February
“KYRA?” SHELBY KNOCKED ON MY bedroom door and leaned her head inside. “I’m heading into town to pick up some milk and bread. We’re supposed to get fourteen inches of snow tonight. Do you need anything while I’m out?”
I glanced up at her from my computer, frowning as my concentration broke. “Um . . . no. Thanks. I’m good.”
“Okay.” She lingered, her expression sober. “I thought I’d get us a six-pack and a couple of bottles of wine, too. Just in case we get snowed in, we might as well have some provisions, right?”
“Uh huh. Sure. Sounds good.” I scrolled back to review what I’d just written, making sure I was hitting the points that I needed to cover. Thesis writing wasn’t something I enjoyed. I wasn’t sure anyone did.
“Want me to stop by the library and see if there’s anything you might want to read? I mean, you know, in case we lose power and can’t watch movies or work on the computer.” Shelby leaned against the doorjamb, watching me.
I drew in a slow, calming breath. I knew my friend meant well. She was worried about me—hell, she’d been worried about me for three months. She wasn’t the only one, either. But the truth was that there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do, and all I really wanted was for them to leave me alone.
“If it makes you happy, Shel, sure. Stop at the library. But I doubt we’re going to lose power. And my priority has got to be this paper. I want it done so that Ed and I can review it together in a couple of weeks. It has to be ready to submit to both the college and to Honey Bee’s advisory board, too.”
“I know all this, Kyra. But you’re burying yourself in it.” She raised one eyebrow, daring me to argue with her.
“Yep, I am.” I wasn’t going to fight what was clearly the truth.
“You’re using it as an excuse to hide.”
I snorted. “Hiding is one thing I haven’t had to do in a while, Shel. If there’s been one improvement in my life since . . . November, then that’s it. You’ve got to admit, it’s nice that we don’t have to dodge anyone when we leave our house anymore.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” She hesitated. “If I thought you were coping with this, I wouldn’t push you. I’d just let you deal with it. But since you got home from England last fall, you’ve just acted like nothing happened. Like your entire time with Nicky was something you want to forget.”
“Well, duh.” I rolled my eyes. “Who wouldn’t want to forget it? It was an unholy mess. It was a momentary insanity. Forgive me that I don’t want to wallow in the memories and deconstruct the whole thing.”
“But it’s not healthy. It’s downright unhealthy, in fact. You have to face it and let yourself feel the pain so you can move on.”
It was the same old song I’d been ignoring for months, but today I was over it. “I am moving on, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m moving on with school and with science and with my future. I’m trying to move on with this thesis, if you would just leave me the fuck alone and let me do it.” I ground out the last few words, feeling only a passing guilt when Shelby flinched.
“Fine.” She threw up her hands. “Whatever, Kyra. You do what you feel is right for you. But don’t be surprised when you wake up one day and realize that you’ve pushed everyone away from you in your effort to pretend that everything’s fine.”
She slammed my bedroom door, and then a few minutes later, she repeated the sentiment as she left the house. I heard the car start up and the spray of gravel hitting the undercarriage when she pulled out of the driveway.
The ensuing silence in the house was both a blessing and a curse. I could get back to my writing now, which was what I’d wanted, but what Shelby had said had rattled me more than I’d let on. It was too quiet for me to focus now, and with a frustrated groan, I closed the computer and dropped back against my pillows.
Shelby was wrong. I wasn’t ignoring my pain. I was living with it—living in it—every single minute of every day. It never left, and it rarely let up. Memories and pain were my constant companions and my new best friends . . . ones I didn’t want to let go, because if I did, it meant I was giving up my last fragile tie to Nicky. And I couldn’t let anyone know how much I hurt, because doing so would’ve invited pity, along with a constant rehashing of what had gone wrong.
The hell of it was, I still didn’t understand the answer to that question. I remembered with crystal clarity what Nicky had said that last day, but somehow, it still didn’t make sense. How could he be angry at me for trying to be good enough for him? How could he blame me for doing my best to be the kind of woman he needed?
