by Alexis Angel
When I unlock my own door and lock it again behind me, I know I'm not going to do that. It isn't who I am. I've believed in true love since I was young. Even when my degree taught me that love could just be an illusion. Even when everyone who knew my convictions told me that I was just being silly. I believe what I believe, and I'm not going to give that up.
Not because my best friend is hurting, and I fear getting hurt, too. Not because I'm in the minority, being a virgin at my age. And not because good-looking men offer to make one night the best night of my life.
Thomas had talked about freedom earlier today. Holding onto something that's mine, refusing to give it up no matter what, until I'm ready, is my own kind of freedom.
No one can tell me differently.
Thomas
I wake up to my phone vibrating on the bedside table.
"Yeah?" I answer.
"You’re asleep," my father says, sounding irritated.
"I’m seven hours behind you."
I can imagine him shrugging.
"I’m also done with my studies."
"Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about," he says. I grope around on the nightstand for my earphones. When I can't find them, I sigh and roll onto my back, pressing the phone against my ear. "Now that you’re done, you need to come back. You have duties, and Elanda expects it of you to fulfill them."
I close my eyes. "Elanda doesn’t care what I do," I say. "You’re the one that expects it."
"I don’t need to define responsibility for you, Thomas." He pronounces my name with emphasis on the "a," not the "o" like everyone else. "I didn’t spend so much money on a quality education for you to shirk your duties as future king."
"I don’t know when I’m even going to be king. You’re still kicking, right?"
"Don’t mock me. I sent you to America to study. Instead, you learned attitude."
I push myself up. "I learned other things, too," I say.
"Yes. Women. I am under no illusion that you use your stature to your advantage. Your uncle was the same."
I don't argue with him. It grates me when he thinks so little of me, but arguing with him is pointless. He won't listen.
"You need to come back to Elanda and get involved as the prince of the kingdom. Our subjects look up to us. You haven’t come out in public here yet. The people need to know that they have a stable future."
"Do they really care that much?" I ask.
"They care more than you do, a balance that is already heartbreaking."
I rub my fingers over my forehead.
"I expect you to return immediately," my father says.
"I can’t."
"Why not?"
"I have a function. At the university." I'm lying like a child. I just don't want to go back to Elanda. I don't want to learn how to run the country. I don't want to get involved in parliament.
My father sighs. "You gave me a date when your course would finish. This was not accurate?"
"I’m not on the board that organizes the functions. I don’t know when they are until we get the invites."
More lies. Mixers and events are planned well in advance.
"When can we expect you to return, then?" my father asks. "Give me a date."
I don't want to give him a date. I don't want to go home. I want to switch off my phone and roll over for another hour’s sleep. I want to forget that Elanda exists. What would my life be like if I got a job with my MBA, right here, in Manhattan? What would my life be like if I could create my own destiny, make my own money? Live my own life?
"You must come home. This is not a request."
"It’s an order," I say with a sigh. "I know."
"Your mother misses you, too," my father adds.
Right. I had been taken to my parents one hour a day for viewing since I could remember. When I was older, I was homeschooled and sometimes my father would sit in the classes to ensure that the tutor was teaching me the right things. When I was fourteen, I was shipped off to study abroad, and I’ve been here ever since, studying as many broads as possible. The only time I go back home is for Christmas or national festivals.
That is the extent of the relationship with my parents.
Why do I have to care about a country when the country probably doesn't care about me? I'm just another face, another name. Why would I respect my parents when they don't invest time in me, only money?
"Why are you so against being king?" my father asks.
"Because I don’t want to be paraded around without a choice."
"Son, listen to me, now. This is your divine right. You have been born into a royal bloodline so you may lead Elanda into a bright and glorious future. It's a privilege, as much as it is a burden. You can’t refuse something that is yours by birth."
"What if I want to abdicate my throne?" I ask. "Do you know how many countries are democracies now? A hundred and twenty-three. Out of almost two hundred. Why are we still stuck in the past?"
My dad clears his throat. He's upset. He can be intimidating when he's upset, but I don't have to face him. Over the phone there is nothing he can do to me.
"Don’t you toy with me," he says. "I don’t have to argue with you to get you to do something. You are to come home immediately and take your place as the rightful future king. You'll reign as I have taught you, and you'll be happy with your fate."
I take a deep breath and keep everything I want to say to that inside. It isn't worth the fight.
"What if I don’t come back?" I ask. "What if I decide that it’s not what I’m interested in? What if I don’t want to be the prince anymore? I want to abdicate."
"That’s not an option."
I shake my head. "You can’t make me come back."
"You’re right," my father says and for a moment the fight leaves me. Is he agreeing?
"But I can freeze your accounts and remove all your privileges. I can make life very hard for you."
This is true. Dreaming about earning my own money one day is one thing, but losing it all, now? My apartment alone costs more than the average person’s salary.
He isn't going to let me get away with this. I don't have any choice. This is my life, and no matter what I do, I won't be able to escape it.
I take a deep breath.
