The Royals Next Door

by Karina Halle

  Under the deck there’s something like a basement, which has a big freezer where my mom likes to stockpile chicken breasts “just in case,” as well as some gardening equipment, tools, and old paint cans, and of course a washer and dryer. It’s actually not as creepy as it sounds, and we’ve tried to dress it up a little with some paintings and rugs and a heater in the corner to keep things dry and toasty.

  But my focus isn’t on the décor. It’s on Harrison, who follows me down the path and into the room.

  I don’t know if he feels it or not, but the tension between us is high. I mean, it’s probably in my head, but since it’s been nearly a week since I saw him, and I last saw him under strange circumstances, things feel strained and raw and weird.

  But if he feels it, he doesn’t show it. In his professionalism, he strides toward the dryer and starts throwing the laundry in.

  “I’m going to go unload the groceries,” I tell him.

  “Need any help?” he asks, pausing.

  “No. Just do what you have to do here . . .”

  I leave the room and head back out onto the path and up toward the car, feeling uneasy. Not in a bad way, per se, but after everything, and especially after what Monica said, I feel like whatever strange and fleeting relationship we had before was . . . just that. Strange and fleeting. And that it won’t ever go beyond that.

  And that doesn’t stop me from being foolishly disappointed for the way my feelings went. I never believed I had a chance with Harrison, never really thought he would be interested in me, definitely didn’t think that something would or could happen between us even if he was. But I still had feelings all the same, and there’s really nothing I can do about them except suck it up and try to forget about it.

  It’s just hard when he lives next door. Even harder when he has to come by to do the laundry.

  I’m heading back for the third paper bag full of groceries when I see Harrison going to the trunk of the car and scooping it up in his arms.

  “I’ve got it,” I tell him.

  “Oof, it’s heavy,” he says, ignoring me and brushing past me to the house. “What did you buy?” He pauses by the front door and peers inside. “A million bags of flour?”

  “Shhh,” I tell him, trying to wrestle the bag away from him, but he’s not having it. “It’s a surprise for my mom. She’s . . . not doing too well.”

  Harrison’s face softens. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, but please, let me have this.” I hold my arms out for the bag. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if she sees you in the house.” Another thing to set her off.

  He nods, handing the bag to me, then anxiously rubs his fingers along his scruffy chin. “Yes, of course.”

  I take the bag and head inside, placing it on the counter.

  Then I head over to the door to close it, but Harrison is still there.

  “Can I . . . talk to you?” he asks. “Somewhere private?”

  I swallow. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it can’t be good.

  “Sure,” I tell him, trying to smile. “How about the dock? I mean, my dock. It’s half-sunken, but as long as no media are out and about, we should have it all to ourselves.”

  I close the door, and he follows me the other way around the house, past the garden (which I eye with disdain since the blackberries have returned), and down the rickety wooden steps that lead to the dock.

  Even though it’s the afternoon and it’s north facing, there’s still a bit of sunshine left. I would usually feel relaxed the moment I step here, but with Harrison with me, there’s no chance of that. I sit down on the more buoyant edge of the dock and stare out at the narrow isthmus, the fancy houses that line the shore on the other side.

  Harrison stands beside me for a moment, seemingly not sure what to do. Then he finally sits down on the dock beside me, crossing his long legs. Probably doesn’t want to get his suit dirty.

  “So . . . what’s up?” I ask him, trying to keep my tone light. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “I know,” he says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to come by earlier and talk to you, but . . .”

  I wait for him to finish. Ahead of us on the water a fish jumps.

  “I just wanted to apologize.”

  I turn my head and squint at him. “What for?”

  “For a couple of things. But what it really comes down to is that I’m sorry for being a wanker.”

  “You aren’t a wanker—”

  “No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “No, you’re wrong, Piper. I was a wanker. I got drunk and did things I shouldn’t have done. I acted like a bloody fool, and I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t embarrass me!” I exclaim. “Honestly, you didn’t.”

  “I did. If I hadn’t been . . . If I hadn’t lost my temper around that cockweasel, then I wouldn’t have made front-page-fucking-news. And you would have been spared.”

  “They didn’t name me, and anyway, I don’t care. I was there. I know what happened. You stuck up for me.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  Ouch. Now that’s a blow to the chest. “But . . . I’m glad you did. You don’t know what that meant to me.”

  “I acted like an idiot. Like I had no control. I just . . . lost it, at a time I shouldn’t have.”

  “But you defended me,” I press on. “You defended me against a man who destroyed me, who made me feel gaslit, who made me feel like I had no place here or anywhere. You stood up for me, and you’re you and I’m me and . . .”

  It meant more than you’ll ever know.

  He frowns, and I see my reflection in the aviators. “What do you mean, you’re you and I’m me?”

  I shrug. “You know. You’re . . .” I gesture to him and then wave at myself up and down. “And I’m . . .”

  “This guy did a real number on you, didn’t he? Gaslit is the right fucking term. You sound just like him.”

