by Ella James
I can’t imagine a cosmic purpose behind our encounter at Dec’s party—other than my own healing. We barely talked, and yet we slept together and shared amazing sex. He was dominant but not dominating, gentle but not patronizing, kind but not phony. He left his guards by my door and went and did something no one else would have been able to do: he kicked Bryce’s ass.
Who would make Liam pay? The authorities in his country? Yeah, right.
The press has yet to get wind of the story, but in our circle, everybody knows Prince Liam did it.
As I walk through the Denver International Airport, clutching Grey’s cat carrier to my chest while I stride along one of those moving conveyer belts, I pass a man holding what I swear is a picture of Prince Liam. I turn slightly as his belt whisks him in the opposite direction, and I notice there’s some animal in the background. A horse? It must be a horse mag. The Isle of Gael is known for breeding horses.
I probably have almost all the popular horse magazines waiting for me in the mailbox at my place in Estes, but I stop at an airport bookstore anyway. Turns out, there’s a whole wall devoted to magazines. I find Liam’s gorgeous, bestubbled face smirking at me from beneath a cowboy hat on the cover of The Competitive Equestrian.
So yeah, I will have this at home. And I’m totally buying it here and now.
I find a cart for my luggage, grab my suitcases at baggage claim, strap Grey’s carrier to the top, and walk slowly to my car, smirking down at the magazine cover the whole way.
I might have joined Snapchat with a random, covert user name and followed him. And yeah, maybe I’m checking his Instagram three or four times a day. But so what? It’s not hurting anyone. It’s a crush, and it’s fun, and it feels good.
I deserve to feel good, don’t I?
Yes, I tell myself as I back my black 4Runner out of the parking lot. I totally do deserve to feel good.
I’m not being unreasonable or weird here. I don’t expect him to call me up or anything. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see the guy again. I’m just thankful he helped restore my lady parts to fighting form.
The drive to Estes Park takes about an hour and a half from DIA. I drive a good chunk of it on I-25, cutting northward in a straight line. I smirk at my magazine cover a time or two between reassuring Grey, who’s awakening from his kitty sedative. I spend the rest of my time listening to Taylor Swift. I was never really a fan before Southampton this year, when Charley of all people got me hooked. Bumping into Taylor a time or two at parties didn’t hurt.
I hang a left on Highway 66 and smile as I head into more rural parts. Wood-carved bears at roadside stands, marijuana shops, and these adorable little summer pie-and-ice cream booths greet me like old friends. The little town of Lyons is bustling with tourists sipping frozen coffees, listening to live music in the shadow of the Rockies, checking out Native American art. I crack my window and let my hair down because damnit, it feels good to be back.
It’s true I fled Georgia, fled the entire Southern U.S., when I came out here, but it’s also true that I’m built for a place like this. It’s rural like my native Georgia, but without the awful heat. It’s low key here without the judgment you’d get there. And it’s crunchy. Always bonus points for crunchy.
The road between Lyons and Estes is twisty and thick with tourist traffic. I curse the ones from far-flung states like Massachusetts and Texas.
“Just go, damnit!”
I pass a couple of them, gassing the 4Runner, loving the pull of gravity against the speed of the car, just barely keeping me in my lane as I fly. Riding horses is like this for me, too: reckless and freeing and just a little dangerous.
That’s another thing I love about both home and here: horses. And fields and lakes and forests. Nature.
The sun is setting as I climb the last hill before the Estes Park sign and the overlook where you can see the Rockies, and the valley below. God, this place is gorgeous. The sky is cloudless, dark indigo; the mountains have lost snow in the three weeks I’ve been gone. They look so green and lush. Kind of like the landscape on the Isle of Gael, which I’ve found is just northeast of Scotland.
I smirk again down at my magazine and keep on driving, through the adorable downtown, with its fresh-made-caramel-corn joint, organic restaurants, mom and pop breweries, jewelry stores, art galleries, and homemade pie places. I point myself toward the Rocky Mountain National Forest, passing the iconic Stanley Hotel and climbing a few more hills before I see the sign on my right for Flagstaff Ranch.
