Page 41 of Prince Material
“You’ve got…” I gestured to my own nose.
He wiped at it, managing to spread more sugar across his face. “Better?”
“Worse, actually.” Without thinking, I reached across the table with a napkin, gently wiping the sugar away. His skin was warm under my touch, and our eyes met for a moment that felt charged with something I wasn’t ready to name.
I pulled back quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “There. Now you look less like you lost a fight with a powdered donut.”
“My hero.” His smile was soft, almost fond. “So, what else do I need to see while I’m here?”
The question brought back that familiar weight, the one that always came with thinking about my dad, about what had happened, about how I had failed him. But this was Floris. He’d chartered a private plane to get me home when Mom was sick. He’d become so much more than a roommate or friend. He was someone I trusted, even if that trust terrified me sometimes.
“There’s something I want to show you,” I heard myself say. “But it’s not exactly a tourist spot.”
He must’ve heard something in my voice because his expression turned serious. He reached across the table, his hand landing on mine for a moment. The touch was brief but grounding, giving me courage. “I’d love to see it… and listen to your story.”
He knew. It didn’t surprise me, and that, too, was a comfort. “Thank you.”
We walked in comfortable silence, leaving the bustle of the French Quarter behind. The streets became more residential, houses showing varying stages of repair and renewal. Some areas still bore the scars of Katrina, even after all these years—water lines visible on buildings, empty lots where homes once stood. Floris seemed to sense I couldn’t talk and he continued to walk quietly beside me, taking it all in. His hand brushed against mine from time to time, and I loved that casual reminder that I was not alone.
Finally, we reached the house. My old house. It looked different now. It was renovated, painted a different color, someone else’s home. But I could still see it as it was that day, water rising faster than anyone had predicted.
“This is where we lived,” I said quietly, “when Katrina hit.”
Floris moved closer, his shoulder brushing mine in silent support. He didn’t speak, just waited.
“What’s your first memory?” I asked him. “The first one you can remember?”
He smiled. “Sledding down a mountain in Austria with my uncle Friso, who is now king, and my cousins. I had just turned five. We were on a family trip there, and we were high up in the mountains, where there was snow even in the summer. My father didn’t like it one bit, as he’s afraid of heights, but my uncle lived for that shit. We didn’t bring a sled, of course, but he found a thick trash bag and used that. And off we went, me between hislegs and him holding on tight to me as we whooshed down the mountain. Best thing ever, which is why it must’ve burned itself into my memory.” Then his smile faded. “But I’m gonna take a wild guess and say yours isn’t quite so positive.”
I shook my head. “I was four. Old enough to remember, not old enough to understand. Tia was only a few months old, and she was sick with pneumonia.” The words came slow, each one heavy. “She was a preemie, born at twenty-nine weeks with underdeveloped lungs, and she had bronchopulmonary dysplasia, a lung illness. That’s why my parents were so hesitant to evacuate. Putting Tia in a shelter full of other kids would’ve put her at high risk. And we thought we were safe here. The forecasts kept changing. First, they said the storm would turn, then that the levees would hold. By the time we realized how bad it was going to be, it was too late to evacuate.”
I could feel Floris’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze on the house. “The water rose so fast. Dad got us onto the roof. He carried Tia up first, then came back for me. Mom had managed to get up by herself and was holding Tia. But I was scared, trying to climb too quickly. I slipped.” I swallowed heavily, the scar on my shin aching. “Cut myself pretty bad on the edge of the roof. Dad had to climb all the way back down to push me up.”
The memory was vivid: the howling wind, the rising water, my father’s strong hands lifting me. “He managed to push me up onto the roof, but then the current was too strong. He couldn’t hold on anymore. Mom tried to reach him, but…”
My voice cracked. Floris’s hand found mine, warm and steady, grounding me in the present.
“I watched him disappear under the water.” The words felt like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside me. “He died saving me. And sometimes I wonder… if I hadn’t slipped, if Ihadn’t been so clumsy, he wouldn’t have had to come back for me…”
“Stop.” Floris’s voice was gentle but firm. “You can’t think like that.”
“Can’t I?” I turned to look at him finally, seeing nothing but understanding in his green eyes. “He was an engineer, Floris. He could’ve done so much good, helped so many people. Instead, he died saving one scared kid who couldn’t even climb a roof properly.”
“A four-year-old kid, who must’ve been terrified. A kid who grew up to want to prevent other families from going through the same thing.” His hand squeezed mine. “Who’s brilliant and dedicated and working so hard to make a difference.”
“But what if it’s not enough?” The question that had haunted me for years finally spilled out. “What if I can’t live up to his sacrifice?”
“Oh, Orson.” Before I could react, Floris pulled me into a tight hug. I stiffened for a moment, then melted into it, letting his warmth seep into all the cold places inside me. “You don’t have to earn the right to be alive.”
“But he died saving me.” The words felt like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside. “He could’ve stayed on the roof with Tia, but he came back for me. And now…”
“Now you feel like you have to live up to that sacrifice.” Floris squeezed my hand. “Like you have to be perfect to justify his choice.”
I looked up then, meeting his eyes. “How did you…?”
“Because I understand what it’s like to feel the weight of someone else’s expectations. To think you have to be perfect to be worthy of what they gave up for you.” His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “But Orson, your dad didn’t save you so you could spend your life trying toprove you deserved it. He saved you because he loved you. Any parent worth a damn would choose their kid’s life over their own. That’s the whole essence of being a parent, isn’t it?”
“The last thing he said was, ‘It’ll be okay, buddy.’” I swallowed hard. “And I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard to be worthy of what he did.”