  I sigh. “I just mean, I’ve never had someone so . . . worldly and successful and smart and strong and respected go to bat for me. I’m used to having no one. To have it be you . . .”

  I trail off and look down at the water sloshing rhythmically against the dock. I’ll say too much if I don’t shut up now.

  “Then that isn’t right,” he says, his voice low, adjusting himself slightly to sit closer to me. “Because any man, any person worth their salt, would see how good you are. How sweet you are. How fun. You have a very pure, very big heart, Piper, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth your time. Sure, you run your mouth off a bit, but it keeps people on their toes. I know you keep me on my toes.”

  “I annoy you,” I tell him. “There’s a difference.”

  “You don’t annoy me,” he says. “You . . . transfix me.”

  Transfix? Does he really know the way to my heart? Is he purposely going the Mr. Rochester route?

  “Is it like staring at an eclipse?” I ask, half joking.

  “Something like that,” he says after a moment. “Look at me.”

  When Harrison tells you to look at him, you look at him.

  He puts his glasses up on the top of his head so I can see his gorgeous eyes squinting at me. This feels like something big here, like this means something. A man who keeps his control behind a barrier is now baring himself for me to see.

  Or maybe that’s what I want to see.

  “I think you’re . . .” He licks his lips, and I watch, entranced. “A rare and precious thing. And it pains me to know how easily you’ve been discarded in the past, that others haven’t treated you with the respect that you deserve. And that’s why I need to apologize to you, because the last thing I wanted was to disrespect you or cause trouble for you. I fear I did that by not only making a scene in public when I should have been on my best behavior, behavio
r that was always supposed to reflect on you, but I got drunk and made you take me to your room. You put me to bed when I was a wasted shitbag; you took care of me. Were at my side when I had a nightmare, of all things. You did all that despite the trouble I put you through, and . . . well, my apology won’t ever seem like enough.”

  I blink at him, still stuck on him calling me a rare and precious thing. I clutch that phrase to my heart.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, my throat feeling thick. “It’s really okay.”

  “And I avoided you all week because . . . I was too afraid to face you.”

  His eyes are downcast. Instinctively, I reach over and put my palm to his cheek, his skin hot from the sun, his stubble rough. “You’re facing me now. Please know that I always want you around, no matter what. And I accept your apology, even though I don’t think you needed to make it. I’m just so happy that you came with me. It meant a lot.”

  “I really fucked that up,” he says, his eyes lifting to mine, his face turning just slightly so he’s close to kissing the palm of my hand.

  Put your hand away. Stop touching him.

  Remember what Monica said.

  I relax my palm to let my hand fall, but he reaches out and envelops the back of my hand with his, pressing it against his cheek, holding it there. His eyes are searching mine, something very alive and anguished running through them. My palm tingles against his skin.

  He closes his eyes and then moves my hand over to his mouth and places a kiss in my palm. Warm, fiery shivers cascade through my entire body, a fizzy, weightless feeling in my core.

  Now I’m transfixed.

  I just know that those lips against my palm are turning me inside out, and if this man were to ever kiss me on my mouth, I might not survive it.

  He pulls my hand away from his mouth and lowers it, giving it a tight squeeze before letting go.

  “I should go check on the laundry,” he says, his gaze leaving mine and staring across the harbor.

  I’m certain that the laundry isn’t dry yet, but he obviously wants out of this situation. He gets to his feet and stares down at me. “Are you staying here?”

  I shake my head. It’s so nice on the dock, but I have groceries to put away.

  He puts his hand out and I put my hand in his, and he effortlessly lifts me to my feet.

  With the dock slanted and unsteady to begin with, I rock a little on my feet, and his other hand shoots around to the small of my back, holding me in place.

  Holding me against him.

  His other hand lets go of mine and then slides into my hair, fingers gently working in through my strands, cupping the back of my head.

  Friday night plays through my mind again, except this time we’re not in the dark of my bedroom in the middle of the night and he’s not disoriented and drunk. We’re on the dock, in the bright open sunshine, and judging by the searing clarity in his eyes, he’s sober as anything.

  “I don’t know what to do about you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting across my face, settling on my cheekbones, my nose, my mouth.

  I have a hard time swallowing. “What do you mean?” I whisper, afraid that if I talk anymore, any louder, that I’ll break this spell.

  He presses his lips together, as if to keep the words inside. He shakes his head slightly, his brow crinkled. “If I were a lesser man, I’d kiss you right now.”

  I blink at him, my lips burning at the suggestion, my stomach doing flips.

  My god.

  “If I were a lesser man, I’d gladly lose control,” he goes on, his voice low and rough and aching. “I would throw all caution to the wind, and I would give in and never look back.” He gives me a faint smile. “But I don’t want to be that man. That’s not who I am; that’s not who I’ve worked all my life to be. You deserve the best, Piper, but I can’t give you the best, can’t give you what you really need. It’s better if I stay away.”

  Wait. Wait, what?

