His Royal Highness(63)

If I’d realized the whirlwind that was in store for us in the coming days, I likely would have stuck around in that room a little longer, barricaded the door, soaked in time with Derek while I still had the chance. With Cal on sick leave, Derek is now essentially running Fairytale Kingdom on his own. He’s busier than ever. I never see him. When I go to check on Cal, Derek’s not in the penthouse. When I walk through the Underground, I look for him incessantly (much to the annoyance of Carrie) but he’s nowhere in sight. I spot Heather every now and then, but even she maintains a near-sprint pace at all times, hand wrapped around her growing belly.

Ryan has officially moved back into the role of His Royal Highness. The first day I saw him, I prepared myself for the worst, thinking maybe he’d still be angry with me for the other night, but he smiled and shrugged. “Friends?”

We shook on it and that was that. He’s been in the parade with me as well and now, I get married to him instead of Derek. I try not to feel too sad about it. Ryan’s not so bad, really. We make it fun and silly. I lie and tell him he’s just supposed to kiss me on the cheek and Thomas never corrects us. After my hardcore make-out with Derek on the first day of the parade, he probably agrees that less is more.

We have a new addition during the meet-and-greets as well. A young man, dressed up as a footman in the castle, is now stationed behind me during all my sessions as Princess Elena. He’s a security guard. At 6’5’’, he’s massive, with scarred knuckles and shoulders so wide I once saw him turn sideways to fit through a doorway. I half-expect the children to run shrieking in fear when they see him, but there’s something inherently soft about him. It’s his gap-toothed smile, I think. A new routine develops pretty quickly. The children come to me first and take their picture, and then they run to him, begging him to flex his muscles. When he does, they shriek with amazed delight.

Two weeks pass like this. Autumn settles in and Halloween is only a few days away. My trip to NYC looms on the horizon and I try hard to come up with ways to get out of it. I even think of using Cal’s illness, but he chides me when I bring it up to him.

“You need to go. See them. Support Avery.”

Haven’t I supported Avery enough in my life?

Carrie and Thomas are attached at the hip. They don’t even attempt to hide their obsessive devotion to one another. They talk in baby voices and use names like “bubbie” and “sweetums”. Their hands are fused at all times. They only begrudgingly separate when they encounter some unmovable obstruction, like a concrete pillar, then they pass it and immediately link together again like two NASA-grade magnets. Thomas joins us for lunch every day. They share food. Once, he fed her his sandwich before I said, “No. That’s the line. You found it.”

After work, they’re always sucking faces. Not wanting to intrude or accidentally get my face sucked, I head back to my dorm and hang out with the girls. When they’re not ratting each other out about roommate grievances or pestering me about Derek updates, they make good company. Sometimes, I help them with their school assignments and give them pointers for how to study for a certain exam. After all, I took all the same courses not all that long ago. Occasionally, they invade my room and we binge-watch Friends. Most of them have never seen it. Which one is Phoebe, again? Dear God, is it really up to me to properly educate this nation’s youth?

I don’t think it was Derek’s intention to give me this much space after our chat in his room. It’s not as if we’re avoiding each other. We text whenever we can, we play phone tag, and we see each other in sporadic bursts.

One day, on my way to the parade warehouse, I see him with a group of suited men and women walking down Castle Drive. I stop, transfixed by the sight of him at the helm, speaking to the group while pointing out something on the horizon.

He glances in my direction as they pass and winks at me without breaking stride.

My legs turn into Jell-O.

The next day, he knocks on the door of my dorm at 6 AM.

I assume it’s one of the girls—in need of a tampon or a shoulder to complain on—and I politely tell them to scram before I tuck my head underneath my pillow.

“Whitney, open the door.”

When my sleepy brain connects the dots—that sounds like Derek, that IS Derek, Derek is OUTSIDE—I fling my pillow across the room and make a mad dash for the door. It’s whipped open, he’s tugged inside by the lapels of his suit jacket, and we kiss like we’re addicts breaking our sobriety streak. The sign proclaiming the days since our last hit reverts to zero.

“Come inside,” I plead, tugging him into my evil lair so I can devour him whole.

“I can’t,” he half-laughs, half-groans. “I have to get into the office. We have a board meeting and I need to prepare so I don’t look like an ass.”

Speaking of asses… My hands find his.

Later, when I’ve had coffee, I’ll blush thinking back on this encounter.

With one last soul-stealing kiss, he tells me to go back to sleep. He just wanted to say hi.

Impossible.

That night, I try to work up the courage to text him the truth. In the end, I wimp out.

Whitney: I miss you so much.





Whitney: I really want to see you for longer than these five-second stretches.