Privately, I’d expected to hear from him after I’d returned to the states. I’d checked my phone obsessively in those early days, certain that he’d text me or call so that we could work this out. After all, we loved each other. With a little distance, I’d believed that at first. Nicky just had to realize that I was right, and that in making changes to myself, I was showing him how much I cared. I was proving that I was willing to be who he needed.
But my phone stayed achingly silent. There was no text from Nicky. Oh, there were plenty from other people—from reporters who’d wanted a comment on why I’d cut short my trip to come home or who had gotten a tip from someone at the Waste Not luncheon that Nicky and I had been arguing. Those messages I had deleted without a second thought. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell my side of the story to a journalist.
For two weeks after my trip, the reporters hung around. They were suspicious, apparently, wondering if Nicky and I were staging this separation to throw them off the trail. Having to listen to their probing, prying questions every day as I left the house had been a real treat.
But oddly enough, it had been even harder when they’d slowly begun to drift away, when each day, there were fewer of them there. Finally, on Thanksgiving, there was only one left—Sophie Kent, the only reporter who from the start had been the most pleasant and professional.
She was leaning against my car when I came outside, her arms crossed. She stared at me, unsmiling, but there was a glimmer of compassion in her eyes.
“Off to eat turkey?” she inquired, kicking at a small pile of snow on the ground.
I stopped a few feet away. “Yeah. Well, it’s the day for it.” I tucked my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans. “How about you?”
She shrugged. “Probably. The hotel serves an entire meal, apparently, so I’ll eat there . . . before I get on an airplane tomorrow morning.”
“Hmmm.” I shifted my weight and slid sunglasses over my eyes to hide the flare of pain this news brought me. “Well . . . have a good trip back.” I cleared my throat. “Why are you here today? When everyone else has left, I mean?”
“Not really sure,” she admitted. “I could have left this morning. But I guess I wanted to say goodbye.”
“That was nice.” I took a deep breath. “I appreciate it. Of all the people who’ve been camped out in my yard for the last seven months, you were one of my favorites.”
“Oh, please.” She snorted. “I was totally your favorite.”
“You were the only one who acted like a real person to me—who treated me like a real person. That made you a favorite.” I held out my hand. “Thanks, Sophie. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Same here.” She pushed off my car and then hesitated. “Kyra . . . I just want to say that you really are a decent person. I’ve done reporting on lots of different people, both those who were supposedly linked to the royal family and those who are part of it. Most of the people who want to be royal are desperate and determined. They might not show it, but we can sense it. But not you. You’ve been kind to all of us who’ve spent time complicating your life, and you’ve shown tremendous grace under pressure. Don’t think we didn’t see that.”
I bobbed my head, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’ll leave you alone now. Happy Thanksgiving to you, Kyra.”
“Thank you,” I managed to squeak out. Sophie sketched a wave my way and headed out to her car.
And that had been that. It had been the true end of my royal romance, and it was wildly anticlimactic.
I sighed and closed my eyes, wishing for the relief of sleep. But it didn’t come, probably because I was sleeping a good fourteen hours a night. I was too well rested to need a nap in the middle of the day.
My life sucked, and I couldn’t even manage a fucking nap.
Kicking at the throw pillow by my foot, I sat up and stared out the window. Tiny flurries had begun to fall, validating Shelby’s prediction. I wondered what the weather was like down in Florida, where Honey and Handsome were enjoying the non-Maine winter. I wondered if my sisters were enjoying their post-holiday ski trip in Aspen.
And I wondered what Nicky was doing.
Just before Christmas, I’d gotten a call from a number I hadn’t recognized, and when I’d answered, a reporter had politely asked me for a comment on the new relationship between Prince Nicholas and the French model Serene.
For a long moment, I’d stood holding the phone, staring at the floor, before I’d said slowly and softly, “No comment.” And then I’d hung up.
So maybe Nicky and the model were together doing something fantastic right now. Maybe they were curled up in front of the adorable fireplace in Nicky’s cottage. Maybe they were talking with the staff at Waste Not, and Serene the model was actually saying the right things.
