28. “Tattoo” - Jordan Sparks #2
Trivia Night is held in a room that looks much the same as the one we left but is occupied by a louder, more boisterous crowd.
They’re laughing and tossing back pints of ale.
Fried fish, cigarette smoke, and malt all clamor for position as the dominant scent.
I feel like a peacock in the desert in my fuchsia blazer.
Amber sets our plates on one of the small round tables dotting the space, which has been divided in half.
“You guys take a seat while I get this lot sorted.” Her sharp whistle brings the volume in the room down to a hum.
“Listen up! It’s time to start. Each team will have sixty seconds to come up with their answer.
Anyone on the team is eligible to answer, but only the first response will be accepted, so use your bloody noggins and work together.
Clive will ask the questions for my team, and I’ll ask them for his. Any questions?”
I have roughly twenty, and my hand nearly rises out of habit, but there’s no need to attract the attention of the entire crowd. I’ll just have to figure it out as we go along.
“What’s the theme, Amber?” someone calls from the back.
“Wesbourne history,” she replies, throwing a wink at me. At this point, my face is a fire hazard.
I was expecting your run-of-the-mill primary school questions like “Who was the first king of Wesbourne?” and “In what year did Wesbourne gain independence?” But there’s nothing ordinary about these ones.
Our team’s first question is “How did the crispy come to be Wesbourne’s national dish?
” I’m positive we won’t get it, until a girl with a tangled mass of red hair says a pub owner was closing for the day when a nobleman came in and demanded a meal.
Scraping together the only ingredients he had left in the kitchen, he made him a sandwich featuring pan-fried fish, cheese, and jam. The rest is history.
We get the point, and the next five minutes are spent in raucous discussion about the official ingredients for a crispy—red onion slices, shredded lettuce, sliced gherkins, a dash of celery salt, a sweet-spicy sauce, and a brioche bun—until Amber stands to read the question for the other team.
They volley back and forth between the teams, and I can’t believe how many nuanced details these people know about our country’s history. And not once have they been awkward about having their future king and queen sitting at a greasy pub table with them.
“Drink up,” Henry says, pushing his ale toward me. Everyone is facing the center of the room, where Clive and Amber are asking the questions. I’m sitting in front of Henry, ever cognizant of his knees occasionally brushing my back. “It’ll help you relax.”
He’s in his element here: the jostling, the noise, the drinks. I would much prefer to blend into the smudgy background. But I do as he says and take another drink.
Amber appears before me. “Fill in for me? I’ve gotta make rounds out front.” I search for the words to turn her down, but she’s already disappeared.
“Come on, C. You got this.” Henry squeezes my shoulders.
I walk to the center of the room on what feels like sea legs. I can handle eyes on me, but these ones are different. We come from different planets. I don’t make a habit of frequenting pubs, drinking ale, and certainly not participating in trivia nights.
“Give ’em something hard, Your Royal Highness!” someone calls out.
It’s the first time anyone has addressed me as such tonight, and the title throws me. It seems as out of place in the room as my blazer. I meet Henry’s eyes.
He grins and nods his encouragement. “Don’t go easy on them, C!”
Resolve solidifies in my stomach. I walk back to our table and chug the rest of his refilled glass of ale, to much whooping from the crowd.
Then I shrug out of my jacket and toss it to Henry.
This causes even more cheering. I take my place in the center of the room, wearing only my white tank and blue jeans. I look just like one of them now.
It takes me a few moments to get my bearings, then I address the team across the room. “Where was Queen Helena originally from before she married King William I?”
As they huddle together to discuss their answer, I turn around to see our team’s reaction. I’m greeted with grins, thumbs-up signs, and a wink from Henry.
Clive’s team guesses France to the amusement of ours. “It’s Ireland, you dumbasses!” someone yells. “Don’t you read Celia’s blog?”
The questions continue, and the more I let myself relax, the more fun I have.
By the time Amber comes back, I’ve been unofficially elected to replace her as team captain.
We win and are swiftly accused of cheating by the other side, but they must not be too sore, because Henry and I are bombarded with handshakes and good-natured back slaps by the time it’s over.
I was wrong before. Wesbourne is so much more than a country, so much more than the political climate or the brash opinions shared in the news. This is the heart of Wesbourne. We’re all made of good and bad, the beautiful and the ugly.
“This was the best trivia night we’ve ever had,” Amber says as Henry pulls out his wallet to pay for our meal.
I don’t hear the rest of their conversation, because the sight of that palm-sized fold of leather has snatched the breath from my lungs.
I can still smell the shop—that earthy, woodsy scent, broken by the occasional whiff of tobacco.
The proprietor glaring at me over the rim of his glasses.
Pulling out three large, crisp bills to appease him.
Watching the engraving machine burn Henry’s name into the bottom right corner.
The feel of the soft, supple material in my hands. The confidence that he would love it.
It was the last gift I ever bought him.
Fortunately, the rain is nothing more than a slight mist by the time we get outside, but the car seats are cold to the touch.
“You came alive in there,” Henry says, cranking up the heat.
“It was just the ale.” I try to sweep up the shards of my heart, but they’re scattered everywhere, thanks to that stupid bloody wallet.
“You’re a natural with people, C. They adore you.”
“Not as much as they adore you,” I point out.
“Adoration isn’t everything.”
“Maybe not, but they’d all still pick you over me if they could.”
“Then they’d be making the wrong choice. You said yourself I’m not good for much besides parties and women.”
Did I say that? “Henry, I—” My own pain is still raw and oozing, but I can’t ignore his. “I’m sorry if I made you feel worthless. That was never my intention.”
“Don’t worry.” He sticks a piece of spearmint gum in his mouth. “I have really thick skin.”
My lips part, and a sharp, ugly mass rises in my chest. “Please don’t say that,” I whisper.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it.” He brushes his fingers against my cheek. His touch tears through my body like a freight train, igniting all of the desires I’ve been forcing down. “You’re the only one who has ever believed in me. That means the bloody world to me.”
I don’t tell him it’s not true, that plenty of people would sacrifice everything for him. Despite my determination to rip him from my heart, I soak up his words like dry ground soaks up rain.
“I’ve seen the way you are with people, with Mrs. Schumann. There is good inside you, even if you try to hide it,” I say.
He turns the key in the ignition. “Sometimes you have to hide who you are to get what you want.” Pulling out of the car park, he steers us into the dark night.
“Is that why you made me fall in love with you? So you could throw it in my face?” The words come out wobbly.
When Henry speaks again, his voice is tight. “Is that actually what you think? That I intended for you to fall in love with me?”
My fingers twist and untwist in my lap. I can’t bear to look at him. “Why wouldn’t I think that, after everything?”
“I would never wish that upon anyone.”
Cold air rushes into my open mouth with each breath I take, but I can’t make the proper nerves work to shut it. “Do you actually think that little of yourself? Or are you scared of what would happen if you let someone love you?”
“I’m terrified, C. Fucking terrified.”