Red, White & Royal Blue(22)
“Wait,” she says, reaching for his phone again, “are you watching videos of Justin Trudeau speaking French again?”
“That’s not a thing I do!”
“That is a thing I have caught you doing at least twice since you met him at the state dinner last year, so yeah, it is,” she says. Alex flips her off. “Wait, oh my God, is it fan fiction about yourself? And you didn’t invite me? Who do they have you boning now? Did you read the one I sent you with Macron? I died.”
“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna call Taylor Swift and tell her you changed your mind and want to go to her Fourth of July party after all.”
“That is not a proportional response.”
Later that night, once he’s alone at his desk, he replies: was it a meeting about which of your cousins have to marry each other to take back casterly rock?
Ha. It was about royal finances. I’ll be hearing Philip’s voice saying the words “return on investment” in my nightmares for the rest of time.
Alex rolls his eyes and sends back, the harrowing struggle of managing the empire’s blood money.
Henry’s response comes a minute later.
That was actually the crux of the meeting—I’ve tried to refuse my share of the crown’s money. Dad left us each more than enough, and I’d rather cover my expenses with that than the spoils of, you know, centuries of genocide. Philip thinks I’m being ridiculous.
Alex scans the message twice to make sure he’s read it correctly.
i am low-key impressed.
He stares at the screen, at his own message, for a few seconds too long, suddenly afraid it was a stupid thing to say. He shakes his head, puts the phone down. Locks it. Changes his mind, picks it up again. Unlocks it. Sees the little typing bubble on Henry’s side of the conversation. Puts the phone down. Looks away. Looks back.
One does not foster a lifelong love of Star Wars without knowing an “empire” isn’t a good thing.
He would really appreciate it if Henry would stop proving him wrong.
* * *
HRH Prince Dickhead
Oct 30, 2019, 1:07 PM
i hate that tie
HRH Prince Dickhead
What tie?
the one in that instagram you just posted
HRH Prince Dickhead
What’s wrong with it? It’s only grey.
exactly. try patterns sometime, and stop frowning at your phone like i know you’re doing rn
HRH Prince Dickhead
Patterns are considered a “statement.” Royals aren’t supposed to make statements with what we wear.
do it for the gram
HRH Prince Dickhead
You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life.
thanks!
Nov 17, 2019, 11:04 AM
HRH Prince Dickhead
I’ve just received a 5-kilo parcel of Ellen Claremont campaign buttons with your face on them. Is this your idea of a prank?
just trying to brighten up that wardrobe, sunshine
HRH Prince Dickhead
I hope this gross miscarriage of campaign funds is worth it to you. My security thought it was a bomb. Shaan almost called in the sniffer dogs.
oh, definitely worth it. even more worth it now. tell shaan i say hi and i miss that sweet sweet ass xoxoxo
HRH Prince Dickhead
I will not.
FOUR
“It’s public knowledge. It’s not my problem you just found out,” his mother is saying, pacing double-time down a West Wing corridor.
“You mean to tell me,” Alex half shouts, jogging to keep up, “every Thanksgiving, those stupid turkeys have been staying in a luxury suite at the Willard on the taxpayers’ dime?”
“Yes, Alex, they do—”
“Gross government waste!”
“—and there are two forty-pound turkeys named Cornbread and Stuffing in a motorcade on Pennsylvania Avenue right now. There is no time to reallocate the turkeys.”
Without missing a beat, he blurts out, “Bring them to the house.”
“Where? Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass, son? Where, in our historically protected house, am I going to put a couple of turkeys until I pardon them tomorrow?”
“Put them in my room. I don’t care.”
She outright laughs. “No.”
“How is it different from a hotel room? Put the turkeys in my room, Mom.”
“I’m not putting the turkeys in your room.”
“Put the turkeys in my room.”
“No.”
“Put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room—”
That night, as Alex stares into the cold, pitiless eyes of a prehistoric beast of prey, he has a few regrets.
THEY KNOW, he texts Henry. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH.
Cornbread stares emptily back at him from inside a huge crate next to Alex’s couch. A farm vet comes by once every few hours to check on them. Alex keeps asking if she can detect a lust for blood.
From the en suite, Stuffing releases another ominous gobble.
Alex was going to get things accomplished tonight. He really was. Before he learned of exorbitant turkey expenditures from CNN, he was watching the highlights of last night’s Republican primary debate. He was going to finish an outline for an exam, then study the demographic engagement binder he convinced his mother to give him for the campaign job.