20. “Wildest Dreams” - Taylor Swift
“Wildest Dreams” - Taylor Swift
“The seafoam green is classic,” I say, holding the tea-length dress against myself while looking in the mirror.
“Yes, but the yellow is a total showstopper.” Maisie waves the bold pencil dress in front of her. “You’d look like a babe in it.”
“I’m not sure babe is the look I’m going for at the hospital opening.”
Now that I’m officially a working royal, I am bound by a calendar that puts the one my mother used to keep for me to shame.
I’m expected to attend various events on behalf of the Crown, sometimes with the whole royal family, other times on my own.
In the four weeks since the wedding, I’ve already become a patron of three different charities, lending my name, and thereby my support, to their causes.
Maisie estimates my schedule can accommodate roughly five hundred more.
There are also public events that require glad-handing and a smile that hurts my cheeks within two minutes of being locked into place.
You can go to the royal family’s website to find a full list of these engagements, filtered by family member, if you’re one of those people who likes to lurk at public events in the hope of meeting a royal.
It’s one of these I’m currently preparing for.
The entire royal family will be at this one. Apparently, the Wesbourne Cancer Institute is considered important enough to warrant an appearance from each member. God knows how many dollars it took to buy that level of importance.
Maisie shrugs, undeterred by my argument against the dress she’s chosen. “Let’s face it. The green is your safety net. It’s longer, sleeves to the elbows, and has a nice boatneck collar. But the yellow pushes you out of your box. Which we both know you’ve grown too comfortable inside.”
What part of this box does she think I’m comfortable in? I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.
“Come on. The color is eye-catching, and you’re one of, like, three women in the world who can pull off lemon yellow.
It’s knee length, which means it will show off your legs, which are looking great, by the way, thanks to that new trainer.
And the dipping bodice is still modest without being prudish.
” She blatantly ignores the irritation on my face.
“I’m more comfortable in the green,” I say.
She isn’t wrong. It is my safety net, but right now, safety is one thing I could use more of. The night Henry and I found the letters in Helena’s room was far too dangerous, and I’m doing my best to forget it ever happened.
“Because you’re scared to take a risk!”
“I’m not scared. The green just makes me feel more confident.” And I could use more confidence right now. Having one’s entire life upended would make anyone waver. Before I lost Beck, I would never have let my guard down around Henry.
Maisie sighs. “You wore it to the boat-christening ceremony. The press will rip you into juicy shreds for re-wearing it, and they’ll enjoy every minute of it.”
“You’re right. It’s inhumane of me not to have considered them before. Let’s replicate the entire outfit so they have enough gossip to fill two editions.” I pluck the dress off the hanger.
“If I turn gray by the time I’m thirty, I’m blaming—and charging—you,” she says, but obediently helps me into the seafoam-colored dress.
I haven’t seen Beck since that godforsaken day in Henry’s office, but he’s sure to have had his fill of me since then. I can’t go anywhere—in the city or online—without being greeted by my own face. Even the post-wedding kiss is still being splashed around like next season’s fashion trends.
If Beck didn’t hate me before, he definitely does now.
“Which shoes?” Maisie startles me out of my thoughts, dangling two pairs of heels in front of me. I point to the nude Gianvito Rossi pumps. She rolls her eyes and hands them over. “Again with the safe choice.” She slides the white slingbacks back onto the shelf.
“Sorry I’m such a bore. Maybe you should apply at a fashion magazine.”
She affects a horrified look. “You know I’d rather die than leave your side. Oh, by the way, I looked into that garden you asked about, the one that was looking a little shabby?”
Several weeks ago, I asked her to find out why the Sunken Garden wasn’t being taken care of, but I’d completely forgotten about it. “What did you find out?”
“It seems our good prince doesn’t want it touched.” She picks up the electronic tablet that goes everywhere with her, and which she lovingly refers to as her “backup brain.”
“Henry asked them to stop taking care of it?”
“That’s what I was told.”
This is an interesting development.
My phone pings from somewhere nearby. I glance around, hoping to get lucky and find it lying on my bed. It’s not.
“Closet, second shelf from the right,” Maisie says without looking up from the tablet.
She’s right as usual, and I unlock my screen, expecting to find a text from my mother reminding me to wear pantyhose. The woman will never forgive my visiting the Equestrian Foundation with—gasp!—bare legs. I do not expect to see a text from Beck.
