Page 80 of The Impossible Princess
Finally, it’s time to hand over the command to Moller. He’s lost the thirsty look, seen his fiancée, and doesn’t mind returning to regular duty.
I heft my gear over my shoulder and hitch a ride up the pier on a cart. My mind has already lived through this sequence of events, but I’m numb now, walling up the plans I had when it was Clara I would be returning to.
I get out and the cart speeds away. Turning on my phone, it immediately starts pinging and vibrating with a seizure of missed messages. I’m not ready to see her face or hear her name, so I slip it in a pocket while I fumble for my keys. Then I hear a sharp whistle.
My head jerks up as I track the direction of the sound across a huge expanse of concrete. It’s Clara, parked on the other side of the fence like any girlfriend. Everything in my body clenches—stomach, hands, jaw—as I take her in.
She’s leaning against her blue Fiio, her hair tossed by the wind. She brushes it back and bumps away from the car, drawing closer to the chain link. It’s too cool for one of her summer dresses, and she’s wearing jeans. She looks so good.
I’m guessing she’s not here for Captain Dusstock and I approach the fence, loosening my hold on the bag which drops with a thump.
I halt several, protective feet away. I’ve spent every second of the last month missing this girl but don’t know what to think. Maybe she’s here to warn me about another public relations calamity about to befall the royal family. I have nothing left to sacrifice.
“This isn’t a private street,” I warn her. “Anyone could see you.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Clara
After a month, Max looks like a different man—stern, cautious. His expression is easy to imagine on the face of an underwater detonation expert, approaching a bomb. The small hope I started with this morning is evaporating, and I am mad at myself all over again for wrecking us.
For something to do, I look up and down the road. There are no news vans, at least. “I watched YouTube videos of ships coming into port. I thought this was where everyone waited.”
He exhales sharply. “The spouses and children have a designated reception room. This is for temporary relationships.”
Temporary. My blood is hot and cold, and it sluices through my veins, mixing roughly. I feel it in my heart, clashing along the skin of my neck.
“This stretch of road isn’t the most respectable in Handsel,” he goes on. “It’s where girlfriends wait, and you’re not even that.”
My eyes drop and I want to run as far and as fast as I can. He’s already moved on. I knew he might have. I should resolve to leave him in peace. I should wish him the best of luck.
Then I remember my words to Caroline. I told her I’d do a great deal to keep this man in my life, and I would. I will. I step closer, curling my hand around the chain link.
“I heard about your injury. How’s your head?”
“It hurts,” he scowls.
He’s got a row of butterfly bandages and stitches securing an angry cut along his brow, the skin surrounding it an impressive array of colors. I want to offer to drive him home and make him dinner. I want to tell him he should rest, hand him a glass of water and a Brufen. But my placating attitude isn’t working, and it’s obvious he wants to fight. He has ten stitches, and I wonder if it would hurt to fight. Will it help us escape the small talk? I’m not a gambler, but I take a risk now.
I say, off-hand, “It doesn’t look that bad.”
He tosses his head, shakes it. I’ve seen horses in my mother’s stable make that move at the first sight of a saddle. It’s ayou’vegottobekiddingmelook. Those horses like to kick.
“It’s not. It was a sacrifice in the line of duty, Your Royal Highness,” he says, as furious and cutting as it is possible to be. “You should know something about that kind of sacrifice. Mine was far smaller than yours.”
I should be quaking in the blast of his anger, but I’m not. These are things that need to be said and knowing I can still command strong feelings from him is some comfort. People who don’t care, don’t feel angry.
My eyes trace the line of the sticking plaster. He’s going to have a scar, and I want him to tell me how it happened. I don’t have the right to ask, yet.
“Far smaller,” I echo. My heart is racing as fast as a hummingbird, and my breath won’t fill up my lungs. I have to tell him.
“Giving you up was too great a sacrifice.” My nose stings with a prickle of tears. I’m looking everywhere but at him, and I wait until the jagged lump in my throat can be swallowed before I speak. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, Max. I was so focused on what I thought everyone else needed that I was erasing myself, but you were right. I got the patronage, but—”
“You got it?” he asks. His eyes widen in surprise, and his tone suggests he might want to high-five me. Against his will, of course.
I smile. “Yeah.” I lift my shoulder. “I did.”
“Good for you,” he answers. I detect no sarcasm in his tone.