I hoped so, because I wasn’t angry at Nicky anymore. I’d gone through the phase where I’d wanted him to be miserable, but that was over. I’d gone through the nights where I’d cried into my pillow until I was numb. I’d hidden that from Shelby, because I didn’t want her sympathy.
And now I was simply back to baseline normal, just getting through everything. Get up, go to school, come home, do homework and housework as needed, go to sleep, wake up and do it all over again. I’d keep doing it until one day maybe something would happen to make me want to change.
The snow was picking up, and I frowned, hoping that Shelby would be home soon. Neither of us was the world’s best at driving in the snow, but my friend, having been born and raised in Florida, was even less competent at it than I was. I began to envision her in a ditch or crashed into a tree, and panic made my stomach clench.
I didn’t want to call to check on her in case she was still driving and shouldn’t be distracted by a ringing phone, but I was on the verge of doing it anyway when the car bumped into our driveway, sending a surge of relief through me. I hustled to the foyer and pulled on my coat, sliding my feet into fuzzy slippers before I went out to help her.
“Your feet are going to freeze!” she yelled as she popped open the trunk. “You should have on your boots.”
“Nah, they’re fine. Besides, it’s not deep enough for boots yet. I’m saving them for tomorrow.” Reaching into the trunk, I hoisted two grocery bags in my arms. “Where were you? I was starting to worry.” I paused before adding quietly, “I’m sorry I yelled at you before. I know you’re just worried. I shouldn’t have taken my own frustration out on you.”
“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry, mama bear.” She closed the trunk and walked next to me toward the door. “Hey, I stopped at the post office to pick up our mail.”
“Oh. Good idea.” I followed Shelby into the house, pausing to kick off my slippers just inside the door. We both set the bags of groceries on the table, and Shelby shrugged off her coat.
“You got something, Kyra.”
“What?” I was rummaging in the bags, separating out the canned goods from what food went into the fridge. “Where?”
“At the post office. You got a letter.” There was something in her voice, some barely banked excitement, that made my hands begin to tremble and my heart pound.
“Oh, yeah?” I kept my tone casual. “That’s unusual. Who writes letters anymore?”
“Apparently, Prince Nicholas of Great Britain.” She opened her tote bag and withdrew a single cream-colored letter-sized envelope. “I mean, I’m guess it’s from him. The postmark is Great Britain, the return address says Kensington Palace, and the initials NW are handwritten in the corner. But I guess that could be anyone, huh?” She waved the envelope in her hand. “Anyone at all. I can just toss this, then, with the rest of the junk mail.”
“Shelby. Give it to me.” I turned my hand palm up and wiggled my fingers. “Please. Now.”
“Well, okay. Fine.” She carefully placed the letter on my hand. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” I stood still, frowning down as though I expected the envelope to turn rabid and bite me.
“What’re you waiting for? Open it up.” Shelby made a rolling motion with her hand.
“Yeah, okay.” Pinching the letter between my fingers, I turned around and walked to my bedroom.
“Hey! I meant out here, doofus!” Shelby called after me, but I heard the laughter in her voice.
With fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking, I ripped open the envelope.
Dear Kyra,
I’m going to begin by saying that I am a complete ass, and I am so sorry for three things.
First, I am sorry that I let you leave that day. I was confused, upset and afraid, but that wasn’t a real excuse. I have none. I shouldn’t have done it. I was wrong.
Second, I’m sorry that I spoke to you as I did that day. I was upset, as previously mentioned, because I’d been seeing you change, and it utterly destroyed me to think that you believed you had to do that to win or to keep my love. But I should have moved gently and slowly, and I shouldn’t have said the things I did.
Finally, I’m sorry that I didn’t write to you before now. I spent several long weeks feeling both sorry for myself and angry at myself. I then convinced myself that you were better off without me, and that your life could go on with less angst and complication if I wasn’t part of it. It’s idiotic, but then, I never claimed to be that smart. I moped around and made everyone around me miserable, until finally I came to rock bottom and realized that I had to know if we still had a chance.
Ky, I still think you might have a less complicated life without me, but I know that mine could never be as good if you’re not in it. If that makes me selfish, then I’ll wear the badge proudly.
