Page 70 of Prince Material
“If he’s half as special as you make him sound, he’d be a fool not to,” Dad said, surprising me with his warmth. “Though I have to ask: does he like football?”
“Marc!” Mom rolled her eyes. “That is not a requirement for dating our son.”
“It should be,” Dad protested with a grin. “We can’t havesomeone who doesn’t appreciate the beautiful game in the family.”
I tried to picture Orson with a football, or, as he would call it, a soccer ball, but I couldn’t even imagine it. He wassonot the athletic type, but I didn’t care one bit. “I don’t think he’s even aware the game exists, but that’s okay. He has plenty of qualities to make up for that.”
As the talk transitioned into updates about the Eredivisie, our premier football league, and how well Ajax, our club, was doing, my thoughts drifted back to Orson. God, I missed him. Did he miss me too?
22
ORSON
Seeing my uncle Bill, my father’s younger brother, always triggered me. He looked too much like my dad, sounded too much like him. Spending time with him was a painful reminder of what we all had lost, and somehow, we always talked about my dad when Uncle Bill came to visit. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. He’d clearly loved my dad and he was nice enough and so was Aunt Lydia, but I still always ended up feeling sad.
When my mom had told me they were coming to visit us for Christmas—they lived in Oklahoma—I had screamed on the inside. Of course, I’d shown nothing of those emotions to my mom and had merely replied I was looking forward to seeing them, as well as my two cousins, Sasha and Heather. Nothing could be further from the truth. My cousins were airheads, interested in nothing but boys, fashion, and celebrity gossip. Even Tia struggled to connect with them.
Of course, missing Floris didn’t help.
I had expected to feel some sadness over not seeing him, but I hadn’t counted on this deep sense of… of loss, almost like grief. How could I miss him this much after such a short time together? We were talking mere weeks, not even months, and yet my heart hadn’t gotten that memo and ached like we were separated after being together for years.
Uncle Bill and Aunt Lydia had brought their usual holiday chaos with them. My cousins were arguing over the number of calories in a dinner roll while my uncle dominated the conversation with his voice that sounded so much like my dad. The dining room was decked out in Mom’s festive decorations, tiny white lights twinkling along the windowsills and her prized angel centerpiece casting soft shadows across the tablecloth.
We sat down for dinner at four. Steam rose from the golden-brown turkey that had taken Mom hours to perfect, surrounded by all the traditional sides: creamy mashed potatoes with rivers of gravy, green bean casserole topped with crispy onions, sweet potatoes crowned with toasted marshmallows, and Mom’s famous cornbread dressing that always made the whole house smell like sage and childhood memories. But even with all this comfort and familiarity around me, my thoughts kept drifting back to Floris, wondering what Christmas dinner looked like in a Dutch palace, if he was thinking of me too.
“Pass the potatoes, please,” Heather called from across the table, barely looking up from her phone. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against the screen as she typed.
I handed over the dish, trying not to feel irritated by her constant texting. At least it meant less awkward conversation.
“So, Orson,” Uncle Bill said, his voice so similar to Dad’s, it made my chest tight. “How’s college treating you? Still on track with civil engineering?”
“Yes, sir.” I pushed my glasses up, a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break. “Classes are going well.”
“Good, good.” He nodded approvingly. “And after this?”
“I’m hoping for a job with a big engineering firm.”
“Your father would be proud. Following in his footsteps, doing something meaningful with your life.”
The words hit like a physical weight, pressing down on my shoulders. I caught Mom’s slight frown, the way she opened her mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it.
“Orson’s at the top of his class,” Mom said instead, her voice carrying that particular mom-tone that meant she was being protective. “His professors are very impressed with his work.”
“As they should be.” Bill’s expression turned serious. “It’s what Henry would’ve wanted, isn’t it? Using your education to prevent other tragedies.”
I could feel it coming, that familiar pressure building. The weight of expectations, of duty, of trying to live up to a sacrifice I could never repay.
“Orson should study whatever he wants.” Mom’s tone was sharper now. “We shouldn’t put a moral obligation on his shoulders.”
Bill’s face grew tight. “I’m saying that he has a responsibility. Henry died making sure he lived, and?—”
“And Orson’s dating a prince!” Tia blurted out, clearly trying to change the subject.
The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at my sister in horror, heat rushing to my face. Of all the ways I’d imagined this coming out—and I had imagined several, usually involving careful explanation and context—this wasn’t one of them.
“A what now?” Sasha’s head snapped up from her phone, suddenly interested in the conversation. “Like, an actual prince?”
“He’s not… We’re not…” I stammered, but Tia was already pulling up something on her phone.