"Give me thirty days," I say. "I want one month to say goodbye and finalize everything here."
"You’ll come back, then? After thirty days, without argument?"
"I will."
Thirty days isn't much time, but it's better than having to leave tomorrow.
"Thirty days, then," my father says. "One month, and then I’m sending your plane for you."
"Can’t I travel on a normal airline?"
"No."
He hangs up without another word. Good talking to you, too, Dad.
I have thirty days left where I can try to be normal. Thirty days where I can pretend I don't have a guillotine hanging over my head.
I need to make the most of it.
I stare at my cellphone. Nicole pops into my head. I look out of the window. It's a beautiful day. I go out of bed and pad into the kitchen on socked feet where the napkin she’s given me still sits on the counter. If I'm going to make the most of my last month, I have to start now.
I dial the number and wait for it to ring.
Nicole
"This place is really nice," I say when the seating hostess leads us to our table. Café Boulud is in the Upper East Side. It's run by a celebrity chef and classier than any place I’ve ever been before on my modest student budget. Thomas walks with the air of someone who belongs here. He’s given his reservation name with authority. He's at home in luxury, I realize.
He wears black slacks with a sharp crease down the middle of each leg, a crisp button-down shirt that looks debonair on him, and his hair is slicked back like he’s run his fingers through his wet hair and it froze in place.
I feel out of place in this upscale surrounding. I’ve put on a red, Lily Pulitzer style dress and black
pumps. I feel like I'm walking on stilts. I’ve tied my hair up and put on makeup, which I don't usually do. Despite having dressed up, I still feel like I don't belong here.
The dining room is beautiful. Crisp, clean décor makes it feel open and comfortable. A red carpet stretches from wall to wall, with dark brown wood finishes on the wall and mirrors to make the space look bigger. The white table clothes on the tables bring light back into the room with dark brown chairs with red cushions.
Thomas pulls a chair out for me, and I sit down. He pushes the chair in again and sits to my right at the four-seat table, rather than opposite me.
"I’m glad you haven’t been here before," he says. "I like it when it’s a new experience."
"It’s definitely a treat," I say.
I pick up the menu and read through the options. There are interesting choices and combinations I’ve never heard of.
"You look beautiful," Thomas says. When I glance up at him, his eyes are deep enough to drown in. A blush creeps up to my cheeks, and I smile, looking back at the menu.
"Do you drink wine?" he asks.
I shake my head. "Not usually. My experience is only with box wine, and it’s not my favorite."
He snorts. "Box wine … is just a box full of headache."
I chuckle. "You’re not wrong."
"In France, wine is a culture, not just something to drink. Buying a bottle is a ceremony, and they see tasting wine as an art."
"I didn’t know that," I say. Thomas studies the wine list.
"Wines taste different due to soil types, grape types, planting and wine-making. To be French is to have the knowledge of wine."
A waiter arrives at the table. Thomas smiles at him.
"Adam," he says as if he knows the waiter. He puts the emphasis on the second a. He speaks with an accent that I haven't noticed at Starbucks. He speaks with the words in his mouth as if he savors each of them before saying them out loud. "Please, bring us a cheese platter and a bottle of your finest Chianti."
Adam, the waiter, bows from the hips and hurries away.
"You don’t mind cheese as an appetizer?" he asks, as if my opinion is an afterthought. I shake my head.
"I’m at your mercy," I say.
He grins at me–a devilish grin. "Well, now," he says. "That’s what a man wants to hear."
I blush. I'm not sure why. Something about the way he looks at me makes me clench at my core. I fiddle with the fork on the table.
"You know," I say, trying to sound casual. "I don’t usually go out with someone so quickly. Especially when it’s a complete stranger. This is a first for me."
Thomas lifts his hand and moves slowly, as if he doesn't want to scare me off. He lightly traces the back of my hand with one finger. I shiver.
"The first time is always the best," he says in a low voice. It's like velvet caressing my skin.
I clear my throat, shaking my head, trying to get rid of the heat that's come with his touch.
"You speak with a slight accent," I say. I have to get the topic onto something safe. I'm not sure why it isn't safe right now, but I feel bare. "I can’t place it."
Thomas smiles and removes his hand. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. He looks around the restaurant. All the tables are filled, and a soft murmur provides the soundtrack for the evening, laced with soft music emanating from invisible speakers.
"I come from a small country perched on the border between France and Germany. It’s called Elanda."
"Oh, I’ve heard of it," I say.
He blinks at me. I can't tell what he's thinking.
"Are your parents here, too, or are you the only one?"
He shakes his head. "I’ve come here to study. My family is still in Elanda, waiting for me."
"Are you going back, soon?" I ask. I watch him lick his lips, his tongue darting out.
"My parents are hard to please," he says.
I chuckle. "Aren’t they all?"
He smiles at me, and he seems to relax a bit.
"So, you’re completely… what… Elanden? Is that your nationality?"
He's still smiling. He shakes his head. "We don’t label ourselves. We're a small country, but we see ourselves as the only country that matters."