The ranch is bordered by a log-constructed fence, its slim paved road rolling under an archway with FLAGSTAFF RANCH in black iron script. I round a curve, driving into a grove of aspens, and pull over to my right to check my mail box, one of six. The blue one.
It’s a big box, which is good, because I’ve got a heap of mail.
I turn the music down and start the song “This Love” off TaySwift’s 1989 album as I pass what we Georgia girls would call the “big house” on my right. It’s a two-story ranch home belonging to Frank and Frieda Smith, a champion horse breeding team and good friends of my dad’s from college.
Maurice, one of the ranch hands, lives in the small cabin nearest to them. I pass the homes of Bucking Bill, the cook; Sheila Adamson, a real-life horse whisperer and part-time palm-reader; and Juan Fernandez, the cattle guru, before winding onward down the road, into the trees at the base of the foothill, to my own place: Flagstaff Inn, a Gold Rush-era mansion that was, in the late 1800s, a resort for people with pulmonary disease.
A rocky creek with ice-cold water flows behind the home. I can see birds flying from their perches in the trees as I park between two firs.
More recently, the house was a bed and breakfast, but Frank and Frieda closed it after Mom and Dad told them in spring ’15 that I wasn’t doing well (I had transferred from Rhodes to UGA to room with Amelia, and still couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed) and had mentioned a desire to work with horses.
I’d ridden at Flagstaff Ranch a few times during vacations and competed in horseback competitions since I was 8, so I think my family felt relieved when I mentioned it. Amelia and I left UGA at Spring Break and drove out here together, and she stayed an extra week with me, making sure I was okay before she headed back.
Since then, I’ve spent the better part of most days with Frank, Frieda, or both, learning the finer points of equine sexy times, foal delivery, and training. A little about racing, too. This summer, we have Dear Abby (Please Help) on the ranch. She was one of the runners up at Belmont in 2014.
I climb the porch steps slowly, dragging my rolling suitcases, nearly getting strangled by the Vuitton duffel bag slung over my arm and around my neck. I set Grey’s carrier down, then dump everything else onto the porch, unlock the door, and punch the passcode into the alarm system.
I step inside and inhale deeply. This house smells amazing, like the lavender I have in one of the front windows, old wood, suede, and fireplace. It’s the perfect “Western” retreat, and I feel fortunate I’m able to rent it for a while longer.
Some people might think it feels lonely, but to me it’s perfect. I put giant puzzles together at a table by the fireplace in the front parlor. I spend hours in the old-fashioned library, sipping whiskey sours from a crystal tumbler.
There’s a little nook under the stairs, with a velvet-covered bench and a bunch of pillows and a lantern-looking lamp on the wall, which is papered with a leaf pattern. I have no idea what it’s for exactly, but sometimes when I want to feel snug, I take a book in there and sit cross-legged on one of the pillows.
The kitchen is enormous and not updated—in the most charming of ways. Since bed and breakfast guests were never going to see it, it’s all chipped hardwood and big trough sinks. The refrigerator is pale aqua, manufactured in 1974, if the sticker inside the door can be believed.
I drag my luggage inside the foyer, then sit on the rug in the entry hall and free Grey from his carrier. He gives me a pissed-off look, then sca
mpers off.
“Welcome home to you, too.”
I spend the next few minutes wandering through the downstairs, touching little things I missed seeing and looking at the way the dimming sunlight falls through windows.
Home.
This feels like home for me right now.
I waltz into the bathroom off the cozy living room and smile at myself in the mirror. I look peaceful. Healthy. I feel good. It’s…weird. And awesome.
While I pee, I go to Snapchat and watch a video Prince Liam’s cousin shot on what appears to be a catamaran. I’m not looking when I reach for the toilet paper. My fingertips brush the cardboard roll a few times before I lower my phone and blink around.
“Hmm.” I lean forward, opening the cabinet right in front of me. There’s nothing in my freaking reach but a box of tampons.