Beck: Can I see you? Winchester Park, 11am.
A thousand thoughts swirl through my head. I reach out and snag one, and it’s this: How can seeing him do anything but further complicate this mess I’m in?
Because I am a glutton for punishment, because I still miss what we had so badly it’s a physical ache, and because what else can I possibly do, I text him back.
Me: I’ll be there. x
The Wesbourne Cancer Institute is world-renowned for its groundbreaking research and innovative treatments. A new wing was just added for their youngest patients: children.
We walk down the quiet halls on our private tour. The colorful artwork on the walls, the glassed-in indoor playgrounds, and the soft music being piped through the speakers are all designed to deceive you into thinking you are at a very large and squeaky-clean daycare.
But there is nothing to be done about the scent.
No amount of crayon drawings, nurses in Eeyore scrubs, or soft block towers can mask the fact that this is a hospital. And despite what everyone says about them being places of healing, hospitals are where people come to die.
Although I vaguely recall Maisie going over the itinerary for our visit in the car, I was so consumed by the idea of seeing Beck again that I wasn’t paying attention.
If I had been, there’s no way I would have agreed to step through those doors without putting up more of a fight.
As it is, I am now being herded down the corridors with our whole entourage, the chief medical officer pointing out the things we should be impressed by.
This is met with murmured approvals and quiet questions.
I don’t understand why we can’t stop in the rooms and meet some of the patients. What better way to bring cheer than a visit from the king himself? But we pass each door without slowing. Apparently, we are too busy or too important to be bothered by dying children.
One of the doors we pass is open, and I peek inside.
A tiny boy is lying in bed watching TV, a stuffed bear tucked under his arm.
I smile and give him a little wave. His face lights up in return.
I’m about to step into the room when my eyes are drawn to the large Cat in the Hat balloon bobbing above the bed. I freeze.
I hesitate just long enough for the nurse tending to the child to stick her head out and close the door with a gentle smile. I steel my jaw as the memory sweeps over me. I will not fall apart here. I can’t.
It taunts me behind my closed eyelids: a sad red balloon with Get well soon! scrawled across the foil, as though the forced cheerfulness could somehow convince a body to eradicate the sickness sucking the life from it, one long slurp at a time.
It was the first thing I saw when I walked into his hospital room. His cold, ashen face was the next.
I was too late. And the sadistic balloon mocked me for my absence.
My stomach heaves as we round another corner, and a nurse sweeps past us, pushing a triage cart followed by a gust of antiseptic air. I need to find a bathroom and then an exit.
“You okay?” Henry says softly, wrapping his fingers around my elbow.
I cannot let him know how much the gesture makes me want to crumble into his arms. I glance up at and give him my best to smile, although I can’t be sure it doesn’t look more like a grimace. “Fine. Why?”
“You’re in danger of snapping your bracelet.”
He’s right. I lower my eyes to my wrist and realize I’ve been twisting the thin metal band so hard it could have snapped. I let go. “It’s this place,” I say.
“I assumed.” He scans the hallway, then whispers something to one of the PPOs behind us. “Come with me.” He steers me to a bathroom.
After splashing cold water on my face, I attempt a deep breath, but quickly give up that idea. Even hospital bathrooms smell like death. My watch says it’s already 10:40—I’m supposed to meet Beck soon. My heart picks up speed like a car merging onto the highway.
I have to get out of here. The only problem will be sneaking past both Henry and the PPOs. I may be able to convince Henry to take me to the park, but there’s no way he’ll leave me there alone, even with Beck. Especially with Beck. Regardless, it’s my only option at the moment.
“I need some air,” I say after exiting the restroom. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Walk me over there?”
Fortunately, he agrees, and we excuse ourselves from the tour and step into the sunshine.
Winchester Park isn’t your average city park.
It’s more like a small national park plunked into the center of the city, skyscrapers growing around its perimeter like a hedge.
A rocky bluff overlooks the expanse of Wesbourne suburbia, and evergreen trees line the winding asphalt paths.
We see few people as we walk, the towering pines and rock boulders offering plenty of privacy.
My phone vibrates in my bag, and I pull it out.
Beck: I’m at the bluff.