"That’s a very absolute way of thinking," I say.
Thomas glances at me. Again, I can't read his expression. When I met him, he was charming and arrogant. Tonight, I can't place him at all.
"It’s open to interpretation," he says. "Sometimes it takes a little bit of distance to understand how something works, even if it’s been under your nose your whole life."
I nod. "Very philosophical."
He grins at me. "I don’t talk about home often. I prefer to be in the now."
He glances down at my hand on the table. I move it into my lap.
"Tell me about your life at boarding school, then," I say.
He chuckles. "So many questions."
I shrug. "To know, one must ask."
"You’re very intelligent, aren’t you?"
I blush. It's a question, but he says it as a statement. I’ve been called pretty or beautiful, and it flatters me. I’ve been called hot, and it's charming. But calling me intelligent is sure to win me over.
"I like to pursue knowledge," I say.
He nods. "And get to know people, I gather."
I nod, too. "What else is there if not for companionship?"
He flashes that same sly grin at me. "Oh, I can think of a few things."
I shudder. What's he doing to me? They're all just words. Words and bold looks. The way he looks at me makes me feel vulnerable and naked. I don't know how I feel about it. I like him. He's a pompous ass, but I like him.
"My life at boarding school was straight forward," he says.
"I’ve never been to boarding school," I say. "I grew up in Brooklyn. I don’t know what ‘straight forward’ is."
He nods, looking around the restaurant. "Well, I was shipped here to attend the best schools. My parents were far away. I lived a life that was independent from the start, and I made my way through school, learning what I had to learn and doing my own thing when I could."
I nod. "That sounds very brave."
"Sometimes, the only choice we have is to be brave."
This is true. I can't figure Thomas out. One moment, he's all confidence and charm, and I get the feeling he's only after one thing. The next, he's deep and personal, and he surprises me with things that I wouldn’t have thought to ask for myself.
"I’ve had more than enough of talking about me," Thomas says when the cheese platter and wine arrives. The waiter pours a small bit of wine into his glass. He swirls the glass the way you see them do in movies and lifts the glass to eye height. He tastes it, breathes in and looks thoughtful before he puts the glass down and nods at the waiter.
Adam pours more wine for Thomas, and he fills my glass halfway, too.
"That was intense," I say when Adam disappears.
"What?"
"I always thought wine was wine. You did the whole, tasting thing."
I place a cube of cheese in my mouth and chew.
Thomas chuckles. "Don’t tell them that if you ever get to France. You won’t be very popular." He reaches for the cheese as well. I sip the wine. It tastes amazing.
"Next time I go overseas, I’ll remember that," I say.
"Next time?" he asks. "You’ve been before?"
I shrug. "I traveled a little, yes. In the summer of my first year of college, I wanted to get away for a while. I never had a gap year between school and studying. I saved up all the money I could earn as a waitress and went to Germany for a week."
Thomas leans with his arms on the table. I notice his elbows are off the table. A sign of good breeding? Thomas is from a different class than I am. It shows in everything he does. He's refined, groomed, and trained in the art of being a gentleman. And yet, when he looks at me, there's nothing gentlemanly about it.
"Where wo
uld you like to go next?" he asks.
"Actually, Elanda sounds interesting."
I watch his face for reaction. He wears an expressionless mask.
"I wanted to go there when I was in Germany. I was close to the border, but I didn’t have the time."
Thomas nods. "There’s so much time left for you," he says. "You have your whole life ahead of you to do whatever you want and go wherever you want."
"You say it like you don’t have that luxury."
He smiles. "Oh, you know. Now that I’m finished with my studies, I feel like I’m tethered to the family business."
"It’s not what you want?"
He shrugs. "No child dreams of becoming a businessman. We all wanted to grow up to be heroes, right?"
I nod. It's a classic concept.
"You said you got your MBA. At Columbia." He nods at me. "What else would you have liked to do?"
He shrugs. "I don’t know. It’s a question that I don’t dare to ask about myself. There’s no fighting fate. The sun will rise, the sun will set, and I'll take over the family business."
I want to ask more, but he steers the conversation away from him. Again.
"What about you?" he asks. "Tell me why you want to be a psychologist."
"I told you. There are so many people out there who need help."
"There are other ways to help people," he says. "Like becoming a doctor, for instance."
I shake my head. "The medical field is well-developed. They know a lot about the human body, now. Enough to save lives by the thousands. The human mind, the psyche, the emotional setup? It isn’t nearly as concrete. It’s undiscovered territory. I want to find out what there is that we don’t know yet."
"You don’t take the easy road," he says. "I find that admirable."
I shrug. "It’s not that simple, but yes. I don’t like whatever comes easy. Every person is different. Every past is different. All interpretations are different. It’s a wonder any of us can co-exist at all."
Thomas nods. "And yet, some of us get along so well. You can find a soul mate in this wild world and be happy."
I swallow. I don't believe it's that easy. "Most people will agree with you," I say.
Thomas smiles. "But you don’t."