“Noooooo,” Ollie and I say at the same time. He flashes me a quick grin before turning his attention back to the call box. “Liam, we’re all set,” he speaks into it. My stomach growls in response, and Ollie chuckles. “I see your stomach missed us,” he teases.
“I don’t get it,” Sophie asks, looking from me to Ollie to her adoring future husband.
“Mrs. Wright never let us have any snacks growing up. At least not any good ones. Before mum died, she made us this room. Mrs. Wright nor any of the other staff were allowed in here,” Freddie explains.
“She wanted us to feel like real boys every once in a while,” Ollie interjects.
“Yes, something like that,” Freddie replies, a sad sort of smile gracing his face. Even though he is only two years older than Ollie, memories of their mother come easier to him than to his baby brother. As the youngest, Ollie often spoke of struggling to remember her. Something we had in common.
“When we got a bit older and Oliver learned how to manipulate poor Liam—”
“Manipulate? I’d hardly call it that. Convince. I convinced Liam. And, really, it was as much this one as it was me,” he says, pointing a finger my way.
I shrug. “What can I say? I’d do just about anything for a bag of Cheetos.”
And as if serendipity rules our lives, Liam appears in the doorway, his arms filled will all manner of preservatives and saturated fats. I do a little jump and clap with joy. Glorious, glorious snacks.
With a grunt, Liam unloads his haul onto the coffee table. “I brought extra since the lass is back,” he says, nodding toward me. “Never have seen a girl who can eat as much as you, Aly.”
“I consider it one of my proudest accomplishments,” I sass back, picking up a bag of hot fries and ripping them open.
“You’re going to eat all this?” Sophie asks, her eyes going wide. She licks once at her lips as she eyes the bag of Twizzlers mere feet from her.
I know that look. “Maybe not all, but I’m sure as hell going to try. Don’t you want some?”
“Oh…oh, I don’t know that I could. I have a wedding dress I need to fit into. And the rehearsal dinner is tonight,” she replies, wringing her hands as she stares at the plethora of goodies like it’s the entire Liverpool team running around with no shirts on.
I snatch the bag of Twizzlers and toss them to her. “That’s what they make Spanx for. I practically bought stock in them while living here.”
Sophie’s cheeks go beet red at the mention of unmentionables, which causes Freddie to laugh so hard that he starts to snort. Ollie was right—they are perfect for each other. “Isn’t she great, Sophie? I told you she would make you laugh. Aly always could stop a quarrel or ease the tension. Stick with her, my dear, and she’ll see you through this wedding.”
It baffles me that Freddie can still say such things. My eyes drift over to where Ollie stands watching me. By the time I left, it felt as if all I did was cause trouble among the princes.
As I stand there staring at Ollie, the happy laughter of Sophie and Freddie fills my ears. It causes something inside me to shift. I had been happy here once. Could I not, just for the short time I was here, be happy again? Freddie seems content with only remembering the good. Can I do the same? Sure, every time Ollie looks at me it feels like my insides are set on spin cycle, but can’t I just have some part of my old life back? Squash down all those pesky feelings and enjoy being home?
“I guess a little bit of candy won’t hurt,” Sophie says before ripping open the bag of licorice.
“A lot of it wouldn’t hurt, my dear. You are and will always remain absolutely perfect,” Freddie replies, giving his fiancée a small pinch at her side. Sophie yelps before hitting him with the treasured bag of goodies. Freddie grabs them, pulling Sophie down with him onto the couch. “So, we will all feed ourselves till we can’t button our pants and watch this barbaric sport until we must get ready. Sounds like the perfect afternoon to me.”
Sophie giggles and squeals as Freddie pulls her into his arms. They lie sprawled on the couch, one melting into the other. My heart tightens a bit looking at them, and I’m not entirely sure why. Sophie clears her throat. “Aren’t we being a bit rude, Freddie? We’re taking up the entire couch. Where are they going to sit?” she asks, eyeing the only other chair in the room—a small loveseat.
