The Prince and the Troll (Faraway, #1)(3)
“Ha ha!” He kept working his way through, letting the thorns catch in his sleeve. He’d intentionally worn his cheapest sweater.
“Even when you get past the hedge, you’re going to have to slosh down through mud.”
“It’s okay. I wore my worst clothes.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Ugh, sorry. I’m just—” He felt his foot land in the mud on the other side of the hedge. “Ha!” He pulled his other foot though the shrub. “Aha!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah! I’m good. I’m—” He was off the road. He couldn’t see it anymore. It was just on the other side of the hedge. He could go back. Maybe he should go back?
“You didn’t spill the coffee.”
He turned toward her voice. He could see her better now. Could see her person-like shape, leaning on a rock at the edge of the old riverbed.
He walked toward her. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said.
He was standing above her now. “I, um—”
She reached her hand-like thing toward him.
“Plain or vanilla?” he asked.
“Give me the one you’d want yourself,” she said.
He laughed and gave her the vanilla. “That’s very selfish of you.”
“Oh, please, you get Starbucks every day.”
I could bring you coffee every day, he almost said. (And the thing is, he really could. It wouldn’t take much. This hadn’t taken much.) (He didn’t say it.) “You could sit down,” she said.
He looked down at the mud.
“Go on, you’re already wearing your worst pants.”
“That’s true.”
He sat down carefully, a few feet away from her, away from the center of the riverbed, where the mud was dark and thick. She wiped some sludge away from her lips to sip her coffee. She had lips.
He’d hoped the mud was just good, clean mud. But the smell was terrible now that he was sitting in it.
“The river smelled better,” she said. He must have been making a face.
“No,” he said, “it’s fine.” He sort of remembered the river. They’d needed it for the road. Whatever the road needed, they took.
She took another sip of the coffee. There was whipped cream on her lip. And mud on the lid. “That’s really lovely,” she said.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said.
She took another drink. “It’s seriously good.”
“I know.”
“It’s amazing that you can have it every day.”
“Some people say it’s a waste of money,” he said. “But I always feel like it’s worth it. Small, good things are worth it.”
“Totally,” she said. “Treat yourself.” She looked up at him. The mud was sliding down her shoulders, clinging to her long hair. (Hair, too.) “Thank you,” she said, looking down at her coffee, “Adam.”
His stomach pitched. His face fell. “How . . . how do you know my name?”
She smiled. “It was written on the cup.”
“I . . . That’s not . . . I wasn’t supposed to tell you my name.”
“No,” she said, “it’s fine. You’re thinking of fairies.”
“And dwarves,” he said.
“Right, dwarves.”
“And elves.”
“But not bridge trolls,” she said. “Really, Adam, I’m, like, the only creature you’re safe giving your name to.”
He laughed. He was embarrassed. And relieved. (Though not completely.) “What about you?”
“I told you, I can’t hurt you.”
“What’s your name, I mean.”
“I can’t tell you that,” she said between sips. “Everyone knows you can’t trust princes.”
“I’m not a prince.”
He may as well be.
“Those aren’t your worst pants,” she said, tilting her head to the side to examine him.
“My worst pants are in the dryer,” he replied. “Vanilla or Cinnamon Dolce?”
“Which one do you like best?”
He handed her the Cinnamon Dolce. “I can’t stay too long, I’m running late.”
“What do you do up there?” she asked.
“I already told you,” he said.
“Not really . . .”
“What do you do down here?”
She shrugged, settling back into the mud with her latte. “Nothing useful.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “Sometimes you throw phones into the air.”
She tilted her head. “You think I’m at my most useful when I’m being useful to you?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t know what to think.”
He didn’t.
“Tell me about the road,” she said one day. It was a beautiful February day. Sunny. Every day was sunny. Though some people said it would have to rain again, eventually.
“I love the road,” he said. “Everyone does.”
“Is it very smooth?”
“So smooth.”