind the register. He’s not a barista I’m super familiar with, but I’ve seen him a time or two.

I paste a smile on my face. “Yep. It’s already in the nineties. Can I have an iced tea, please?”

He whistles. “Nineties? Yikes. That’s much too hot for me. I’m born and raised here, but it’s just too hot in the summers.”

I nod and keep the smile on my face. Small talk is awful, but small talk while it feels like your skin might be melting off and you’re parched is the worst.

“Mm-hmm. So whatever iced tea you have today, I’ll take a large, please.”

“Ah. You got it. We have blueberry green tea today. Is that okay?” He spins around to get the drink ready.

“Yes. That’s perfect, thank you.” I reach into my purse and pull out my wallet. I double-checked before I left that it was in here.

It’s only then I notice someone leaning against the bakery case with a smirk. My heart skips a beat, and my smile relaxes as it grows.

“Americano?”

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