Just Pretending
Page 8
“I w-want to talk to you,” he stammers, breath heavy.
Jealous anger bubbles in me. “Why? You heard one of your teammates had a princess for a sister, is that it?” I won’t be humiliated again.
“Well, technically a queen.” He laughs. It’s vaguely familiar. “D-did you like the game?”
The only distinguishable thing about him is the number on his jersey. Number thirteen, the player who scored all those goals tonight. But there’s something so familiar about him…
Ah, I know. I bet he’s one of the players who was laughing at me with Gervase. Another boy who thinks he can humiliate me. Well, I won’t let that happen again.
“Yes, congratulations on your win.” I turn and storm up the stairs.
“W-wait!”
I look back over my shoulder. He’s got his hands on either side of his helmet. “What, are you going to ask me out, like every other dumb boy in this city? Brag to your friends about it? He shoots…and scores a royal hookup!”
His hands drop from his helmet. “N-no…I just—”
“You think you’re impressive out there? It’ll take a little more than putting some dumb piece of rubber in a net to capture the attention of a queen.” I turn away from him. “Good night, Falcon.”
Chapter Six
Tyler
I roll my shoulders, letting the pounding hot water work away at my tense muscles. I’m alone in the locker room—Coach and all the boys have left. The arena is quiet except for the sound of the shower.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t man up and tell her the truth. How could I? The look of disdain she gave me when I ran up to see her—and that’s when she only knew me as #13, the star of the game. Imagine if she could actually see me, my old house, my empty bank account. The fact it takes me fifteen minutes to read a single sentence. I couldn’t buy her flowers, let alone write her a card.
I was an idiot to think she’d like me for me.
I pound my fist against the wet tile. It was the last time I’ll ever see Evangeline, and all I’ll remember is her looking at me as if I’m the scum of the earth. Tomorrow, she’ll be gone, like a fleeting dream.
I think of the burst of her laugh, the press of her full body against mine, the wistful look in her eyes as she stares at the world. She makes me want to skate, to paint, to soar!
My chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself. How can I go home, knowing this is my last chance to be with her? Knowing that I was in the presence of a real-life masterpiece and I never even goddamn kissed her?
Tyler Evans would let her go.
But Tiberius can’t.
If I get to see her for just a minute more, it’ll be worth it.
If she wants a prince, then a prince she will get.
…
Eva
My paintbrush flies, sweeping the bright reds and golds of the autumn trees across my canvas. I decided to spend my last afternoon in Chicago using some of the art supplies Tiberius bought us. I hate that with every swish of my brush, I can hear his voice in my head. I can almost see the smile he gave when he looked at me.
I throw my paintbrush down on my easel. Painting is usually what makes me forget, and now I can’t even seem to do that.
“Hey,” a voice from behind me calls. “Can you pick up the paintbrush again? I was just about done with your hand.”
I freeze. That voice. I grab my paintbrush and spin on my heel. Prince Tiberius.
He’s sitting a little way up the hill, a sketchbook on his lap, charcoal in his hand. He’s just staring at me with that stupid grin on his face. “Wait, hold that pose.” He flips a page in his book. “I need to create a whole new drawing for this look. I’ll call it, ‘The Queen’s Wrath!’”
I storm over to him. “You’re about to feel this queen’s wrath.”
He clutches his sketchbook to his chest and scoots back on the grass.
I stop short before him. “Are you drawing me?”
“Maybe.”
“Let me see.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not finished.”
I lunge for him, reaching for the sketchbook, but he grabs my arms and I fall to the ground.
I try to snatch the sketchbook again, but he holds it tight. “If you’re drawing me, I deserve to see.” I give a sharp tug on the book, and he falls back. The book splays open on the ground. Sure enough, there’s a drawing of me standing at my easel. But there are other sketches around it—my eyes, my lips, my hands.
Even his sketches are amazing, elegant lines and delicate shading. But I’m still mad. “So, you have time to stalk me, but not keep your promises?” I storm back toward my easel.
“Eva!” I hear Tiberius scramble up behind me. “Honestly, do you have to freak out about everything?”
I turn, my rage threatening to boil over. “Excuse me?”
Tiberius walks toward me. “Sometimes you can be a little…a little…”
“A little what?”
Tiberius smirks. “A little overdramatic.”
My jaw drops and my face burns. “Why I never!”
Tiberius shrugs his shoulders and looks away from me. “Which, most of the time, I find pretty amazing. You’re like a fire, burning and exploding, lighting up everything around you.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “But sometimes, I just really need you to chill for a sec, so you can hear me.”
I stand still for a moment, then I say it. “Why didn’t you come to the game?” I hate the way my voice sounds, the weakness that spills out when it cracks.
He takes a tentative step toward me. “I got caught up in something, but I did really want to see you.”
I swallow that lump in my throat, unsure of what to think. I know better than anyone how easy it is to get swept up in things. But I hate how much I wanted him to be there, how much it hurt when he wasn’t. I’m not sure I’m ready to get caught up in those sorts of feelings. And I know it’s not wise for a queen to get caught up in anything.
