29. Hank
HANK
The past twenty-four hours have given me such whiplash, I should see a chiropractor.
My boyfriend? Not an accountant from Baltimore, but a prince from Ardenia.
My sexuality? Well, the entire freaking world has video proof that I’m into dudes now.
My privacy? Rapidly disappearing. I tried going to Sandwiches on Main for lunch but kept getting stared at. And not in a normal “what’s that smell?” kind of way. Some people were even filming me. I had to leave before I could take a bite. Now I get why famous people are so skinny.
My relationship? I have no idea. I thought a toll road was our only problem. Dating a prince seems as impossible as eating a sandwich in peace anymore.
Nick’s face was ashen when I dropped him off at Millie’s this morning. Millie, by the way, is not his cousin. I should’ve realized that considering she’s Asian, but I didn’t want to ask questions and come off as racist.
I told him to call me. I’d be around. That was several hours ago. Since then, not a peep.
We’d get through this…I think? Even though the details of his life were made up, the feelings between us were real. They had to be.
I spend my Saturday holed up in my house watching Christmas movies. Brody’s at school for the final rehearsals. I’m terrified the press is going to start stalking him, too.
While watching White Christmas, I get a hankering to text Nick about the glimpse of Bing Crosby in his tighty-whities, but I stop myself. He’s probably dealing with so much fallout from the video. He doesn’t want to hear my dumb ramblings. I wish there’s something I could do to help him.
A little before noon, I get a call from Griffin.
“Hey, how are you holding up?” he asks.
“It’s been a day. That’s for sure.”
“I’m sorry, man. If I hadn’t made us go to that bar crawl, then there wouldn’t be any video.”
“How could you have known that we’d accidentally blow his cover as a crown prince?” And if Nick and I hadn’t gone, then we wouldn’t have had that amazing night. Dancing, laughing, winning a trophy, calling each other boyfriends, making love in my bed. Good memories are worth the hangover.
“I didn’t mean to ruin a good thing you guys had going. I really liked seeing you together,” Griffin says.
“Me too.” At least I get to keep the trophy, currently residing on my fireplace mantel.
I’ll hold onto it like Old Rose did with the necklace in Titanic.
“I don’t think I can play tomorrow, Griffdog.
It’s going to create a scene. People were trying to record me eating a sandwich today. Tomorrow could be worse.”
“We can handle it,” he says. “Whatever it is, we got your back.”
I smile, grateful for friends that can always cheer me up, even if temporarily.
“Do you want to come over? I’m just hanging with the girls.”
“I don’t feel like leaving my couch.” I lean back into my mountain of pillows I’ve arranged under me.
“I get that,” he says with a deep laugh. “Well, relax, watch some of those dumb Christmas movies you love, and definitely stay off the internet.”
I sit up slightly. “Why? What are people saying?”
“Nothing,” he stammers. “Just dumb shit people post on the internet.”
“About me?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Now you have to tell me.” The more he dodges, the more curious I get. My experience with people talking smack about me is limited to the ice and the locker room.
“They’re—and this is so dumb—they’re calling you guys ‘the prince and the plumber.’ I told you. It’s stupid.”
I muster a polite laugh, only for the clever alliteration. “Thanks for the warning, Griffdog. I’m going to go back to watching my movie.”
“Which one are you watching?”
“White Christmas.”
“Is that the one where the guy wishes he was never born?”
I sigh. Some projects are too big to tackle.
I, of course, do not follow Griffin’s advice. I let the internet kick me down its rabbit hole, consuming articles and videos all about Nick and me. They follow the same pattern:
They show Nick the dashing prince—official royal photos, pictures of him at charity events, clips of him being escorted into fancy restaurants and clubs.
Then they show a picture of me—blurry Facebook photos, a video of me in a stained tux singing offkey at my cousin Louie’s wedding, my official business photo from my website of me leaning over a sink, my gut sticking out from under my T-shirt. (Why didn’t I go with another photo?)
The prince and the plumber, they call us. The headlines get progressively worse:
Crown Royal Seen Canoodling with Local Plumber
Is the Prince of Ardenia a Chubby Chaser?
Prince Nicholas Meets Prince Butt Crack
And then, because this isn’t bad enough, I do the one thing you’re never supposed to do online. I read the comments.
The prince had on some major beer goggles.
Pulling the most unattractive guy at the bar when you’re drunk. Royals, they’re just like us.
So the prince isn’t the only gay with a Shrek fetish. I feel seen.
Yikes. What a mismatch.
Men will literally move to a small town under a fake name, get drunk, and make out with a gross rando instead of going to therapy.
This is not the queer rep I signed on for.
Who knew the prince was this desperate?
Prince Nicholas, you can do better, dude.
I shove my phone under my couch cushions and try to focus on the movie. I fail miserably.
“Do not read anymore comments. Do not read anymore comments,” I tell myself.
