by T. K. Leigh
He leans into me, not letting me ignore this conversation any longer. “Oh, I know what you’ve said, but I’ve also heard what you don’t say.”
All week, he’s attempted to get me to open up about what happened between Nora and me. And all week, I’ve insisted I’m fine, that our hand was forced and the only option was for her to leave.
“You. Miss. Her.”
I glower at him, chest heaving, jaw tight. Then I throw up my hands. “Of course I miss her!”
“Then why are you still here? Better yet, why isn’t she?”
“You know why! This was the only way!”
He studies me for a beat. “Bullshite, Anders! That’s complete bullshite and you know it. Are you really going to stand there and have me believe the only possible way out of this was to do nothing? To simply let her walk away without a fight?”
“Fuck you.”
Creed smirks. “You’re not my type, mate.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I’m a bit wary of listening to relationship advice from someone who hasn’t been in one since you dicked over my sister.”
He pinches his lips into a tight line. As always happens when I bring up what went on between my sister and him. Which is why I don’t mention it often.
“You know damn well that’s not the case. I never made your sister a promise I had no intention of fulfilling. Not like you did with Nora. Going back on a promise? Not standing up for what you believe in? That doesn’t sound like the Anders I know.”
I grind my teeth, my jaw ticking in an attempt to keep my emotions in check. But something inside of me snaps. Everything I’ve kept from Creed for months burns like lava as it flows from me.
“That’s because the Anders you knew is dead, Creed! The Anders you knew used to be able to run. Could fly a fucking helicopter. Could fire a rifle and hit a target 300 meters away. Now I can barely even hold the thing steady, and that’s on a good day. My legs and hips are constantly sore from just walking. Oh, and this morning? I had to sit down to take a bloody piss because I was so damn dizzy. So excuse me if you don’t think I’m the same Anders. I’m not. The sooner you wrap your head around that fact, the easier it’ll be when part of your job assignment is cleaning up my shit and piss.
“You can stand there and judge me for not doing enough to keep Nora here, like everyone around me seems to think. But at least I saved her from spending the rest of her life married to a goddamn cripple.” I slink to a nearby chair, collapsing into it, fighting against another dizzy spell. They seem to be happening more and more lately, especially since Nora left. I lower my voice, sounding defeated. “I sacrificed my happiness so she can have a chance at being happy. So she could be free.”
“Anders…,” Creed begins, slowly walking toward me and sitting in the chair beside mine. “You don’t believe that, do you? Do you honestly think she wouldn’t be happy with you simply because you don’t live up to this ideal of perfection you have in your mind?”
“You don’t know what it’s like, Creed. To want to make love to your fiancée and aren’t able to. To feel like half a man. Not even. To feel…” I shake my head, gradually lifting my gaze to his. “To feel like a fucking burden.”
“I won’t say I know what you’re going through, because I don’t. I have no idea what it’s like to constantly have my body betray me. But I do know that Nora doesn’t care about that. Hell, she found it in her heart to forgive you even after everything you took from her. That’s how deep her love for you runs, Anders. She doesn’t care if you’ll be stuck in a wheelchair one day.”
He licks his lips, studying me for a beat. “Do you remember your last night together in Los Angeles after driving Route 66? How you asked me to arrange a private showing at the drive-in.”
I swallow hard. “I do.”
“And what movie did you ask they show? What movie was absolutely non-negotiable in your mind?”
“An Affair to Remember,” I say grudgingly, sensing what he’s getting at.
I’d originally requested that movie because the main characters fell in love while traveling. Much like Nora and me, they came from different worlds, had other commitments and obligations. But regardless of all the complications, they fought to make their dreams a reality. Nicki Ferrante even promised to start painting again, despite destroying all his previous work because it didn’t meet the level of perfection he’d hoped to attain. Those were the lengths he was willing to go to in order to pursue his dream of being with Terry McKay.
But now, the story has a deeper meaning than just two strangers falling in love aboard an ocean liner.
“In the final scene,” Creed continues, “when Nicki Ferrante sees Terry McKay and finally realizes why she doesn’t get up from the couch, does he simply shrug and say, ‘Well, it’s been swell, but have a nice life, you daft cripple’?”
I chuckle, grateful for the break in tension. “No. But—”
“But what? This is different?” he taunts, knowing precisely what my argument will be. “A few of the details might be, but the gist of it remains true here, Anders. He didn’t care she couldn’t walk. Didn’t care she was stuck in a wheelchair. That she might be a ‘burden’ in some people’s minds. What did she tell him?”
“Creed…,” I beg, the mere thought of those words like a knife to my chest.
“What. Did. She. Say?” he repeats, firmer.
I blow out a long breath. “‘If you can paint, I can walk.’”
“Exactly. What happened the night of that accident was a tragedy. But that’s precisely what it was. An accident. You weren’t drinking. You had what we now know was an MS flareup, which caused you to momentarily lose your vision. I can’t guarantee how the police will respond, but I’d be hard-pressed to believe they’ll hold you accountable when any accident is involuntary. When you didn’t even know you’d caused that crash until a year ago. So, for the love of Christ, stop moping around here because some crusty old men told you to. Do you remember what happened the last time you stopped doing things the old way?”
