“Yeah, everything's fine, Marnye-bear. There's nothing for you to worry about; I just want you to enjoy your senior year.” He starts toward the house again, but my nerves are on high-alert. I feel like there's something more he's not telling me.
I watch him go, greeting Lizzie and Miranda as he steps into the house. He mostly ignores Zack and Creed, but that’s no surprise there. He hasn’t forgiven them yet, and I can’t blame him. I’m more likely to forgive something done to me versus something done to a person I love.
“He hates them, doesn’t he?” I ask Wind, glancing his direction as he follows my dad’s retreat with dark shadows dancing behind his hazel eyes. He still seems distracted and tired to me; it's making me nervous.
The prince glances my way again, blinking those fears and doubts from his gaze and smiling.
“Maybe. That's why you should dump the rest of these assholes, marry me, and ride off into the sunset in your rose-gold Maserati.” Windsor leans over and presses a light kiss to my cheek, just the most fleeting pressure of lips against skin that leaves me lightheaded and dizzy.
I glance his way, but I still can't decide if he's serious or not.
“College first, Windy,” I tell him, and he gives me this naughty, sexy little grin. We haven't talked much about college, me and him. Other than the fact that he said he doesn't particularly care if he goes or not, I don't know anything about his future plans. He's got enough money to blow it on whatever he wants and live comfortably for the rest of his life.
“College first then princessdom,” he says, stepping toward me and curling his fingers through mine. For a moment there, I find myself short of breath, staring back at the handsome prince and wondering what on earth I did to make him like me so much. Part of me still wonders if he's up to something.
I decide to ask him the same question that Creed asked me.
“Why?” I whisper, my voice barely audible, the sound stolen away by the gentle breeze and the tinkle of wind chimes.
“Why, what?” the prince asks, stepping so close that I can see flecks of gold and blue and green in his irises. His red-orange hair is just slightly curled on the top, and it falls gently over his forehead until he lets go of one of my hands and pushes it up. It stays up, too, like it prefers to be there.
“Why do you like me?” I ask, genuinely curious. I'm not fishing for compliments or looking for validation, I just want to know.
Windsor cocks a red brow at me.
“Mm, interesting question,” he says, looking up at the sky for a moment. When he glances back down at me, there's a much softer expression on his face that makes me shiver. “Now? Or when I first saw you? Those, Milady, are two different answers.”
“Now,” I say firmly, exhaling and enjoying the warmth of his hand pressed up against mine. Wind nods, like he expected as much.
“Now, it’s because you’re a person who isn’t swayed by the easy things in life. You demand heart and sacrifice, kindness, generosity. Those sorts of acts aren’t easy. I admire you in a way I’ve never admired anyone else.” He pauses and reaches up to touch the side of my face. “There’s a purity in you that very well might cancel out the darkness in me. Marnye, I’m not ashamed to admit it: I want you, and I’m willing to fight for the privilege of calling you mine.”“Do you think we could talk about something?” I ask Dad a few weeks later, sitting across from him at the Railroad Station. He's barely touched his peanut butter and syrup soaked waffles and seems a million miles away.
He blinks like he's coming to and turns to look at me, putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. I exhale and curl my fingers around my fork. The smell of fresh coffee and maple syrup calms my nerves, but this is still a hard question to ask.
“Are you still …” Ugh, this is going to be harder than I thought, isn't it?
“Am I still what?” he asks, setting his fork down and picking up his coffee. The plastic tablecloth is sticky, the place crowded, but it's the soft murmur of voices and the clink of cutlery that makes me feel at home. Dad and I have been eating here for years.
Going to Bornstead … I'll be a million miles away. Okay, so I'm exaggerating: it's more like a twelve hundred mile drive. Twenty hours. Well, or a three hour flight from the San Jose airport.
“Are you still seeing Jennifer?” I ask, looking down at the streaks of yellow egg on my plate instead of at Dad's face. He pauses for a minute, but I guess he decides the question's fair enough and answers.
