The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  “Unfortunately when you’re me, you have to think of everything,” she says with a tired sigh as she sits across from me. She leans forward, her elbows on the table, and steeples her fingers under her chin, looking at me thoughtfully. “You’d think I would be used to it by now, but sometimes, whoooo boy . . . it’s like the rug is pulled right out from under me. Today is a good example of that. I had originally thought we could have a little girls’ night here on the dock, but once those boats started showing up . . .”

  I cringe. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  “It comes with the territory,” she says with a shrug, sitting back in her chair and resting her hands on her bump, which is looking more pronounced than ever.

  “But it’s my fault.”

  She frowns at me. “Come on. It’s not your fault. How is it your fault?”

  “I’m the one who invited Harrison.”

  “And I’m the one who made him go,” she says. “Besides, I’m not concerned about what happened. I heard Harrison’s side of the story, and I’m sure yours is the same . . . He said he was defending you.”

  I nod. “He was.”

  “From your ex too. I tell you, if I were there, it would have been ugly. I have a temper that comes out at the worst times. Or perhaps just the right times. But it’s all bad news when everyone is watching your every move.” She pauses and gives me a small smile. “I’m glad you had Harrison with you. Don’t think otherwise.”

  I take a sip of my wine. It smells of green apple and honey, and it’s so crisp and divine, I immediately relax. “I wouldn’t have gone without him. I don’t think I’ve been to the local bar since . . . well, a long time.”

  “Not your scene?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. I mean . . . sometimes I feel like I’m missing out. In fact, just being there made me feel a little more connected to where I live. I don’t necessarily like some aspects of the community, but I like feeling as if I’m part of something, and I guess, I don’t know, hiding here in the trees makes me realize that I’m hiding from a lot of things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Life?”

  “You’re a schoolteacher. That makes you a part of the community. You’re responsible for the well-being and teaching of the community’s children.”

  “I know. But it feels disconnected. It’s so much easier to bond with my students. Easier than making friends among the teachers. I’ve lived here for so many years, but I made the big mistake of getting involved with Joey, with my ex, right off the bat. Everything was about him, and whatever friendships I had were shallow as a result. By the time they could develop into anything really meaningful, we broke up and I was left at the wayside, an outcast. People made their decisions about me without even knowing me, and I knew I had too many hardships in my life that they wouldn’t be too understanding of. I wanted to protect myself, protect my mother.”

  “You know, you’re describing my own life,” Monica says. “Back when I was doing music, the press was different. I was just a Black singer to the media. No one cared enough to dig deep about my own family. Yes, my parents are very lovely people and they’re still together in Seattle. But my father cheated on my mother when she was young, and I have a half brother that a lot of people didn’t know about; my mom, like yours, has struggled with mental illness. It’s a story like so many, but people only cared about my singing and my body and my dancing. Shallow stuff. Then I met Eddie and . . . it all changed. Suddenly everything was on the table. Every bad thing I ever did, every ex I dated, everything I said when I was drunk. The tabloids found it and exploited it and did what they could to mount a campaign against me. We couldn’t hide our relationship for long; I was thrown right into that fire. Believe me, I know what it’s like to have shallow friendships, to feel like you don’t belong, to feel that you’ll never be accepted as you are. I know it because I’m living it too.”

  Okay, now I feel a little silly, because as bad as I think I have it, it’s nothing compared to what Monica has had to go through.

  “Then how do you do it?” I ask. “How do you get out there? If I were you, I’d be hiding all the time.”

  “What do you think I’m doing now?” she says through a dry laugh. “I’m hiding. We’re literally inside a boat because I wanted some time away from the house, the other place I’m hiding in, because the media is just outside there with their telephoto lenses. We came here to hide because I didn’t want to do it anymore. I know that this is the life I chose, that I chose Eddie and everything that came with him, and I have no regrets. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it or that I have to put up with it all the time. It doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t race and I don’t lose my breath every time I step out in public. I know I’m strong, but it’s impossible to be strong all the time, and as much as they said we were running away by coming to Canada, they were right!”

  “And yet they’re still here.”

  “I know all of this seems bad to you. I know that seeing those boats out there, or being accosted by the media outside your house, or being written about in your local paper, is aggravating and depressing. It is bad, and you don’t deserve any of it. You’re just an ordinary citizen. But believe me when I tell you, it can get worse. And no matter what happens here, it won’t ever be as bad as it was for me back in the UK.”

  “Do you think you’ll end up moving here forever?” I ask.

  She rubs her lips together in thought, folding her slender hands in her lap. “I don’t know. I just know that I want this time to be barefoot and pregnant. Time to be alone with Eddie. Time to figure stuff out. I’m sure I’ll be back in London for the birth—the Queen would disown Eddie if our child wasn’t born on British soil.”

  “What’s she like?” I can’t help myself.

  “The Queen? She’s . . . she’s okay. I admire her a lot, you know. She had to go through so much growing up and at such an early age. She’s always been kind to me, though there’s a lot of distance between her and her family. It’s nothing personal. Just the way you have to be when you’re a monarch.”