I blink, not answering.
“People fell in love with Nora. The entire country went nuts over the idea of you two together. You may think your hands are tied, but I have no doubt if you broke a few more rules…” When he narrows his gaze, there’s no question he’s referring to sitting down for the interview with Carly Hart, “they’ll do so all over again. Everyone loves a story of redemption and forgiveness. And that’s certainly what yours is. Sometimes you have to break a few rules to break new ground. It worked before. It can work again.”
I look straight ahead, mentally going through everything that’s transpired since I left New York. The engagement leak. Being reminded of the laws of succession and the Royal Marriages Act. Nora agreeing to marry me in two months instead of next year, as we’d planned. Nora going through all her princess training without a single argument. Rekindling our romance, even with everything else going on. Taking her to Paris, where it all fell apart.
But despite it all, there’s no question my happiest times involved Nora. Making love to her at night after a long day of work. Waking up to her every morning. Photographing her on the balcony of our hotel.
She’s repeatedly told me she doesn’t care about my diagnosis. That she fell in love with my heart, not the body holding it. Hell, she’s shown that to be true. So why was I so eager to throw it all away, especially after everything she gave up for me?
The argument we had in the garden after I missed her first doctor appointment replays in my mind. She’d asked me what I sacrificed in order to be with her. To my utter dismay, the answer was nothing.
It still is.
But it no longer has to be.
A revitalized energy coursing through me, I jump up. For the first time in ages, I don’t waver on my feet, don’t have to hold on to some nearby piece of furniture to steady myself.
With determined strides, I stalk into the hallway, Creed close behind. As I turn the corner, I stop abruptly when I see m
y grandmother walking toward me.
“Your Majesty,” Creed says, bowing. I mirror his greeting and movement.
“Heading somewhere?” she asks, holding her head high, her shoulders squared, posture exuding the same distinction and poise one would associate with her title.
“I…,” I stammer, unsure what to tell her.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not planning on attending the dinner tonight?”
I look at her with an unwavering gaze. “It was just brought to my attention that I have somewhere far more important to be right now.”
She pinches her lips, her dark, analytical gaze tracing over me. I expect her to argue that there’s no place more important than being here and serving the Crown.
“It’s about time you pulled that enormous head out of your arse.”
Creed laughs, but quickly covers it with a cough.
I’m stunned. This is a woman who’s always followed every etiquette rule and royal protocol to the T, never straying for so much as a second.
“You are planning on going to America to patch things up with Nora. Yes?” she says when I don’t immediately respond.
“Well… Yes.”
“Then what are you doing still standing here?”
“You want me to go?”
She huffs. “Of course I do.”
“But you don’t even like her.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I like her fine. Truth be told, I didn’t at first. It’s always been unheard of for someone in your position to marry an outsider. And for love, no less. But I must admit, the girl certainly grew on me, especially when I tried to pay her off to walk away and she told me to shove it.”
“You did what?” I blink repeatedly, not sure what surprises me more. That Nora told my grandmother to shove it, or that my grandmother attempted to bribe her to get her to leave. Actually, now that I think about it, neither should shock me.
“It was simply a test. I needed to make sure she wanted this. That she wasn’t just after you for your title. When she told me to shove it, and up my ass, no less,” she says, emphasizing the word in an American accent, “I knew she had the backbone required to survive in this life. Not to mention quite a sense of humor.”
“Sense of humor?”
The ghost of a smile plays on her thin lips. “No one has ever spoken to me in such a disrespectful way as your fiancée has. Not only did she tell me to shove it, she also stormed off, but not before stopping to curtsey.”
I bark out a laugh, able to picture Nora doing that with striking clarity. It’s one of the things that drew me to her from the beginning — her somewhat twisted and irreverent way of doing things to make a point.
“But last week, you encouraged her to leave,” I argue, confused. “Made her think there was no other option. Why are you changing your mind now?” I wave my hand toward the large windows to my right. “Is it because the so-called circus has finally moved on?”
She pulls her brows together in contemplation, then says, “Walk with me for a minute, Gabriel.”
When she offers me her elbow, I loop my arm through it. Creed nods, retreating to my old room to give us privacy. We walk together in silence for several minutes, the only sound that of her evening dress rustling with her steps.
“Watching your grandfather in his role as crown prince, then king, I’ve learned quite a bit. One of the things that stuck out in my mind is that part of being an effective ruler is knowing when you’re wrong and being able to admit your mistakes. When that interview aired and I heard that woman talk about Nora, I knew she was full of shite, pardon my language.”
“Trust me. I understand how difficult controlling your language can be when talking about her mother.”
She smiles, then faces forward once more. “The problem with being groomed almost from birth to hopefully marry someone of royal blood is that we’re not trained to think for ourselves. Once you enter this life, we’re told what to do. If someone were to ask why these rules are in place, they’d say—”
“That’s how it’s always been.”
