Page 64 of Her Royal Highness
“I never asked,” she says. “Which one is your favorite?”
It’s started to rain outside—again, some more—and the lamplight in the room is dim and cozy.
Feeling more than a little awkward, I get up and walk over to her. Flora is taller than me by several inches, just the right height for me to lean my cheek on her shoulder.
Not that I’d ever do that.
Instead, I pick up the hematite. “This one, probably. Hematite. It’s magnetic, for one thing, which is super cool. And I got this one when my dad took me to Yellowstone in the sixth grade, so it’s special.”
“What about this one?” Flora picks up the piece of rose quartz, holding it in her palm.
We’re standing close together, so close that when she tilts her head to look down at the rock, the ends of her hair brush over my fingers as I tap the quartz.
“That one’s just pretty,” I say. “It doesn’t have any other special qualities.”
Flora’s lips curve up. “I happen to think being pretty is a very special quality.”
“You would,” I huff out on a laugh, but then I look up, and our faces are just... right there.
Her lips are right there.
I can smell the lemony soap she uses, can feel the soft, warm exhale of her breath on my face, and if I moved closer—
The blooping sound from my laptop telling me someone is trying to Skype me has us both jumping back, and I shake my head, face hot as I pick my computer up off my bed, answering the call.
It’s Dad, and I smile at him, trying to seem normal.
“Hey!”
“Millipede!” he replies, and then Gus’s face nearly obscures the camera as he attempts to say hi, too.
Laughing, I sit on the edge of my bed. For the next few minutes, Dad and I chat about things back home while Gus babbles and attempts to show me at least three new toys.
When I end the call, Flora is back near the door, watching me. “You miss them,” she says, and I fiddle with the ends of my hair.
“Yeah? As most people do when they’re away from theirfamilies. And I won’t get to see them until Christmas break.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Don’t you have some other holiday before that, you Yanks?”
“Thanksgiving,” I say, flopping back on my bed and wincing as the magazine rattles. Luckily, Flora doesn’t appear to hear it.
“But we can’t afford for me to go back thenandat Christmas, so we’re just waiting.”
“Do you want me to buy you a ticket?” Flora asks, like she’s offering to lend me a pair of shoes.
“I... what? No,” I stutter out. “I couldn’t accept that.”
“Why ever not?” Flora asks, and I stare at her. There for just a second, we’d had a moment over that rose quartz. A moment when I forgot she was a princess and just thought of her as a beautiful girl.
But she’s also a beautiful girl who would toss a transatlantic plane ticket at someone like it wasn’t anything.
In other words, not a girl for me.
The magazine currently hiding under my pillow should remind me of that.
“It’s just... that’s too big, Flora,” I tell her now, picking up my book again. “Way too big. You can’t just throw money at people.”
I can feel her still looking at me, and she eventually gives an airy “Whatever, then.”