  “If Prince Daniel doesn’t have any children, does that mean Eddie will have to take up the throne? Is that something he even wants?”

  “Eddie would be amazing at it,” she says quietly. “And I would support him one hundred percent. That’s the deal I made when I fell in love. You can’t choose who you fall in love with, but you can choose to be with them, and that was my choice.”

  I mull that over as I have another sip of my wine, and she studies me carefully.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she says.

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you still single? What happened with your ex wasn’t recent.”

  I feel my cheeks flush. “Guys just don’t know what a catch I am.”

  “Oh, I’m not suggesting there’s something wrong with that,” she says quickly. “I was just curious. Please, I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  “I’m not offended. It’s true. It’s hard to get to know people if you’re hiding away most of the time. It’s not like I’m hitting on any single dads who come for parent-teacher interviews.” Though there was this one dad last year who was pretty damn cute. I didn’t do anything about it because of my own parent-teacher codes, and now I’m not even sure if he lives here anymore.

  “Besides,” I add, “I have the worst taste in men. I figure it’s just easier to be by myself.”

  “You know,” she says slowly, “there are photos of you on the internet.”

  My chin jerks back. “What?!”

  She nods. “Nothing bad. From Friday. I guess someone at that bar knew who the both of you were.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly, wondering where she’s going with this.

  “You looked really happy,” she says. “And so did Harrison.”

  “Well, Harrison
was drunk,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “I know. I think that’s good for him too, to let off some steam. But there’s a photo of the two of you, you’d swear you were on a date and enjoying it.”

  Uh-oh. My pulse starts to quicken. Is this the reason for the girls’ night?

  “It wasn’t a date,” I say as casually as possible.

  “I know it wasn’t. So does he.”

  “And I know it wasn’t,” I fill in. “You know I just wanted protection, a buffer.”

  “You wanted to upstage your ex in a way, I get it. And I’m glad you did it.”

  And yet I can tell she wants to say more. I want to say more too. To deny, to tell her again that there’s nothing going on, because there truly isn’t.

  “Look,” she says, pressing her fingers against the table. “I’m not going to tell you what to do or what not to do. You’re a grown woman, and Harrison is a grown man—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I tell her, holding my hand out in front of me, my palm out. “You’re so mistaken here. There’s nothing going on between us.”

  “He didn’t come home until very late.”

  “Well, did you ask him what happened? He didn’t want to go home, so I took him to my bed. I slept on the couch. That’s what happened.”

  “He’s skirted the question . . . as he often does when it’s anything personal.”

  “Nothing happened between us.” I’m practically pleading.

  She nods. “Good. I was worried for a moment there.”

  Wait. Wait, why was she worried?

  “Why would you be worried?”

  She gives me a wry smile. “Because I like you, Piper. And Harrison is like a brother to me. And knowing him, and knowing you, it would be a disaster if you were to get together.”

  A disaster? I mean, I never thought it would be a good idea, but disaster is a pretty strong word.

  “It would be bad for him and bad for you,” she goes on. “And perhaps bad for Eddie and me too. I just . . . look, it’s not really any of my business, but I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.”

  “Of course,” I tell her. The same page being it would be a disaster. Well, if I wasn’t on it before, I am now. No one likes to be told that.

  So much for my motherfucking feelings. And to think I thought he was going to kiss me. Thank god he didn’t.

  “Want another glass of wine?” Monica asks as she gets up, and it’s then that I notice I’ve finished mine. “The TV in here gets Netflix. We could watch something. Have you seen that new rom com with Keanu Reeves? You can never go wrong with Keanu, am I right?”

  I nod yes to the wine and yes to Keanu Reeves. The girls’ night is continuing.

  But inside I’m focusing on that very big and final no to Harrison and me.

  Fourteen

  It’s Wednesday, and I’m in hiding.

  My mother is still not talking to me, though she’s out of her room more often. As a result, I’ve started hanging out in my bedroom. Trying to avoid looking at the internet and social media, because I know people are talking about me in some way. The other night, after Monica told me she saw my picture, I spent hours going through every single article or post there was about me online.

  Yeah, my name is out there. Local schoolteacher Piper Evans. I’m pretty sure someone, aka Amy, tipped them all off to who I am. Luckily, none of the posts seem to focus on the fact that it looked like a date; they are more concerned with what happened next, when Harrison grabbed Joey’s thumb. A lot of the comments are about how Harrison is hotter than ever (I told you that he had a huge online following), and that the jerk Joey deserved it. Then again, a lot of people despise Monica and everyone associated with her, so all the comments from those people say that Harrison should be charged with assault and that everything Monica does is a disaster (Eddie’s name is rarely mentioned).

  Anyway, none of that was good for my mental health. I’m just glad I destroyed the newspaper before my mother could see it and that she’s not one for being on the internet. In her paranoid, vulnerable state, this would really set her back.

