Page 95 of The Dandelion Princess
“We help each other,” he continues. “Don’t throw me out.” He reaches over and locks the door.
I hold his gaze and flick the lock free before retreating to the sofa. I take position in the corner, holding a pillow across my chest like it’s some kind of shield.
“Freja let us know before they went public. I’m not mad.” Thoughts cascade through my mind. I am a leaf howling through a hurricane. I don’t know what all this means for my future. I’m proud of my sister—I swear I’m not mad. But I want to scream and scream and scream.
“You didn’t think to text me?”
I thought about it every second, but I need to stop needing Marc. “It was just family business.”
Marc sits on the coffee table, elbows braced on his knees, eyes level with mine, and his mouth tightens. “Hypocrite,” he whispers. It sounds like an endearment more than an accusation. “Trying to hold it together by yourself.” He grips the edge of the pillow and pulls it from me with no effort at all.
“You come to me when you’re in trouble,” he says. “That’s the deal.” I glance away, but he tugs my knees until I look at him.
I know. I know. This arrangement we have comes with an exit, but our friendship doesn’t.
His grip tightens and he touches my forehead with a light finger. “What’s the worst thing you’re thinking?”
My lips part and close several times. He knows me too well—the wrangled public princess part and the trash panda gamer part and the shieldmaiden for my sisters part and the part so mean I don’t show it to anybody else. “I should never have taught her those camera tricks last year. See what it got us?”
His mouth tips with a smile, and the sense that it’s all going to be okay envelops me like a forcefield—conjured by him, but containing us both. “Oh no. A happy marriage. A future child. Not that.” I deserve this gentle mockery. “She saved The Nat with those camera tricks, you know. In a way, it’s more likeyousaved The Nat.”
This gets me to laugh but it’s like popping the tab on all the emotions. I open my mouth to say something even more awful, but instead, I feel the knot in my throat slip loose and keep slipping. A tear slides down my cheek. Then another. Then another.
Marc presses a handkerchief into my hands, but I’m too far gone for a quick mop up. Each of my sisters has come to me when the royal wrecking ball has blasted through their lives. I dole out sage advice and fancy tissues that have soothing lotion. I never… I don’t…Vede. Crying is not my thing.
My shoulders shake with an unwanted sob, and Marc gathers me to him, scooping me up and appropriating my corner of the sofa.
We seem to step out of time and I make a deal with myself. I’m only going to allow myself a few more tears. They’ll be like Clara’s, slipping gently down my cheek, and make me prettier, if anything. I’ll count them, and then I’ll stop it already and say something funny. These plans are obliterated by the feeling of Marc’s arms tightening around me. It should calm me down, battening down my emotions, but it does the opposite.
I don’t think about what he’ll think of me or how I’ll explain myself. I fight the frightening sensation of freedom, and then I surrender, gripping his lapels to weep against his shirt. It is as though an ancient palace wall has collapsed, rendering every private space exposed. Anyone might see the odd collections and childish memorabilia. Anyone might glimpse how everything is turned inside out and strewn across the floor. Anyone mightnote the incongruity of a stately home and a shattered princess. Anyone might—but only Marc does.
My door opens, spilling light across the floor. Marc reaches for a stuffed animal and lobs it at the intruder.
“Who was that?” I ask, my bottom lip shaking.
“Celine of Anjou,” he says, blaming our restless palace ghost. “She’s looking for a place to kiss her lover.”
I breathe a laugh and sniff. My tears have stopped, my face is pinched, and my head is achy.
“Feel better?” Marc asks, pushing my hair back.
The sharpness of my emotions has blunted enough for me to regain my footing. “We will not speak of this again,” I say.
“Then we’d better speak of it now.”
I try to climb away from him, but he holds my waist. I try to maintain a dignified posture, but when he won’t let go, I wrap my arms around him and burrow into his chest. The truth is that I would like to buy property, hire an architect, and live here forever.
“What’s the stupid thing you’re telling yourself?” he asks, guiding my face up with his palm.
“Freja doesn’t need me anymore. My family doesn’t need me. I should revisit that idea of becoming a Lutheran nun.”
His mouth tucks in a smile. “You like kissing too much.”
A weary curse forks through my brain. It’s not kissing that I like. It’s him. I sniff again. “Maybe when you visit, I can take a Lutheran nun sabbatical.”
“I draw the line at kissing a nun.” He scoots me closer. “You’re allowed to be upset. Freja is an idiot.”
I scowl. “Don’t call my sister names.”
