Page 109 of The Thing About My Prince
I’ve been to a constant stream of weddings over the last few years for old college friends, work colleagues, and a couple of cousins, and none of them has moved me much.
So when the makeup artist insisted I squeeze some tissues inside the tiny little tan purse with the gold clasp that the stylist said set off my outfit “a treat,” I took them from her only to be polite.
But when Sofia and Jeremy said their vows—the traditional Scottish churchy vows—I found a lump unexpectedly rising in my throat and moisture pooling in my eyes. I tried to soak it up before any tears fell, but some sneaked out anyway and rolled down my cheek.
Dammit. What’s wrong with me? Why am I emotional for two people I barely know?
Is my period due? It did cross my mind earlier that it would be nice if there was a chocolate dessert at the reception, so maybe?
It’s certainly a preferable explanation to the one scaringthe shit out of me. The one where a part of me wonders what it would be like to be sitting next to Oliver, holding his hand, and thinking that one day we might be the ones up there exchanging vows.
Not that I would ever want to get married as part of some sort of society event with guests there because of who they are rather than what they mean to me. I definitely wouldn’t want an official press photographer wandering around, and although these hundreds of flowers are beautiful, they’re not veryme—and they are definitely not very Oliver.
I’ve been watching the back of his head more than I’ve been watching the ceremony. At one point it looked like he borrowed a pen from a woman sitting behind him and wrote something down.
But all that catching glimpses of him over the sea of people between us does is heighten the reality of the unbridgeable gulf between our two lives.
Seeing him speak with the queen, his grandmother, it was obvious from their first interaction that they have a warm relationship that’s a thousand times closer than he has with his mother. It was a privilege to witness it—like a little secret glimpse behind the curtain.
Also, I’m in the same room as the king and queen, for fuck’s sake.
A little over two weeks ago, I was sitting in the Dead Skunk with Becca, discussing whether we should order just the mixed bar snacks or go wild with the mozzarella sticks as well. And now here I am, at a royal wedding in Scotland.
The chill of the church suddenly hits me hard, prompting a full body shiver, as if to wake me up to the reality of where I am and what I’m doing. If Oliver were here beside me, I’m sure he’d put his arm around me to warm me up. Or even lend me his Prince Charlie.
My lips curl into a smile. I will never be able to hear that phrase without thinking it sounds like a smutty euphemism.
It’s only when the organ strikes up and everyone around me stands that I realize the whole thing is over.
The tension in my stomach fades and is replaced by a tremble of anticipation—I’m about to see Oliver walk toward me.
Goddamn that tremble.
I really have to shut this shit down. He can never be more than a fun guy to hang out with for a few weeks while we have amazing sex. Feelings were not part of the deal. They cannot be part of the deal.
I’ve made good progress on the first rough draft of the book. Needing to “do some work” has been a good excuse to get away from dinner each evening and not have to sit there like an excruciatingly unwanted spare part. And I’m much more of an early riser than Oliver, so I’ve been getting more than an hour's work done each day before he wakes and inevitably pulls me back under the covers for a bit of what he calls “morning delight.” I squeeze my thighs together at the memory of how that felt this morning.
Between that and a good writing session after lunch every day, the pre-Christmas submission deadline for the first draft is starting to feel more possible and less panic-inducing.
And here they are, the happy couple heading toward us down the aisle, smiling and waving to friends and family, followed by their parents, then Jeremy’s sister escorted by Oliver.
His eyes find me immediately and sparkle when he smiles.
There it is again, the same effect his eyes have on me as they did the moment we met. It’s like an arrow to my heart, a firecracker to my core, and a warm hug of belonging to my soul.
As he approaches, he reaches an arm toward me, nodding at his outstretched clenched fist.
Puzzled, I hold out my hand, and he releases something into it without missing a step and continues on his way past.
It’s a piece of paper folded into a small square.
Unable to wait, I open it to find a handwritten note.
“After the family photos, meet me behind the blue door in the back left corner. x”
I look over my shoulder to find him gazing back at me as the wedding procession turns to head out.
He flicks his eyebrows and tips his head toward the wall behind me.