“Nonsense. That’s Aly and Ollie’s chair. That’s where they’ve always sat,” Freddie replies.
For the love of David Beckham.
I could kill him.
With my bare hands.
Better yet? I’d use the actual bear hands from the stuffed bear outside the Queen Anne room.
That was where Ollie and I used to sit. Cozy and nestled together. It had always felt right. Natural. From when we were gawky little things, all skin and bones, to when we teetered on the edge of womanhood and manhood. Even then it never felt wrong. It only felt like it was meant to be. As if it had always been that way, and it always would be. That was what made everything that happened so dizzying. It went from normal to unexplainable in seconds.
Whiplash.
If Ollie is bothered by Freddie’s little play, he doesn’t show it. He grabs a bag of crisps before plopping down in the chair, patting the empty space next to him. The very small, intimate space next to him. His eyes slowly move up my body before landing on my face. The way he looks at me—half dare, half amusement—knowing I can’t refuse without causing a scene, invokes a strange mixture of anger and want within me. I start to reach up to touch my hair but catch myself. I won’t give Oliver Dudley the satisfaction of seeing me thrown off my game. I made the decision to be happy here, and that requires trying to momentarily forget all the terrible things that have happened.
I grab a few more bags of gluttony from the snack pile before sitting down. Instantly, my cheeks bloom because my body’s a damn traitor. My right side presses against the length of Ollie’s despite how much I try to lean against the armrest.
Moments long ago call to me.
The way his chest felt under my hands back in the pub.
The way his eyes roamed my body last night.
The way his hands expertly undid my bra all those years ago. So sure. How I knew I could trust him to lead me.
He always had that—a confidence, the power to lead. To rule. And according to my body’s reaction, he still has the ability to use all those things to control me.
I shift, moving the arm that lies against his across my lap. It’s an awkward way to sit, and I can tell by the small chuckle that issues from Ollie, he’s onto my resistance. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. Even though his eyes are focused on the game, he’s grinning. For a second, I lose the ability to breathe. My hand twitches, wanting to run down the length of his chest…
I pull my feet up and twist my body until my knees sit on the armrest, my back toward Ollie. I pile the snacks onto my lap and lean an elbow against the bar of the loveseat. Clearly, this is the dumbest way to sit on a loveseat ever thought of. At least that’s what the sharp pain in my hip is screaming at me. Ollie sighs, and I pretend it has something to do with the futbol game, which I haven’t watched more than a few seconds of.
For the next hour, I busy myself with stuffing my face and occasionally yelling at the telly. What’s usually a pretty good match, Liverpool and Manchester being rivals and all, has turned into a snoozefest. Freddie and Sophie spend most of the time whispering and laughing on the couch while Ollie and I sit stiffly next to each other without saying a word. I toss my empty snack bags onto the coffee table and reach my arms high into the air, stretching. I groan as something in my back pops.
“This is complete and utter rubbish,” Ollie snaps next to me. I turn my attention back to the game to see what he’s talking about, but it’s cut to a commercial. Before I can ask, his arm snakes under my legs and he spins me around. I gasp. He pulls me down until my head lays on the armrest, and my legs land over his lap, my knees against his chest. He wraps his arms
tightly around my legs before I can make a move. “Don’t you say a word, Alexandra Ryans,” he demands, stern yet quiet enough so Freddie and Sophie can’t hear him. “If you do, I’ll call Mrs. Wright in here and tell her you were the one who broke the china set from the French ambassador.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss back. It isn’t like we’re exactly frightened of Mrs. Wright anymore. At least, not like when we were children. But Mrs. Wright was the most attentive parental figure we had. She was the Wendy to our lot of Lost Boys. It wasn’t about fear—it was about not wanting to disappoint her. Even though none of us spoke about it, I know the boys feel the same. We may complain about her and rail about her, but her opinion is important.
“Try me, Ryans…oh, wait, you already have,” he counters, winking.
