Page 56 of The Impossible Princess
Max scoops up the plates and walks them into the kitchen, depositing them into the sink with a clatter. A giggle escapes me. “Are you jealous?” I call.
My words choke off.Vede.He’s not a boyfriend I’m teasing. I have to remember that.
Max strides back, positioning himself behind the couch, crouching down to my level and resting his forearms—at least as firm as Sondmark’s premier left winger’s are—along the back. He’s not laughing at my joke.
“People we should be honest, above-board. Clara—” And I know in an instant that this isn’t about a footballer’s dive. This is about him and me. This is about what we are, hiding in plain sight. And I’m not ready for this conversation.
I scramble off the couch and stand awkwardly, the coffee table against the back of my legs. He straightens too. Though we are several paces apart, my heart is racing and I’m anxious to fill the silence before he can.
“I’m leaving this week,” I announce.
“I know.” At my look, he explains. “Your family goes away every August for the holidays. I’d have to be living under a rock not to know.”
The Ermitage Hunting Lodge is up in the mountains and going there is a traditional throwback to the times when there was no air conditioning, the summer heat stifling. It used to take days for the court to remove themselves, but now I can get there in two hours along well-paved roads.
Usually, I love the holiday. Family comes in from every corner of Europe, we eat out of doors, play ridiculous party games, and go on long rambles in disreputable tweeds, the green copper roof of the late-Baroque building glinting in the distance. But Max won’t be there, and the thought is like a blight of midges.
“You’ll have time off for a summer holiday?”
He nods, his eyes still intent, not wholly committed to a conversation about vacation plans. “The family will come out to the cottage. Hals is teaching Ava to swim.” The next sentence spills from the first like water over a rock. “Clara, we need to talk.”
Despite my best efforts to put it off, to exist in this shadowy area for a while longer, the choice is out of my hands. “I know.”
The air is heavy, and I can’t get a good breath. My fingers tangle together, and I wonder with a mad panic what one of those blasted body language experts would make of this fidget.
“This friendship of ours…You know there’s something more here,” he says, his hand touching the space between us.
The television crowd erupts in a cheer and the announcer shouts, “Gooooooaaaaaaallllll.” Then comes the dull roar of a Sondmark drinking song as the crowd celebrates.Live a long life. Kiss all the girls you can…Max picks up the remote and clicks it off, the sound extinguished.
Everything is about to change. I feel my toes tingle and knees soften, as though I’m standing on the edge of a cliff. What if I fall?
“I know.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Then why are we pretending there isn’t?”
My mind goes to the limping footballer. His team picked up a free kick, maybe even scored a goal, because he had enough sense to fake it for a little while. It might not be honorable, but it is strategic.
“Because nothing’s changed. I still can’t afford a string of relationships; can’t have my personal life overshadow every other part of my public identity. My mother—” I’m shaking my head but his gaze doesn’t waver. I wonder how he can be so still in the middle of what feels like a storm. Doesn’t he remember that a relationship with me could hurt him? “Max, you want a command someday and this…” The word is like stepping into a rabbit hole. “This is trouble.”
“Clara, we both knew the risks.” He leans forward, hands braced on the back of the sofa, eyes bright. “But you didn’t run away.”
My voice is hardly a whisper. “I should have.Youshould have.”
“You could still.”
It’s true. He’s not holding me here, not even lightly as he did in the hall, hands pressed against the paneling. I could leave the cottage, battle a rainstorm all the way back to the Summer Palace, and keep the secret of us forever. The thought lodges in my throat.
“The promotion board wants a trustworthy, sober officer, not one whose girlfriend keeps dragging him into the press. This,” I repeat, my palm traveling a path between us, “could ruin your career.” My voice raises, almost wailing. Why won’t he think of himself? “I don’t want to do that.”
“And I don’t want to damage your standing with the queen for nothing.”
I turn to the window, putting a few paces between us. “So you agree,” I say thickly, swallowing away the threat of tears, “there’s too much at stake to play around.”
I’m glad I’ve convinced him. This attraction is too dangerous—it always has been. It simmers between us even when there’s no orchestra or ball gown to help it along. We can be digging dirt or sunning on a dock and the warmth of our connection is like a pilot light, sending flames licking along my veins at a moment’s notice. A friendship was supposed to put it out, smothering those hot feelings. Instead, it added fuel to the fire.
“I agree,” he answers, turning the screw. I hear the creak of the old wooden floorboards and feel his calloused hand touch my arm, brushing down its length until his fingers clasp mine. “I don’t play around.”
He tugs me and I turn, tilting my head back. He keeps hold of my hand, fingers brushing slowly over mine. It’s meant to be soothing but I feel sparks at each touch. His eyes are unwavering.