The addictive pull of social media wins. I scroll through more comments, more TikToks and reels, most of them saying the same thing that’s been rolling around in the back of my head: What the hell is Prince Nicholas doing with this guy?
Royalty doesn’t fall for the fat best friend. The prince does not wind up with the plumber. Cathy was right. Every first date that rejected me was right. I’m comic relief, not someone who gets the guy.
I don’t know my way around a castle. I can’t speak on international politics. I’ve never eaten at a dinner where there’s been more than one fork. Nick and I couldn’t come from more different worlds. He would be embarrassed to have me on his arm.
A text from Nick comes through: Best if we give each other space for now. I don’t want this hurting you.
Ok, I write back.
I have to face the facts: I wasn’t good enough for Nick the accountant. And I’m definitely not good enough for a crown prince.
After falling asleep on my couch, the buzzing of my phone wakes me up sometime late at night.
Nick: What are you watching?
I look up. Kevin McAlister is saying a prayer over his macaroni and cheese.
Hank: Home Alone. The first one. A Christmas classic.
Nick: The one without sex workers
Nick: Can I watch with you?
I smile before I can stop myself. Then there’s a knock at the back kitchen door that startles me.
I creep into the kitchen, for a second wondering if I should grab a rolling pin just in case.
Nick peers through the window.
“Nick,” I say. Then correct myself. “I mean—Prince Nicholas—”
“Just Nick,” he says softly. “Tonight.”
He steps inside and kisses me before I can say another word, backing me against the fridge.
“I missed you, Hank,” he murmurs. “So much.”
The past twenty-four hours crash down all at once. We cling to each other, desperate, laughing breathlessly as his coat and my slippers get kicked aside. The distance, the stress, the constant watching—it all melts away when he touches me.
We tumble onto the couch, kissing like we’re trying to make up for lost time.
Being close to him feels right. Like the rest of the world fades into background noise.
“Hank…” He looks at me, scared and vulnerable. He studies my face, as if trying to catalogue it to memory.
Upstairs, we tumble onto my bed, grabbing at each other with desperate urgency.
Clothes come off. I lean over Nick’s trim frame, trying to remember every inch of him as if I’m seconds away from waking up from a dream.
My hands dance through his chest hair, over the peaks and valleys of his muscles, to the edge of his neck where his beard begins.
Every crease, every curve…I want to remember.
Soon, there will be an ocean and centuries of nobility between us.
“My beautiful Nick.” It comes out as a plea.
“My teddy bear Hank,” he says back, resigned. He pulls me down into a softer kiss, our tongues tumbling over each other as we gasp for air.
I lightly thrust against him, wanting us to be as close as physically possible. Our cocks rub together, heat building in my core.
I sink down and slide his throbbing cock into my mouth, savoring his salty taste. I push his legs open and play with his hole. He quivers under my touch, goosebumps forming on his pale thighs. My index finger presses into his warm opening. He tightens around me, pulling me in.
I dip in and out to loosen him up, then I coat my aching cock with lube.
I used to treat sex as something to get two people off (or more if that’s your thing).
But when it’s with the right person, it’s about connection.
It’s a way to share all of yourself, all of your deepest fears and secrets and hopes, with another person.
Moonlight pours in through a sliver of space in my curtains. It’s enough to watch Nick’s pupils blow wide open when I enter him. He licks his lips, their pink sheen glowing in the soft light.
Stay in this moment, I tell myself. Stay here. The impending loneliness of being without him begins to creep in, but I push it away.
Nick’s chest rises and falls with unsteady breath. He wraps his legs and arms around me and pulls me close. His deep, dark eyes bore into me. Titles and responsibilities slip away. The sound of my thighs slapping against his fill the room. He feels so damn good, his hole tight and inviting.
“I’m sorry, Hank.”
Our lips meet in a messy kiss amidst the rocking of our bodies, missing each other at first, then connecting like ships in a storm.
“I love you,” I whisper in his ear.
“I love you so much,” he whispers back, his voice cracking.
My thrusting gets faster, hungrier. Needier. He grips his cock, stuffed between our stomachs, and strokes himself furiously. I pound into his ass, and his legs tense around me. Our chests slicken with sweat. His nipples perk into determined points as I feel him clench, preparing for climax.
“Fuck me,” he cries out.
I slam into him so hard I’m afraid I’m going to hurt him, but he moans his approval, his voice echoing off the walls.
He digs his fingers in just above my love handles and fills the narrow space between us with his ropes of hot come.
I speed up, wanting to join him, my body shaking like a car going 100 miles per hour.
“Come inside me.”
He hisses in relief as I empty myself in his ass.
Afterward, we lie together, catching our breath.
“I wish it could always be like this,” I say.
“I know,” Nick answers quietly.
I fall asleep beside him, the rhythm of his breathing the last thing I cling to as I drift to sleep.
When I wake the next morning, he’s already gone.