“I hate when you talk to me like that,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m just some girl, and you’re just some boy. Like we aren’t us,” I admit. Like I was the only one who felt something in those moments we shared. Hell, maybe it was just me. Isn’t that what I wanted? “You never used to talk to me like that. Is this what it’s going to be like now?”
His smile fades. Ollie looks away from me, swallowing hard. He’s silent for a bit. Even though he’s watching the game, I can tell he isn’t really watching. He’s lost.
I know the feeling.
When he looks back over at me, his eyes soften a bit. “I’m sorry, Ryans. I…it’s…I don’t…” He presses his lips together and shakes his head, “I don’t know how to do this.”
I shift so I can look behind me. Sophie and Freddie are still too wrapped up in each other to pay us any mind. I turn back around, taking a deep breath. “What?” I ask.
“Shit,” he says, reaching up and scratching at the back of his head. “Are the next two weeks just going to be me saying I’m sorry all the time?”
I shrug. “Maybe. If you spend the next two weeks acting like a cheeky arse, I suspect that will be the case.”
Ollie laughs. “You always sound so ridiculous when you use British slang.”
I punch him in the chest with my fist. Not too hard. Just enough for him to take notice. And maybe make the air briefly go out of his lungs. He grabs my fist, holding it against his chest. “Now, this is how it’s supposed to be,” he says between coughs.
I glance behind me again to make sure Freddie and Sophie aren’t listening. Then I turn back toward Ollie and look at the way his hand cradles mine. How many times had he done that while we sat like this? Too many to count. “Maybe this is the way it can be again?” I ask hesitantly.
“Do you mean that?”
Ollie stares down at our hands as well. I think of Freddie and Sophie on the couch, and how important their wedding is. I think of my father, who was so happy to see me home. I think of Mrs. Wright, who only wants us all to make England proud. And what do I want? I just want things to go back to how they were. It’s the most I could hope for, all things considered. None of it will be possible if I don’t answer this question correctly. Even if the correct answer isn’t entirely truthful.
“Of course I do,” I reply.
I’m not sure it’s possible, but I will try.
I snuggle farther down into the chair, letting my body relax against Ollie’s. I ignore the way every ounce of me tingles with expectation because that’s what old Aly would have done, and I want her back, along with her life.
Lying there, my eyelids become heavy. How exhausting it’s been—the jet lag and the anxiety of what this trip would mean. But it doesn’t have to be so bad. Not if we all pretend that none of it ever happened. We could just go back to the way it was before.
“Did I tell you I met Santa Claus at the airport?” I ask tiredly.
I tell him about getting drunk with Papa Noel. He fills me in on what’s been happening in the lives of some of his friends, boys I grew up with as well. It’s easy, and as we continue to talk I become sleepier and sleepier. Not because the conversation bores me, but because for once in a long time, I feel at ease. Safe. At home.
Absentmindedly, Ollie’s fingers being to trace up and down my leg. At least I think he does it without knowing, considering we both agreed to forget what happened between us before I left in favor of saving what we were before. His fingers move slowly. Lightly. Caressing me from my ankle all the way up my thigh. Stopping at my hip bone where his fingers dangerously move under the hem of my shirt, touching skin.
I should tell him to stop. Make some excuse to leave the room. Instead, a small sigh escapes my lips. Every muscle in my body melts further into him. My breathing slows, and the darkness overtakes me.
When I awake, I notice how quiet the room is. The television is off, and the sun, which slithers through the curtains, has paled. I manage to detangle myself from Ollie without waking him. Looking over the side of the loveseat, I realize Sophie and Freddie are gone. I glance at the clock and realize I should have started getting ready for the rehearsal dinner an hour ago. It’s only when I move to wake Ollie that I notice a shadowy figure standing in the doorway.
My throat goes dry. I’d recognize that stance anywhere. Without a word, he turns and walks away.
The first time he’s seen me in three years, and Aiden finds me in his brother’s arms.
Again.
