Page 119 of The Thing About My Prince
I sling my purse and duffel bag over my shoulder, slide the case off the bed and roll it toward the door.
I force myself not to look back at the room in the castle with the four-poster bed that’s played a big part in the last two unworldly weeks of my life.
Instead, I head forward.
Into absolutely nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
OLIVER
I stride down the wood-paneled hallway lined with pictures of my ancestors, toward the voices in the living room. Squeezing my hands into pulsating balls, I try to take breaths deeper than my thudding heart and tight chest will allow.
How the hell I got through the rest of yesterday after Lexi left, I have no idea. I managed to smile and crack the infantile jokes expected of me during the last round of wedding photos, then focused hard to book her a flight back to New York and send the details to Dane.
I had to stop myself from sending them directly to her because I dread to think what else I might have said in that message.
MaybeDon’t go, I’m wild about you.
MaybeI’m sorry, I should have stood up for you more and not caved to these assholes. All I want is to be with you.
MaybeLet’s run away to a deserted island where no one will ever find us and live off a diet of local vegetation and love, passion, and mutual respect.
But any of those would have been selfish. And I don’tdoubt she has no respect left for me after everything that’s happened.
So all I can do now is try to make this as right for her as I possibly can.
But, although I’ve stood up to my parents and this institution by myself before, doing it now without Lexi by my side seems impossible.
She made me feel way bigger and better and more courageous than I am. But with her three thousand miles away, I’m more like the useless, weak lump I was when I was a teenager.
To be honest, my seventeen-year-old self’s trick of getting drunk and toilet-papering some unsuspecting local’s front yard sounds like a pretty good stress-reliever right now.
The last half hour’s been spent pacing in my bedroom, which feels catastrophically empty now that the only part of Lexi that remains is her scent on the bedding.
I’ve worked hard to psych myself up for this conversation with my parents—rehearsing how it might go, figuring out how to tell them everything and to defend the book. And I’ve done my best to convince myself that I can pull this off.
A few more steps and I’ll be in their line of sight, then there’ll be no turning back. Right now I could spin around, jump in the car that’s waiting to take me to the airport without even saying goodbye, and fly home—yes, New York is my home now, not here.
This place never felt like a home. It’s always been like living in a museum. And now it feels like living in one where the scary stuffed exhibits come alive to torture you.
But I’m going nowhere yet. I can’t be a coward when someone needs to put a rocket up everyone’s arse for how Lexi’s been treated. And that someone is going to be me. They can walk all over me as much as they like, but there’s no fucking way I’m letting them get away with the shit they’ve put her through.
“Ah,” my father says, taking off his glasses when he sees me approaching.
That’s it. I have to do it now. I’m all in.
“We were just talking about you.” My mother is, uncharacteristically, sitting by his side on the sofa.
“I don’t doubt that.” I plant my feet firmly on the edge of the fringed rug. Not close enough to them that it looks like I’m staying, not so far away that it looks like I’m leaving. As always, existing somewhere in the unclaimed land of belonging and yet also not belonging.
Giles, who’s facing my parents, snorts and flips through the papers on his clipboard with what looks like feigned concentration.
“Excellent that you’re all here.” I rub my hands together in the hope it gives off an air of control and authority, rather than the combination of screaming and dying going on inside me. “Now that the wedding’s over and Sofia and Jeremy have left for their honeymoon, I think it’s important we get a few things out in the open.”
Yes, that definitely sounded mature and nonjudgmental.
“Absolutely we must,” my mother says. “Sit down.” She sweeps her hand toward the chair that Giles is standing next to.
