Majesty (American Royals, #2)(51)
Queen Adelaide pursed her lips. When she finally spoke, her words were cold and without inflection. “I expected better of you, Sam. And you know who else did? Your father. He would have been appalled by your behavior last night.”
Sam stood up, scraping the chair so violently on the floor that it nearly tipped over. “Well then, sorry I’m such an epic failure.”
It was immature, but she couldn’t resist slamming the door behind her as she stormed out of her mom’s study. The hallway’s crystal light fixtures swayed in response, shards of light shuddering wildly over the walls.
How would her dad have reacted, if he were here right now?
Hey, kiddo. I love you, he would have murmured, the moment she walked into his office. Do you want to tell me what happened?
He would have let her explain, never interrupting or condescending. Even when Sam was young he’d always made time for her, listened to her childish concerns with utter seriousness. Then, instead of dictating terms, he would have asked, “How do you think we can fix it?” And they would have come up with a solution together.
It wasn’t fair of her mom to claim that he would’ve been ashamed of Sam—to use him as a weapon to win a fight.
But then, it really wasn’t fair that they had lost him at all.
If only Sam could go back in time, request a do-over, push some cosmic PLAY AGAIN button like in a video game. She would do everything differently. She wouldn’t act out to get attention, wouldn’t waste time on Teddy. Most of all, she would tell her dad how much she loved him.
Sam didn’t even bother alerting security to her departure. As she swept out the palace’s front gates, she heard the guards’ startled protests, their radio messages back toward headquarters about a princess on the loose. To his credit, her Revere Guard, Caleb, only asked once where they were going. When she didn’t answer, he just kept walking doggedly alongside her.
On the streets, a few tourists squealed at her sudden appearance, or turned to each other and whispered, “Look, there she is! Can you believe it, after last night?” They cried out her name, shoving their phones forward to snap photos of her. Sam flashed them a peace sign as she turned the corner onto Rotten Road—route du roi, it had been called in Queen Thérèse’s time, “the king’s route,” which had somehow devolved in English into rotten.
Past an enormous trash bin was a door that read THE MONMOUTH HOTEL: STAFF ENTRANCE.
The Washington twins had been coming to the Patriot—the cozy, unassuming taproom at the back of the boutique hotel—since they were sixteen: always walking in this way, through the back. They loved it here. The atmosphere was casual enough that no one ever bothered them, and if they drank too much they could, literally, stumble around the corner home. One time when she’d stayed out past curfew, Sam had tried to climb the palace’s outer wall to sneak back in. She’d ended up with bruises on her butt for weeks.
She cast a quick glance around the room, with its dark-paneled walls and scattered knickknacks: an old American flag behind glass; a set of beer caps arranged in the shape of the royal crest; a Revolutionary War sword, mounted firmly to the wall in case anyone tried, unadvisedly, to use it.
The bar was nearly empty right now, just a few hotel guests reading newspapers, which made sense given that it was barely noon. The brunch crowd were all in the glamorous dining room at the front of the restaurant—though Sam and Jeff had long ago convinced the bartender to let them order brunch back here, in the peace and quiet.
With uncharacteristic nervousness, Sam took a seat and pulled out her phone. Her screen was lit up with dozens of messages. She swiped past most of them, zeroing in on her thread with Marshall.
7:08 a.m.: Hey, are you okay?
An unfamiliar warmth blossomed in her chest. No one except Jeff and Nina ever checked in on her like this.
Sam knew it was her fault. She kept people at a distance, held them back with her breezy attitude and her attention-seeking clothes and her repeated insistence that she didn’t need any help, thank you very much. And then Marshall had come along, and had somehow seen her barricade for what it was—because he’d built one of his own, too.
Her breath oddly shaky, she tapped out a reply. I’m so sorry about everything.
His response was immediate. I’m the one who should apologize. I pushed you in the pool, after all.
I’m still sorry. People said some really ugly things about you in the comments. Sam hesitated, her fingers paused over the screen, then added, Have you talked to your family?
There was a long pause, as if Marshall was debating what to tell her. There are some protesters outside Rory’s apartment. But the police are already clearing them out, he added quickly. It’s nothing she hasn’t handled before.
It made Sam slightly nauseous that Marshall’s family took this kind of vitriol as a given. She wanted to scream at all those anonymous people, logging on to their computers and writing nasty comments simply because they liked being hateful.
Sam swiped at her phone to pull up a gossip site, and stared again at the photos—at how her tanned, freckled arms looked next to Marshall’s brown ones. Underneath that skin they were the same, a frame of bones supporting a tangle of nerves and muscles and a steadily beating heart. It seemed ridiculous that anyone should care what color wrapped around it all.
She wished she knew how to make things better. Except…maybe, in some small way, she and Marshall were doing just that.