12. Nina
12
NINA
I wake up to a memories notification in my photos. It takes all my willpower not to throw my phone at the wall when a picture of James and me pops up.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow. One month. One month has passed of not waking up to a good morning text from him and two weeks since slinking onto his Instagram page. The mere thought of him ignites anger. I have nothing but animosity toward my ex-boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wonder what his life is like now and whether it looks better than mine.
A boastful, vain streak runs up my spine at the thought of him learning I’m the heir to a royal throne. His inflated sense of self-importance would implode.
I pull the blanket over my head as shame pools in my stomach. This is why we broke up. I wanted a supportive partner while he wanted an obedient one whose goals would mold into whatever suited his path best.
Of course, also because he can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Maia and I still don’t plan on spending time with Dad, but we settle for having breakfast with him in the garden. It’s filled with colorful flowers that I’m sure my sister could identify within seconds. Enough foliage and flora climb the trellises to block sight of the outside world. The only other people here are the few employees—no guests. Now I’m wondering if Beverly made it that way.
The awning above us provides enough shade for the morning heat. At home, I’m used to a bagel or bowl of cereal for breakfast. Here, Dora serves us yogurt, slices of baguettes, marmalade, fruit, and more. The nasal honks of mopeds remind us that we’re not in the countryside. At some point, we’ll venture deeper into the country, too.
Ruby and Maia do most of the talking this morning—about our museum visits and gelato-consuming the other day. No one loves ice cream like my little sister.
When I’m picking out my clothes for the day, Dad knocks on my door. I leave it open for him to follow me inside. I admit acting like he wasn’t there during breakfast was weird. Maia will reluctantly talk to him, but she said she won’t talk about the crown. Not with him.
It’s just Dad.
Things shouldn’t be awkward between us, but I’m finally angry enough to argue past his limits. My own mother became a ghost in more ways than one—and he’s to blame. I hope he’s not here to discuss her or the crown. It’s too soon.
“I… wanted to ask what you girls have planned for the day,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, unintentionally cold. He isn’t afraid to confront my disrespect and I don’t want to argue.
He doesn’t ease into the space; he stays tense, his hands knotted behind his back. “Your aunt Beverly would like you and Maia to join her at the palace for lunch so you can meet your cousins.”
My aunt Beverly . It still doesn’t feel right. “Okay. I’ll call her.”
Beverly has my number; she could’ve called herself, but Dad wants to test the water between us—and it’s boiling. Tense silence falls between us, so I refocus on picking different outfits for the day.
I sneak a glance at him, and a small twinge in my core feels bad for icing him out. He’s gone through a lot. His wife died. He was left to raise a five-year-old and a two-year-old while grieving. There’s no right way to mourn and he’s made a lot of mistakes. I’m trying to see his point of view, but almost twenty years have gone by and he’s still working for his own ease, not ours.
My sister and I just found out that our mom was more than a picture we sneaked looks at while he was working or passed out drunk on the couch. He had two decades of mourning someone he knew; we had less than a week of even knowing her name.
“What, uh, what have you and Maia been doing?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“Exploring.”
“What are you finding?”
I sigh. “A world I should’ve known about already.”
Dad wants to say more; I can tell. He takes the hint and lowers his chin. “I should go.”
Once he leaves, I settle for a white knitted dress with bold colors around the chest. The pattern forms a point to my throat before splitting to tie around my neck in a halter. I twist my gladiator sandals around my ankles but grab a pair of heels and peek my head out the door.
“Can we keep these in the car for later?” I ask Beck sweetly, considering that holding my shoes probably isn’t part of his job description.
Instead of speaking, he nods and takes the heels, barely sparing me a glance. Am I that easy to ignore?
“Thank you!” I chirp, poking his cheek before dashing off to Maia’s room. I don’t look behind me to see if I got a reaction. One day, I will; he doesn’t need to be so stoic all the time.
I find my sister in front of a big mirror, putting on an earring. “Hey,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me.
I flop on her bed and study her colorful harem paired with a crop top and chains decorating her stomach. Her long hair is in a bun atop her head. She fixes a stray curl before saying, “Our lovely auntie Beverly wants us to have lunch with her and our cousins.”
“I know; Dad told me.”
Her eyes widen. “You two talked?”
“Briefly,” I say with a shrug, propping up on my elbows across the comforter. “I could tell he wanted to keep talking, but I just get this—I don’t know. I can’t help feeling?—”
“Furious?”
I shake my head while searching for the right word. “Grief.”