  “Stay away?” I whisper, his fingers making a light fist in my hair, and oh god, it’s impossible to keep steady.

  “I like you a lot,” he says, closing his eyes, still pressing me against him. “I like you more than I can come to terms with right now. It’s . . . a foreign feeling. But it’s not one that I can afford to feel. Especially when it comes to you.”

  He leans in and kisses my cheek, slow and lingering, and then pulls back.

  Lets go of me.

  I am bereft without his touch.

  “What if it’s not up to you?” I say quickly as he turns around, feeling panic claw through me. “What if I feel something for you too? Doesn’t that make a difference? Don’t I make a difference?”

  He stops and glances at me over his shoulder. “It makes all the difference, Piper. And that’s the problem.”

  Then he walks over to the stairs, leaving me on the dock with my heart at my feet and an aching emptiness in my chest.

  Fifteen

  Harrison wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to stay away.

  It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve seen him.

  In that time, I’ve hung out on the boat with Monica twice (and it’s always James who fetches me), I’ve been to Victoria to see my therapist, I’ve gone into town nearly every day, just to be there and take up space and enjoy the summer (my therapist agrees that it’s something worth doing just to get more confidence).

  And my mother has come back around.

  At least, we’re on speaking terms again, and her mood is steadily improving each day. My therapist gave me some helpful reminders about how to deal with her, and those have been working so far. There’s a thin line between being supportive and being aggressive to my mother, and I know it’s a line I cross too often when I get impatient. Even if it comes from a good place, my mother doesn’t see it that way.

  I like that I feel closer to Monica, and she seems to want me around (though I remind myself it probably has something to do with my being the only friend she has here), and I’m grateful for that. It’s a slow-building friendship, but I’m in no hurry, and I often forget at times just who she is. We have a lot in common regarding our families, and even though I’ll never understand what it’s like to be a royal, let alone famous, I can still relate to her.

  All that is to say, I miss Harrison. I miss him showing up at my door. I miss having him around. My life is too simple and quiet and boring without him in it. Which seems ironic, considering his quiet demeanor. But he brings out a side of me that makes me feel more alive, and at the end of the day, isn’t that what everyone wants? To feel like they’re getting more out of the short lives we’ve been given? To feel like they’re participating in life instead of just being a bystander?

  All I know is, the feelings are still there, and even with the distance, I don’t think they’re going anywhere. Truthfully, I’ve never been with someone who made me feel good about myself.

  Not that I’m with him. Not that I was with him.

  But damn. The way he looked at me. The way he kissed my hand, my face. The words he said.

  That was something.

  That was everything.

  And I could tell that it was something to him too.

  Something that scared him.

  To say I haven’t been replaying that scene on the dock over the last two weeks would be a lie. It’s all I think about. The burning intensity in his eyes, the rough yearning in his voice, the way his large, strong hands felt around the small of my waist or cupped at the back of my head. His lips. Those damn beautiful lips that didn’t even touch mine and yet felt more erotic, more intimate, more meaningful, than any deep kiss.

  And that’s all you’ll get, I tell myself as I pull the Garbage Pail into my parking space. A non-kiss to fantasize about for the rest of your life.

  I sigh and look around, my heart always beating a little faster when I get hom
e, hoping for a glimpse of him. Obviously he’s never to be found.

  I get out of the car and smooth out my dress. Today I decided to go into town with a book and sit down on the patio at the café to read, sip iced coffee, nibble on a cinnamon bun, and take my sweet time enjoying the hot weather, all while I knew Amy was inside glaring at me through the windows. On the advice of my therapist to do things that make me feel confident, I put on one of my favorite summer dresses, a yellow-and-white gingham pattern with spaghetti straps and fitted at the bust, the kind of dress you can twirl in.

  I grab my straw purse and head inside the house. My mother is on the deck, snoozing in a deck chair, her chin tucked into her chest. Liza is splat on the ground at her feet, her belly rising with each breath. It rarely gets scorching hot on the island thanks to the constant ocean breezes, but today is one of those days when our lack of air conditioning really shows. I go around opening up all the windows to the house to get fresh air in, and by the time I’m done, beads of sweat are on my brow.

  I decide it’s probably a good time to escape the heat and do laundry. The basement is always cool no matter what. I grab my laundry basket from my bedroom, tossing my paperback on top of it, and then head downstairs and down the side of the house to the bottom back door. It already feels cooler here.

  I open the door and step inside, and just as I realize I must have left the light on at some point, I see Harrison standing by the dryer. I come to a dead stop, the laundry basket nearly falling from my hands.

  “What are you doing here?” I exclaim, sounding more accusatory than I mean to.

  Harrison’s eyes are wide, not covered by his aviators. He shifts from one foot to the other, seeming wary and unsure, two qualities I never see in him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “The dryer still isn’t fixed, so I came by and your mother was home. She said it was no problem if I used yours again.”

  I raise my laundry basket higher and walk across the concrete floor toward him, my flip-flops smacking noisily. I wish he didn’t look like he was caught red-handed.