Chapter Eight
17 Years, 7 Months, and 10 Days
“Are you sure, Aly?” he asks, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s the only way,” I say between sobs, turning away from him. I can’t bear it. His seeing me like this.
Freddie places a finger under my chin and lifts my head, forcing me to look at him. “It’s not the only way. Running from it won’t fix it.”
I shake my head, tears rolling down my face with greater intensity and frequency. “You don’t understand. There is no fixing it. I’ve ruined them.”
“They’re grown men, Aly. Ollie knew what he was doing, and Aiden, well, he’s right daft sometimes. You can’t take to heart what he said. He didn’t mean those things.”
“He meant them,” I mumble.
“Bollocks.”
I can’t help but laugh a little. “I can’t take you seriously when you curse.”
“Now there’s our Aly,” he replies with a small smile. He reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and we can figure a way out of this mess. The philosopher—”
I hold up a hand. “If you start talking philosophy to me right now, I swear I’ll walk to the airport.” I take the handkerchief and blow my nose. The longer I sit talking with Freddie, the weaker my resolve will become. “There’s only one way out of this mess—”
“Aly,” he interrupts.
“No! You promised to help me, and a Dudley never breaks a promise. That’s what you’ve always said. What’s the point of being royal if you don’t live by some sort of code, right? Your words. You promised.”
A code Ollie and I broke.
Freddie sighs. “Yes, Aly, I promised. Won’t you tell your father first?”
I shake my head, pulling my arms inside my sweatshirt, wishing I could disappear. “No, I’ll call him when I get to the States. Now, take me to the airport.”
I watch as Freddie clenches his jaw. He wants to say more, but he holds himself back. He starts the car without another word.
Chapter Nine
22 Years, 9 Months, and 25 Days
“You told me to be ready by five. It’s not even four thirty. I’m beginning to think you don’t have any faith in me,” I call out from behind the partition.
“What can I say, Alexandra? I’m a realist,” drawls Mrs. Wright.
I groan, tugging off my sweatpants. “Shouldn’t you be helping Sophie get ready? It’s her rehearsal dinner.”
“Unlike some, Sophie doesn’t need a babysitter. Now, be careful taking off that wretched futbol jersey or you will mess up your hair.”
Even though she can�
�t see it, I roll my eyes at Mrs. Wright. I ball up my sweatpants and jersey and throw them over the partition. Mrs. Wright yelps, and I thank God for blessing me with good aim. I pull on my Spanx and go to work putting on the bra Mrs. Wright bought for me.
“Good God, Mrs. Wright!” I exclaim, looking down at my chest. There are push-up bras and then there are push-up bras. This one is bordering on indecent. Of course, this is coming from the girl who buys her bras from Wal-Mart. I didn’t see the point of buying any good lingerie when I could use my money to buy season tickets to watch DC United play. Money had never been an issue for my family, but I chose to avoid touching my inheritance. Instead, I worked part-time coaching. “I don’t think the Queen Mother would approve of me knocking over the Prime Minster with these boobs.”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Alexandra,” Mrs. Wright tsks. “The dress is very tasteful at the top. I simply thought you needed a bit of help in that area. With all those jerseys and sweatshirts you wear, I wasn’t entirely sure you even had breasts.”
I grit my teeth and count to ten. I love the woman. I do. But some days…
“I think tonight would be a great opportunity for you to meet some new people. The right kind of people,” she continues.
“The right kind of people?” I ask as she mumbles something about a professor. I shake my head, regretting more and more by the second that I revealed so much to her in the pub.
“Here,” she says, choosing to ignore my question. Her arm shoots past the barrier of the partition, her hand holding a dress bag. Hesitantly, I take it from her, fearing what could lie within. If the hideous frock she picked out for me at the pub is any indication of what’s to come, the only men who will be interested in talking to me are the ones suffering from disastrously poor eyesight.
I hang up the dress bag and unzip it. My eyes go wide as I take in the sight of it. “Mrs. Wright,” I whisper in awe. “This possibly can’t be for me.”
“Why ever not?” she asks.
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