My answer surprises both of us. Maia sits in front of me on the foot bench at the end of the bed. “For what—Mom?”
“Yes and no. I keep thinking about all the possibilities we could’ve had if Dad had at least taught us about the culture growing up. We could’ve spent summers visiting Beverly. Grew up learning the language.”
My sister tilts her head in consideration. “They wouldn’t be able to keep the crown thing a secret for very long then.”
I try to think of plans they could’ve come up with, but the what-ifs start to drive me crazy. I settle for shaking my head and saying, “It would’ve been better than what we had.”
“Yeah…” She bites her lip as she contemplates. “Can I tell you something?”
I crease my brow. That’s never been necessary to say; we share everything. “Of course.”
“I know we’ve been here for, like, four days, but… I love it here. Like—I really love it.”
A grin stretches across my face as I sit up. “Me, too!”
“Seriously?”
“Yes!”
We start squealing and flapping our hands together—and I suppose one of our squeals resembles a scream because we suddenly see both of our bodyguards in the doorway with menacing expressions.
“Is everything all right?” Mason asks.
“Oh my god, Mason !” Maia wails dramatically. “What if we were naked?”
I snort out a chuckle and slap my hand to my mouth. The two of them blanch and stammer.
“The door—,” Beck says.
“—it was open,” Mason finishes.
“I don’t care! We’re gossiping in here. Out.” Maia shoos them away, nearly shoving them out the door before slamming it shut. She whirls around with a toss of her head and rolls her eyes. She flops back onto the bench. “Anyway, it’s so vivid and alluring here. I feel like I’m in a daydream but at the same time I’m so grounded and spiritually connected to the life here.”
I let a full-bellied laugh break free. That’s such a Maia thing to say. “Well—let’s stop talking about it and go experience more of it.”
The streets are crowded beneath the relentless sun, so we find a shaded garden to stroll through. I notice there aren’t many parks or even patches of grass throughout the city. It’s a cobblestone jungle.
My entire world is heightened—the saturation and brightness turned up to its highest point. The sun blinds me enough that most of my memories from the day are blanketed in light. I hear every static from the radios inside the shops and gelaterias we frequent. I notice every half-smoked cigarette nestled between the centuries-old cobblestones. Maia and I want to coddle and care for every stray cat we come across and we’re grateful we don’t come across stray dogs. There isn’t an expense we wouldn’t cut to save it.
Panhandlers dot the most crowded areas, even using their children to beg for money. As I take in the surroundings, I look for a place in their society I could fit into. What can I offer them? Maldanians love their history and culture; their maroon and white flags hang everywhere.
And as much as I hate to consider it, I’d be stupid not to: racism. I can’t tell if the stares Maia and I get are because we’re Black or being followed by two men. Locals mistake me for Maldanian, which isn’t only the utmost compliment as a tourist, but it also tells me something about their culture and expectations. The island’s proximity to North Africa is a clear reason for much of the population—the city population, at least—having generally deeper undertones. I close my eyes. This isn’t school anymore. Stop overanalyzing.
Maia tugs on our interlocked arms. “What are you thinking about?”
Black and rusty lampposts line the curvy stone paths, leading us by outdoor cafes lining a town square. We walk around a fountain together, a few mopeds circling the roundabout. “I’m just thinking about what we could offer as royals. You hate performative charity as much as I do.”
She sighs with an exhausted look as though she’s been ruminating on the topic just as hard. “I was thinking we could change that—be different kinds of royals, but isn’t that what politicians say? They’ll be different, but once they get into the system, they wind up being the same because change is too hard.”
“And then we can’t forget it’ll be even harder because we’re Black.”
“That, too. But Maldana’s culture isn’t like other European countries.”
I glance behind me, my curls tickling my exposed back. I take advantage of wearing sunglasses by tracing my gaze down my bodyguard’s figure. He’s so… climbable . The regality of his posture only adds to his allure.
“Why don’t we ask actual Maldanians?” I suggest before beckoning them.
“Is Beck even from here? He has an American accent.”
“He was born here; his mom is American.” I don’t sugarcoat the question by the time they reach us. “Are Maldanians racist?”
Mason recoils in surprise; Beck doesn’t react. The two of them exchange glances.
“There are certainly some of us who are,” Mason admits.
“Well, of course,” Maia agrees, “but as a whole?”
“Compared to other EU countries, no,” Beck says. “But both of us are white. We cannot speak for Black Maldanians.”
I don’t give him too much credit for what should be a basic point of view, but I’ll be damned if I don’t find him hotter for it. Common sense is attractive, and that can be hard to come by in men.