“It’s fine,” I say softly and turn away from him. “But I should get going. I have an early flight tomorrow.”
“Your Highness,” he says. “One more thing.”
He catches my arm and pulls me toward him. I spin, my hands landing flat against his chest. His other hand cups the back of my neck as he pulls my face toward his. Our lips collide, and I feel like there’s an explosion inside my chest, shattering color and light. He draws the kiss deeper.
My face tilts to the side, and I gasp for a breath. “Ty—”
“No.” His voice burns low in his throat, and his fingers tighten in my hair. He tugs me back into another staggering kiss.
And I’m lost completely in the taste of him. I melt, my whole body pressing against his, hoping I can regain some semblance of balance. His hands slide down my back, tightening in the fabric as he draws me closer.
I make a small sound in the back of my throat as our bodies press together. He pulls away, breathing heavy. His hands tremble on my arms.
“I just kissed you,” he breathes.
A smile splits my face, and I throw my head back and laugh to the sky. “No rainstorm this time.”
He starts laughing, too, then quickly kisses me again. “Or faulty pipes.”
“I don’t want to leave,” I say.
“Then don’t.” He trails kisses down my jaw then my neck. “Don’t go.”
I thread my fingers through his curls. “We’re going to see each other again.”
He stills for a moment, head slanting toward me. “Evangeline…”
“But until then,” I whisper into the dip of his shoulder, “write to me, Tiberius.”
His hands fall to his side. “W-Write to you…”
I shuffle away from him, at once missing the warm touch of his body, and dig in my purse. “You can email me.” I scribble down my address on a pad of paper and hold it out for him.
He doesn’t take it.
“Of course, letters are very romantic, but Mother often snoop
s in my mail and listens to my calls, so this is the best way.” I shove the paper into his hand and close his palm around it.
He’s very still…but then I feel his grip beneath mine tighten. “Evangeline,” he says again.
I look up. Behind him, the autumn leaves swirl against the sky, dancing dark red in the setting sun. I step forward, and his arms close around me once more.
“I’ll write to you,” he says and leans down to me. The kiss is soft yet determined. A promise.
One I know he won’t break.
Chapter Seven
Tyler
I walk into the house, rolling out my sore shoulders. My hair is still damp from the shower I took after the game, and my face is flushed from the cold November air. I feel like I could nap for a thousand years. Still, a sense of pride fills me. Another “W” for the Falcons. It’s been a month since I first pretended to be Prince Tiberius, and since then, I’ve thrown everything I am into the game. This…this could be our year—the year we win the whole league.
I walk past the fireplace and flick my gaze to the framed pic on the mantle. Last year, the Falcons made it to the third round in the playoffs—the closest we’ve been to winning the championship in years. After one of our big wins, the gang and I all went to my dad’s store, where we’d had a big hot dog cook-off in the parking lot. There’s a picture of the five of us—Hayden, Al, Daniel, and I still in our jerseys, and Madison in her trainer’s jacket—sitting in the parking lot, eating hot dogs, and laughing.
A lump forms in the back of my throat. This is our last year playing together. Word has it Hayden and Daniel’s names are popping up for the NHL draft. After graduation, Alice will be trying out for the professional women’s league, and Madison will be pursuing her acting career at a fancy school in New York. This time next year, the five of us could be scattered across the country, doing amazing things.
Except for me. I’m not going to get scouted for the NHL or go to university. I’ll be lucky if I take over Dad’s shop one day.
Except that can’t happen either, a cool voice says inside. You can’t run a business when it takes you an hour to read a single email.
I turn away from the picture and storm into my room. I just have to think about the things I can control—like playing well for the Falcons. One final year, one last chance for us to win. Besides, Hayden’s having the whole gang over to his place to celebrate the win today. I’m not going to bring the other guys down.
At least I know there’s one thing that will cheer me up. I walk back into the living room and boot up our old computer.
“Checking your email again?” a sly voice says from behind me. “You checked before you left.”
I swivel around in my chair and stare at Millie. Or at least, what I can see of her—just her hands sticking up over the back of the couch, holding a book.
“Dad’s car was gone. I thought you were out,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”
“He had to run to the store to fix something,” Millie says. “He’ll be back soon.”
“He shouldn’t have left you alone,” I mumble. Slowly, I pick at the letters on the keyboard to sign in to my email. I take a deep breath as it loads.
No new emails.
I blow out a breath and push away from the computer.
Millie sits up and leans over the couch. “Don’t mope. She’ll reply soon.”
“I know,” I say. Because it’s true. I know Queen Evangeline will reply. She has responded within twenty-four hours to every single email I’ve ever sent her.
Or rather, every email princet13@gmail.com has sent her.
It’s been a month since Eva left Chicago, and there hasn’t been a single day we haven’t communicated. At first, I only stared at the scrap of paper she’d given me with her email address on it. I couldn’t write to her. I just couldn’t.