“Precisely.”
We walk in silence, heading in the opposite direction than we need to be. Or at least my grandmother needs to be. For the first time in a long time, I know where my place is. And it’s not here.
“These past few days, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the game of chess I played with Nora. She’s quite a good player. For an amateur, of course.”
“Of course.”
“As you know, I’ve always loved chess. When I was a little girl, I would watch my brothers and father play. I’d asked to learn several times, but my father refused to teach me. Refused to allow me anywhere near the board. Told me it wasn’t something for girls, especially girls of noble background. I was supposed to study piano, practice my needlework, learn different languages. Things like that to make myself more ‘marketable’ to a husband.”
“It’s so antiquated, like something you’d hear about in the 1800s, not the twentieth century,” I remark, glancing at the centuries-old portraits of the royal family eavesdropping on our conversation.
“This was the 40s and 50s, so gender stereotypes were still happily embraced, particularly in upper-class society. When I asked why, I’m sure you can guess the response I was given.”
“Because that’s the way it’s always been,” I say in an even voice with a hint of annoyance.
“Precisely. But that didn’t stop me from learning about the game in other ways. After everyone went to bed at night, I snuck into my father’s study and read the books he had on chess. Learned about strategy. About different techniques. But since my father didn’t want me to play, I was never able to practice.” She stops walking and faces me. “When I married your grandfather and he shared his enthusiasm for chess with me, I was finally able to put everything I’d read into practice. But do you know what I learned?”
“What’s that?”
“That you can study theory, can study past games, can study openings, mid-games, and end games until your eyes bleed, but there’s always a move you don’t foresee. Some things you can’t prepare for. So yes, when that interview broke and I foresaw the potential ramifications to not only you, but also the monarchy if you were to come forward with the truth of that accident, I did what all the books tell you to do. Protect your king at all costs. I failed to take into account what many chess masters say is infinitely more important than knowing the mechanics of chess, what makes the greats who they are.”
“And what’s that?”
She places her hand on my cheek. “Intuition, my dear boy. Some of the greatest chess matches of all time would have turned out differently if the players only went by the book. If they made their moves because that’s how it’s always been.” She gives me a knowing look as she pulls back.
“By protecting the king…,” she begins, looping her arm through mine again as we stroll through the palace, “what I really did was protect an antiquated way of life that is becoming more and more irrelevant. Looking back at how you and Nora bloomed as a couple made me finally realize that. You two had the courage to question the establishment when they told you to do something simply because that’s how it’s always been done. You went against the rules and principles. And people loved you for it. When you sit down with Carly Hart, I have no doubt you’ll have the same unwavering support.” She turns, grabbing both my hands in hers. “You will always have mine. Both of you. I apologize it took me so long.”
“Thank you, Grandma.”
“You’re more than welcome, my dear boy. Now go.” She fixes her expression into one of feigned severity. “And don’t come home without the mother of my great-grandson.”
I tilt my head. “How do you know it’s a boy?”
She kisses my cheek, then turns from me, heading back in the direction of the ballroom. “It’s just a feeling I get.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Nora
“Oh, Chloe,” I breathe as Lincoln ha
nds me the little pink-wrapped bundle. “She’s absolutely beautiful.”
I pull back the blanket, admiring little Eloise’s chubby cheeks and fuzzy, blonde hair. Bringing her closer, I nuzzle her as she sleeps, inhaling that addictive smell of a newborn.
“She just couldn’t wait to make her appearance, could she?”
“She certainly couldn’t.” Chloe adjusts herself in the hospital bed. “It’s probably a good thing she came three weeks early, considering she’s already eight pounds. I don’t think my body could have handled anything bigger.” She looks up at Lincoln. “I blame you for that.”
Leaning down, he feathers a kiss against her temple. She closes her eyes, basking in the touch. Even from a few feet away, I can physically feel their love. It makes me long for the way Anderson would kiss me like that right before I’d drift off to sleep. Now the only thing remotely close to that is when Izzy and Asher’s dog, Treble, curls up next to me and licks my face, treating me to his stinky breath.
Since I returned to New York nearly two weeks ago, Treble’s been my shadow. Normally, he’s indifferent to my presence. But instead of sleeping in his bed in Izzy and Asher’s room, he sleeps with me every night, as if he can sense I need his comfort when the tears find me.
And they do, especially at night.
Especially when I notice my stomach growing a little bigger each day and think about going through all of this alone. But as my friends have reminded me, I won’t be alone. It takes a village to raise a child, and they’ve sworn to be my village. To be with me every step of the way.
“You did awesome, baby,” Lincoln says. “You deserve a gold star.”
“Thanks, Professor,” she jokes. “But the true hero was the anesthesiologist. That epidural was heaven. I couldn’t feel a damn thing. Until it wore off. Now my vagina is officially on fire.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the visual, Chloe.”
“What are friends for?”
“Knock, knock,” a sing-song voice says.
I peek up from smothering Eloise with kisses to see Evie and Izzy standing in the doorway, a few bags in their hands.