Tampons…
My mind flashes to my suitcase as I packed last night, to the small, unopened box zipped into my underwear compartment.
In the mirror, I see my face twist.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Six
Lucy
Two lines.
Two motherfucking lines.
Two little pink lines on the stick.
Oh my God.
Just. Oh my God.
I’m PREGNANT!
I drop the stick on the ledge of the counter in my upstairs bathroom and back slowly away from the mirror. I put my hand up to my face, just to confirm that this is real life. My fingers shake against my cheek.
I walk numbly into my room and stand beside the bed. I don’t even fully realize I’ve called Am until the phone starts ringing in my ear.
“Hello lovely.”
“Amelia?” I sound breathy.
“Luce? What’s wrong?”
I start to laugh maniacally. “Amelia, oh my God. My fucking God.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not at all! I’m PREGNANT!”
“You’re—what?”
“Pregnant,” I wail. “With Prince Liam’s baby! Oh my God I’m—”
“Sit down. Lucy, are you sitting down?”
“No!” I wail.
“Well sit! Right now! Sit down, and tell me when you’ve done it.”
I climb onto the bed, tears of panic welling in my eyes. “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant, I’m motherfucking pregnant! Shit fuck! Fuck shit!”
“Let’s take some deep breaths. Are you sure?”
“Why do people always ask that?” My voice cracks. “Of course I’m sure!” Tears stream down my cheeks.
“There were two lines—”
“YES! I’m two weeks late. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Shit.”
“I’m having a royal child! A royal bastard. Oh God, Am, what if he steals it?”
“Steals it?”
“Yes! It’s a royal child! Blue blood! What if he kidnaps it to raise in the castle?”
Amelia laughs. “Lucy, calm down. Prince Liam didn’t even grow up in the castle. He went to K-12 in America.”
“Okay,” I whisper, wiping my eyes.
“I’m taking it you want to keep the baby.”
“Yes.” I swallow hard. “It’s mine.” I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes, but I can’t seem to let them out. They’re stuck. I spread my hand over my belly. “I’m pregnant. Amelia, I am motherfucking pregnant.”
“It sounds like you may be.”
Silence swims between us.
“I’ll come,” she says. “Now. I can get some time off if—”
“No! You don’t need to take off from the internship.” I blink around my bedroom, with its antique, oak furniture and faded flower wallpaper. I feel like I’m in a new place. On another planet.
“Oh my God Amelia, what about the paps? When they see my bump?”
“Wear baggy shirts.”
“Forever?”
“Really baggy. Jackets!”
“I’ll become a shut-in.”
“Grocery stores deliver. Even there I bet they do.”
“I need seclusion. I need cheese!”
“What?”
“Cheese. I need some fucking cheese.” With one last glance at the pee stick on the bedside table, I start downstairs. “Am… My legs are shaking.”
“Hold onto the rail! Is there a rail on your stairs? I don’t remember.”
“Yes.” I let another little half sob out.
“Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
I open the refrigerator, feeling bereft as I blink at the empty shelves. “Shit. I don’t have cheese. I haven’t been here. This one pack of cheese is moldy!”
“You do not need moldy cheese.”
“I have no groceries.” My voice cracks. “My baby will starve!”
“Oh God, Luce. Are you pretty sure it’s his?”
“Am I pretty sure? How many guys do you think I slept with in Southampton?”
“I didn’t know. Just checking.”
“Thanks. So much.”
“Aww, Luce. A baby,” she coos.
“Yes.” I flick on the kitchen light and open up a pantry door. “Do they like popcorn? Canned green beans? Canned black eyed peas?”
“No canned stuff. Because listeria.”
“Isn’t that a mouth wash?”
“No. Oh goodness, Luce. You need to see a doctor. Like—tomorrow.”
As it goes, I spend a week living what used to be my life, waking with the sunrise to care for the horses, working Dear Abby (Please Help) most days, even running and jumping her. The internet says unless your stomach is protruding beyond your hip bones, falling off a horse shouldn’t hurt the baby. Not unless you hit your head, and I’m wearing a helmet.