I thought about calling you or even coming to see you in person, but I couldn’t get away to fly over, and in case you didn’t want me back, I decided it was safer to face the possible humiliation of groveling at your feet via pen and paper. Also, I remember you wanted me to write you letters once upon a time. I’m finally doing it.
If you think we might have something to continue discussing, write me back. If you do not, then please accept this as my apology as stated above and as my wish for your happiness in whatever you do.
Love,
Your Nicky
For a long time, I sat on my bed, re-reading his words. Something that had been knotted and aching deep inside me for the past three months began to loosen, and I sagged backward, curling up and simply letting myself be.
And then I jumped up and found a notebook and a pen.
Dear Nicky,
I told you boys write letters. Even boys like you.
Being right about the above fact may mean that I’m also right about the sand castle. I’m just saying it’s possible.
Thank you for your letter. I could play cool and aloof and tell you that I hadn’t thought about you much since I left London in November, but of course, that would be a huge lie. I could say that my feelings for you have changed and that I’m not interested in seeing you again, but that would also be a huge lie. I could say that I’m mad at you and that yes, I need you to grovel for my forgiveness, but that would be wrong, because I got over being mad pretty quickly and saw my part in what happened.
I’ve been pretending that I was all right. I haven’t allowed myself to feel anything since I ran away from you. I didn’t want to let myself feel the hurt and the pain . . . but the truth is that I have been lost and sad.
I wanted to be who I thought you needed. When we were together, just the two of us, it was easy to believe that you loved me for myself and didn’t need me to be anything else. But when I saw myself through other people’s eyes, I was certain that I could never be good enough. I made the mistake of thinking that eventually, you’d feel the same way—that I was somehow lacking—and although you never once validated that theory, I acted as though you had.
For that, I am sorry, too.
You have never made me feel that I had to be anyone else for you to love me. That all came from within me. I’ve thought about that fact quite a bit over the last few months.
I’ve never been worried about fitting in. Or at least, that’s been my company line. I tell everyone I’m strong and I’m confident, and my actions bear that out. Until recently, that is.
When I was a little girl, my mother told me that if I was comfortable in my own skin, other people would also be comfortable around me. She said if I was always trying to make other people happy, they’d let me try and blame me if I failed—so it was better to do my best to be true to myself first—not at the expense of others, of course, but because I could be so much more if I didn’t let others tell me my limitations and boundaries.
Last year, I let other people into my head, and they were more than happy to whisper about my lacking. I bought into what the press said and how their pictures appeared. I should have only listened to you, because you were constantly telling me that I was perfect for you, that I was exactly who you needed and what you wanted.
Nicky, in case you’ve been wondering, you are who I want. I don’t need you to grovel, and I don’t need you to change. But if you want me, I’m here and I’m yours.
I love you.
Ky
PS I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I have to ask for my own peace of mind. Did something happen with you and the French model? It’s all right if so. I just wanted to know.
Dear Ky,
Your letter came while Daisy was here with me, and I took it upstairs to read it in privacy. When I came down, she hugged me and said, “There’s my brother. He’s been gone for months now, but it seems he’s come home.”
I wanted to grab a suitcase and fly over to you, but the more I thought about it, I decided . . . not yet. You have a semester to finish, and it would be so much more complicated if the world knew we were together again. You’d likely have press camped out on your lawn. And there’s the fact that I have a long and complex trip to Africa scheduled for next week. I combined official engagements for the Queen with fact-finding visits for both Waste Not and No Hungry Child. I’m going to be away for quite a while.
I wish you were coming with me. You’d be so excited to meet with some of the farmers. It’s because of you and your influence on me that I’m doing this, talking with people who put the ideas of natural farming into place and used the practices of Masanobu Fukuoka to reclaim the desert. Some of the men and women I’ll be meeting actually knew him, and I’m not too proud to admit I’m slightly awed by the idea.
One day, I’ll take you there with me. One day, we’ll go back together, and the trip will be so much fuller and complete then.
Until then, I’ll write you letters, so that you know not a day goes by—and not a moment within that day—when I’m not thinking of you and loving you.