  Alas, I’m starting to realize that hiding out isn’t doing me any favors either. Part of me wants to hide out for the rest of the summer and not emerge again until the school year starts in September. The other part of me doesn’t want to be intimidated any longer. Why should my fear of what people will say about me control what I do with my life? Why give people that power over me? After all, they’re going to think what they want whether I’m inside the house or not.

  So I decide it’s a good day to go into town. I’m going to go grocery shopping, get a coffee, go have lunch alone at the Treehouse restaurant (I mean, I’m not dumb enough to go back to the Blowhole). I’m going to do the things that scare me because I don’t want to be afraid anymore. If someone recognizes me and takes my picture, I’ll deal with it. I don’t need Harrison to protect me (not that I’ve seen him since he was patrolling in that boat, and even then it was from a distance).

  It’s . . . not so bad.

  I take the Garbage Pail to the grocery store and do a big shop for the week. It’s packed, a lot of tourists and seniors, our two competing industries here, and people are nice and friendly. I know I should go to some of the other coffee shops in town, but the idea of a cinnamon bun is too enticing, and as much as it would suck to see Amy again, I know I can’t avoid her forever.

  As it goes, Amy is working.

  I get in line, and she doesn’t see me until I’m right there.

  I give her a sugary-sweet smile. “Hi, Amy. Cinnamon bun and a large lavender oat-milk latte, please.”

  She stares at me for a moment and then looks over my shoulder, as if expecting Harrison.

  I continue to smile, though it’s turning more wicked than sweet as she slowly puts in my order.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Amy says after she yells the order to the barista in the back.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “I thought you would be too embarrassed to show your face. Making the front page of the local paper, not a good look.”

  “Hmmm. I didn’t see it,” I lie as I swipe my debit card in the machine. “But I do love publicity. I’ll have to hunt down a copy somewhere and frame it.”

  She flinches. That throws her game off.

  “It’s nothing to be proud of,” she says under her breath, handing me my pastry, which is mashed inside the paper bag, icing spilling out and onto the counter.

  “Don’t worry,” I say to her quietly, wiping the counter off with a napkin and tossing it at her chest. “I’m sure one day someone will care about you enough to write you up in a newspaper. If not for being a bitch, maybe for being a shitty server and barista.”

  And then I walk over to the wall to wait for my coffee.

  She’s so stunned by what I just said that she stares at me for a few moments before the tourists waiting in front of her start waving impatiently in front of her face.

  Then I get my coffee, the barista handing it to me with a sly, cheeky smile, and I’m out of there.

  I grin and laugh to myself all the way to the harbor, where I find a bench under a cherry tree and enjoy the view, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping. I can’t believe I just told Amy off. That girl has had it a long time coming, but I really didn’t think I’d be the one to do it.

  I have to say, it felt good. She probably expected me to smile forever or hide forever, but I am tired of faking it, being nice, and trying to get people to like me. Fuck them if they don’t.

  I happily munch on my squished cinnamon bun, feeling like I’ve won something for once. Maybe my own respect for myself. Maybe I’ve owned the fear.

  So I sit there for a bit under the sunshine, the fresh sea breeze in my hair, watching the tourists walk to and fro, smiling and happy to be in such a beautiful place, and I
’m hit with the feeling that this beautiful place is my home and I’m not going to let anyone make me feel like I don’t belong here.

  When I’m done with the sticky pastry and on a sugar high, I decide I don’t even need lunch after all. I did what I needed to do. So I go peruse one of the local bookstores for any new romances, pick up a copy of an enemies-to-lovers one set on a cruise ship, then get in my car and head back to the house.

  I’m unpacking my groceries from the trunk when I hear a throat clear from behind me.

  I know it’s Harrison. Trying not to sneak up on me this time.

  I still don’t turn around.

  He clears his throat again for good measure.

  When I finally turn around, I do a double take. He’s carrying a loaded laundry basket in his arms. Dressed back in his usual, including his shades.

  “Uh,” I say, “that’s not for me, is it? Because while I like to think I’ve been a good neighbor, doing laundry is below my pay grade.”

  “The dryer is broken,” he explains. From the stiff tone of his voice, it sounds like this is the last place he wants to be, which makes me feel a little sad. “I was wondering if I could use yours. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “So they have you getting groceries and doing the laundry. Jack-of-all-trades strikes again.”

  “Do you think this makes me doubt my own masculinity?” he asks idly.

  No. Not even a little.

  He continues. “You wouldn’t expect Agatha to walk all the way over here, across your rough and weedy land, with a heavy basket of laundry in her hands, would you?”

  “ ‘Rough and weedy’? Those are ferns.”

  “Your driveway has potholes that nearly swallow your car every time you drive on it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. Sure. The laundry is below the deck. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  I walk past the car and down the side of the house, which, yes, is rough and weedy. There are some stone steps, but they are rather sporadic, and I could totally see Agatha losing her footing and having an accident here.