I tell myself I’m just giving the baby a little longer to develop. So when I go in to the doctor’s, I can hear a heartbeat and know the pregnancy is viable and stuff. I do have prenatal vitamins. I’ve taken them for years, for hair and nails.
At night, I binge-watch Netflix on my iPad and look at my stomach as it aches down in the lower part, sort of like the baby’s kicking at my insides. Is the baby big enough to hurt me? A quick Google search reveals that no, the baby isn’t big enough to kick or punch me quite yet. He or she is only blueberry sized.
I text Amelia. ‘The RBB is blueberry sized.’
I know it’s horrible: RBB stands for royal bastard baby. I swear, it’s meant with utmost affection.
Something about the baby’s new status as fruit-sized makes me sort of want to see a doctor. The baby has a heartbeat now—or should. Dr. Google tells me he or she is developing “ear buds,” whatever that means.
I need to see this baby. I want to hear its heartbeat.
The next morning, I call the nearest OB bright and early, while Grey looks on from his perch on the kitchen counter, smugly licking his paws. A kindly receptionist, whom I hope doesn’t know anyone in Hollywood or Georgia, tells me there’s been a cancelation: I can come at 1:30 this afternoon.
“Sure,” I say. I’m surprised at the tone of my own voice. I sound so nonchalant, like I’m just fine with all this.
I wear my hair up, with a ball-cap over it, and workout leggings with a long t-shirt and sneakers. My Raybans don’t come off until I’m safe inside the elevator. As I walk into the large waiting room, partitioned in half by a giant bookshelf, I struggle to check out the other women’s bellies while avoiding eye contact.
Way to be a total freak, Lucy.
I only debate using a fake name for a minute before starting all the paperwork. I scrawl “Lucille” as messily as possible, hoping whoever has to input it into the computer can read it, while anyone else who comes across it will be clueless.
The questions about STDs make my heart curl up in my throat. I wonder for the tenth time why I didn’t care enough to worry about a condom that night. But I know, if I’m honest. It’s because I was so lust-drunk. I hopped on his dick like a ride at the fair. I never thought twice.
I rub my freshly waxed brows, digging my fingertips into my forehead.
At least the sex was good.
A few minutes later, I’ve handed in my clipboard and the little “Implanon” pen when one of the doors beside the receptionist desk swings open, and a short nurse with spiky black and pink hair scans the waiting room.
“Lucille?”
Bless this woman for not saying “Rhodes” after. I lunge at her, smiling in lieu of using actual words—since mine are obviously Southern. Despite my family squawking about me losing my accent since I moved here, Coloradoans ask about it every flipping time.
The woman weighs me, takes my blood pressure, and listens to my heartbeat while I avoid breathing in her face and pray my deodorant is holding up. I hate being examined at close range. Was never comfortable with the makeup artists and the groomers on TRoC.
Julie—according to her nametag—hands me a small plastic cup and a tiny square which, after I’ve shut myself in the bathroom, I find is an alcohol-soaked “towelette.”
Oh God.
I spend a minute staring at my pee cup before sitting it on the little metal ledge cut into the wall. Then I take a picture of it.
I step back into the hallway and go to the room Julie told me would be mine. I don’t expect anyone for at least fifteen minutes, so I text Amelia the picture. I’m hoping for a Gross! Instead she replies BABY JUICE! and it’s my turn to text DISGUSTING!
As I watch the little bubble on my phone, showing me she’s typing, the door swings open and Julie re-appears, wearing a big smile and holding a small pink stick.
“Here it is!” She holds it out to me. “You’re pregnant.”
The stick shows two lines, plus a digital reading: PREGNANT.
“I thought you might want to keep it.” She’s still smiling like she won the lottery. My smile back is reflexive.
“Sure.”
I feel a few warm fuzzies as I slide the stick into my purse, despite it technically containing pee.