Love,
Your Nicky
PS Serene is a friend of Daisy’s, and I introduced her to some people when she was over here. She was no more interested in me than I was in her. How could I be when all I see is you?
“I know you’re hiding something from me.” Shelby crossed her arms and glared at me. “I’m not stupid, Kyra. I know you’re holding back, and I know it’s because of those letters. What I don’t get is why. I’m your best friend. I tell you everything.”
I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes. “Do you now, Shelby? Do you tell me everything?” I was mostly bluffing. I’d had a hunch in the last couple of weeks that my friend had met someone, that she herself was hiding something from me. I didn’t have any hard proof—it was just a feeling.
But watching her face go red and her eyes widen as her mouth dropped open, I knew I’d hit on something.
“You are keeping a secret, aren’t you? And here you are accusing me. Well, just remember, Shel, I’m rubber and you’re glue.” I nodded in self-righteous certainty. “Also, when you point a finger at someone, you’re pointing three back at yourself.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay. Fine. I won’t push the issue. I won’t say that I’m pretty sure, judging by the cloud you’ve been living in lately, that things between you and a certain royal hottie are once again hunky with a side of dory.”
“I’m not trying to keep anything from you, Shel. I just . . . before, it all played out in front of the world. Now I just want it to be mine for a little while, you know? I’m not ready to share. Not yet.”
“I understand. But when you’re ready to tell someone, I’ll be her, right? I won’t have to read about your engagement in the newspaper?”
“Not that you read the newspaper, but of course, I’ll tell you. I promise.” I hopped off my chair and gave her a tight hug. “Shel, you’ve been wonderful during this crazy time. You kept me sane when I thought I was going to explode, and you didn’t let me drown when I thought my world was ending. I won’t ever forget that.”
She hugged me back. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you.”
Dear Kyra,
I can’t wait to show you photos from this trip. Maybe you’re seeing them on line, but there are more that I’m saving to share with just you.
I don’t have much time to write at the moment, but I wanted to say something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Whatever happens next, I don’t want to be separated from you by any ocean or continent. I know it may take some figuring out, but we’re going to be together.
That doesn’t mean you can’t continue with the work I know you’re meant to do. We may have to be creative. But I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep with you in my arms every night.
Not sure how we’ll make it happen, but we will. Trust me. Believe in me.
I love you~
Your Nicky
Dear Nicky,
I’ve been following your travels, and the trip looks as though it’s been tremendously successful. I can’t wait to hear all the details.
Not sure if you need to know this, but I graduate on the tenth of May. After that . . . I haven’t made any firm plans. I’m hoping that Honey Bee Juices will approve some funding for me to continue my research into natural farming, so I could work for them in that capacity. I’m going to present my thesis paper and my preliminary findings to them in late April.
I’m not telling you any of this to pressure either of us—just so you’ll be informed.
Spring seems to be rolling in slowly this year. We had one last gasp of winter weather last week, but this week, it’s been warm every day. Maine warm, you understand—not Florida warm. But I’ll take what I can get.
To celebrate spring’s arrival and our survival of another New England winter, Shelby and I ate dinner at The Meadows on Saturday. Gav came out to say hello, and he offered his services if I needed someone to, in his very elegant words, ‘kick some royal ass’ as punishment for hurting me. I told him that he shouldn’t believe everything he reads in the papers or hears about on-line. He seemed skeptical, but I think I managed to convince him that I’m okay and that you’re not, as he said, ‘a stuck-up royal asshole’.
Still, you should probably watch your back.
Speaking of such things, I hope Harold and Tom are well. It also occurred to me that I left Alex and Jake’s house without so much as a thank you or an explanation. I want to apologize to them for that. I hope they’ll understand.
Honey and Handsome offered to take me with them on the Mediterranean cruise they’re planning for the summer. I’d told them no at first, because when they asked, I was still suffering from a broken heart and determined never to go near Europe or the British Isles ever again. And then I said no again last week, because I didn’t want to make plans if you . . . or if we . . . well.
By the time you receive this letter, you’ll probably be almost ready to leave Africa. If you should decide you want to make a detour to another continent, I’ll be here, waiting for you.
Love,
Ky