But the pure, sickening desire was stronger than the shame I felt creating a fake email address for Tiberius. Stronger than the shame that it took me three hours to write a single paragraph and then have Millie rewrite it for me anyway.
I couldn’t lose her.
A thought nags at the back of my mind. I wasn’t only scared of losing Eva.
I was scared of losing Tiberius, too.
For the last month, I would paint pictures in my mind of Tiberius’s life—the art gallery he opened, his fencing lessons, all those adventures around the world. And I told them all to Millie. She wrote them down and read me out Eva’s replies.
At least, it was that way for a little while. Then Millie straight up refused to do it anymore.
“If you want to keep up this ruse with your princess,” she had said in a particularly snotty tone, “then you’re going to have to write and read them yourself.”
Damn, I had been mad. And I never get mad at Millie. But she knew how long it took me to read something, how long I would have to stare at the screen before the letters would adjust into words. Let alone writing my own email….it was impossible. But one draft turned into two which turned into three, until it was two in the morning and I was finally satisfied that it was comprehensible.
But I had to do it. I wanted to read about Eva’s day, be there when she needed to rant about her mom or send me a picture of the sketch she was working on or talk about missing her late father. I wanted to tell her I understood—I really miss my mom. But the real Tiberius still has two parents. Suddenly, all those strange letters weren’t so torturous. Instead, it was like digging for a buried treasure and knowing I would find her underneath.
Not that this will ever go beyond emails. But a piece of Eva, even just a few digital words, is better than nothing.
“Stop hitting refresh,” Millie chides. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“No,” I say and hit refresh again.
“What about…” Millie swings over the couch and bounces toward me, “writing that admission essay for that art school?”
I shoot a look at her. “How do you know about that?”
“The pamphlet has been on your bedside table for, like, a month, and you haven’t thrown it out.” She pokes my arm. “Now that you’re such a wordsmith, it should be no problem! I’ll even edit it for you.”
I swivel away from her and go back to hitting refresh on my email. “Number one, stop snooping in my room. Number two, no way. Number three, go away.”
“Tyler!” she whines in a voice I haven’t heard since she was, like, four. “I got a whole bunch of books on Prague out of the library. You would love it! And your paintings are so good. And—”
“Seriously, Mils,” I say. “Stop. I’m not applying to some international art school.”
“Whyyy?”
“Number one, I don’t like foreign food. Number two, I don’t want to. Number three, go away.”
She snatches my hand off the mouse and turns my chair to face her. “You would like different food if you ever tried it, you big baby! I think it would be fun to see something besides Chicago.”
“And what would Dad do, huh, if I left?” I say, my temper getting the better of me. “What would you do? You guys need me.”
Millie crosses her arms. “I’m old enough to be left home alone now. And Dad would be happy for you. I think he’d feel better knowing you were doing something cool—”
I shake my head and stare into Millie’s stubborn blue eyes. More and more I can see Mom in her. “You’re reading too many fantasy books.”
She gives me a sly grin. “There’s an art program at the University of Eldonia.”
I leap up, snatching her in my arms, and tackle her to the couch. “That’s it! You’re done for!”
She starts screaming with laughter and flails like a wildcat, but I pin her down and tickle her sides.
Then a loud ding rings through the house. We both shoot up, staring at the computer.
An email!
We dart up and rush to the computer. I recognize the three letters, and it easily forms into a word.
Eva.
“You’re right here,” I say, pushing Mils down into the chair. “Just read this one out loud for me. Pretty please.”
She sighs. “And you’ll do all my dishes tonight?”
“Even the pots and pans.”
“Fine.” She leans forward and her eyes dart back and forth across the screen.
“Out loud, please,” I say.
Millie pushes back from the computer. Her mouth hangs open, and her eyes are wide and fearful.
“W-What…what is it?” I say.
“Eva…Eva…” she mumbles. “Eva says she’s so delighted…that the Prince of Perienza has accepted her invitation…to visit Eldonia over Christmas.”
I take a step back. “But…”
“Tyler,” Millie says, “Eva thinks you’re going to be there for Christmas!”
…
Eva
“EVANGELINE!”
I drop my pencil to the ground. Even outside on my balcony, my mother’s voice is as loud as if she had her own personal megaphone. She would, of course, take this moment to summon me. I look down at my empty sheet of paper. I’ve already spent all morning going over a tax reform with the local delegate. I thought I had a little free time before supper with the Tomato Growers Society. I guess my drawing will have to wait another day, as usual.
“Coming, Mother,” I call. Slowly, I walk out of my room and down the grand staircase. As I pass our butler, Eldredge, he gives me a tiny shake of his head.
This isn’t going to be good.
My mother stands in the foyer, dressed in a slim blush skirt and blazer. She fans herself with a single white envelope. “I hope you can explain yourself, Evangeline.”
I stop short. “What is that?”
“I expect you to tell me.”
I walk forward, and she slaps the envelope into my outstretched palm. It stings, but I don’t let the pain work its way into my expression. The letter is from the University of Eldonia. Slowly, I open it and read the first few lines: