I guess this is the part where I should explain why I’m marrying Meredith. Even though I don’t particularly understand it myself.
Forced to quickly choose a bride, I went for the one girl I fell head over heels in love— or at least in lust— with when I met her in Miami while both of us were vacationing there with friends. I was exploring the States with single friends since I knew I only had a little time left to spend doing that before having to tie the knot— after finding a woman to tie the knot with, of course.
And Meredith was apparently there on something called Spring Break, when college girls go wild. There was a lot to learn about American women, apparently.
We had an amazing time together, if “amazing” equals buzzed, drunk or hungover the whole trip. She told me she’d never seen a guy as ripped or a cock as big as mine. No one can go wrong with flattery such as that. I may be the fucking Prince of Ambrosia, but I still like hearing an attractive woman tell me all about the many ways in which I’ve got it going on.
We spent one too many hot Miami nights drinking ice cold cuba libres and fucking under both the water and the stars. After a long night of drinking— again— I accidentally overslept and missed my flight to Boston, which was supposed to be my next destination.
So, I decided to extend my trip, as did Meredith. She postponed her flight back to Denver, where she’s an acting student, so that we could spend another few drunken, festive nights together.
That week was like something out of a dream, and I guess I just got caught up in an escapist fervor. In a way, it was my only chance to pretend I’m a normal, college kid rather than outdated royalty from some place no one’s ever heard of.
In case you’re wondering, Ambrosia is a small island nation in the Baltic sea, just off the coast of Estonia and Latvia. It’s so tiny and insignificant that if you look it up on a map it probably won’t even show up.
But we still have royalty there, although we don’t do anything important. It’s all just for show, some family history no one ever wanted to let go of, even though everything is really run by a parliamentary republic. If you look up what that is, you probably won’t understand it, since no one really does.
Thanks to some fucking relic of royalty law and important family tradition I don’t care about but my parents do, I have to get married to someone. I don’t think I even believe in marriage. I used to think I was just too young to figure out whether I did or not; I figured I was just spending time spreading my royal wild oats.
But now I’m in my early thirties and I think I’d probably know by now if I wanted to settle down. In fact, though, the opposite was true. I liked having any girl any time I wanted her, and then moving on to the next.
I was under so much pressure, with my mom saying it’s embarrassing that the prince is still a bachelor at this age and people are starting to talk about whether or not I’ll ever get married. Once my father was diagnosed with a terminal illness it became clear that everyone was wondering who the king that takes his place is going to have as a wife. And it was unheard of in our family history for the king to not have a wife.
So, Mom decided there had to be a royal wedding. It’s all fake, a big sham, a show we put on to impress the commoners, so I figured it didn’t really matter who I picked. I might as well pick a fun girl with a tight little pussy and a nice ass. Meredith just happened to be in the right place at the right time, I guess.
She’s got “junk in the trunk”— a phrase I picked up when I was in America— and she’s good “in the sack”— that’s another one— and those seemed like good enough reasons to ask if she wanted to become the next princess of Ambrosia. Why not, right?
She said yes, of course— what girl wouldn’t say yes to that? When I phoned my mother to tell her the news, I thought she’d be pleased that I’d done what she’d requested and found a mate, but she was livid.
“An American girl?” she’d exploded, before I’d even been able to tell her more.
Not that there was much more I wanted to tell her, since I don’t exactly know how that conversation would go: So, Mom, I picked a girl who’s hot and who’s down to fuck a lot, okay?
I should have imagined that under these circumstances, Mom and Meredith would be off to a bad start right away.
“She doesn’t understand our culture, our tradition, the fact that we’re royalty,” Mom went on. “How are we going to explain to the people of Ambrosia that you’re marrying a… a…?”
“Commoner?” I guessed. “A foreigner?”
She had mumbled, “Something like that,” and I had just sighed. If she’d wanted to put conditions on my choice of a princess, then she should have said something before I’d asked Meredith to marry me.
Mom didn’t see it that way. And from there, things just got worse. I flew to Denver a few times and partied more with Meredith, but Mom always asked why we never did anything substantial together, and why Meredith never came to Ambrosia to visit me.
“Good idea,” I’d told Mom, deciding to ask Meredith to do it right away, just so she could start getting accustomed to life in her future kingdom.
When I did propose the trip to Meredith, though, she’d said she had to study and that maybe she’d come after her finals were over. Once she had finished them up, I told Mom I was going to invite her again.
But Mom had said, “Hold on a second,” and then she’d told me it’s probably better if Meredith didn’t come to Ambrosia until after we got married in the States.
“Why not?” I’d asked, baffled.
It seemed to me that my mom couldn’t make up her mind up about what she wanted. No matter what I did, she would want the opposite.
“Well, didn’t you say Meredith wanted to get married in Denver?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I told her. “But I figured you would insist…”
“The typical royal wedding here at the palace can happen later, Dear,” Mom was quick to interrupt. “Once we see how things go and people have time to adjust to the idea of…”
She had trailed off but I had already realized the implications of what Mom was saying. Apparently, Meredith wasn’t good enough for a royal Palace wedding, or at least not until she’d “proven” herself to my mom.
My mom’s biggest fear is looking bad in front of people— she is a Queen, after all, with impossibly high standards to live up to— and she knows that if I marry Meredith in front of the entire kingdom, it’s a done deal. Instead, she wants a “trial period” where we say I’m married to appease everyone’s curiosity, but we keep it hush hush and get married in the States.
Then Meredith and I will have our honeymoon and she’ll come back and live with us in Ambrosia but it will be at the country house and we’ll still keep a low profile. If all goes well and Mom approves of her, we’ll officially “unveil” her at a royal wedding celebration here at home. But if things don’t go well my mom says there’s always a backup plan. I don’t know what it is— I don’t even know if there is one yet— and I hope I never have to find out.
Now, Mom looks at me with pleading eyes, begging me to cooperate, as usual.
“Gregory, I know there’s no path that has come before us on such a thing as a royal marriage to… a random American girl,” she says. “And you know that so many people have advised us not to let you do this. There are plenty of other, more suitable women to choose from here in our very own kingdom, and…”
“But, Mom,” I remind her, “You said I could do it.”
The way she says “random American girl” makes my skin crawl.
“I did,” she agrees. “And I’ll stand by my word. But I have a bad feeling about this choice of yours…”
“Oh, Mom,” I groan. “You’d have a problem no matter who I picked. You don’t think anyone is good for your little boy.”
“Gregaroo-roo,” she says, harkening back to the nickname of my childhood. “It’s very true that you will always be my little prince. The one I bounced on my knee during the day and rocked to sleep at night. I do know, however, that I have to let you go. I just didn’t realize it would be…”
She sees me shaking my head in annoyance, so she stops. What she probably doesn’t realize is that I’m also touched. I know she only wants the best for me.
“It’s not just that she’s an American girl I’ve never met,” my mom says, trying to explain herself for what has to be at least the tenth time. “It’s that she doesn’t even seem to want to meet us. To be involved in your life. Half the time you call her, she doesn’t even answer.”
“There’s a big time zone difference, Ma,” I complain, but inside, I’m thinking, Hmmmm. Is that true? Half the time? Really?
Meredith better not end up making a fool out of me. Sure, this is a sham marriage but it’s important to my family and I also don’t take lightly to being a laughingstock. I suppose I inherited some of my mother’s genes when it comes to caring about what people think.
“Well, Mom, I appreciate your concern,” I tell her, realizing that it’s sweet that she wants my fiancée to be into me. “But everything is fine. This is a big change for Meredith too, you know. But she’ll adjust and everything will turn out exactly the way you want it to, don’t worry.”
“Okay,” she says, slowly nodding her head, her gray hair bouncing up and down along with it. “I won’t.”
“Don’t you have some other things on your to do list to worry about instead, before we leave?” I ask her, with a grin.
“Yes,” she says, with a smile. “You’re right.”
I go in to see my dad, but feel bad for waking him.
“Hello, Son,” he says, trying to sit up in bed, but coughing instead.
“Hi, Dad,” I tell him. “I was just coming to say goodbye before my trip.”
“Goodbye, Son,” he says, and holds his arm up for me to come hug him.
As I embrace him, he says, “Congratulations on your impending nuptials. You’ll make a fine King.”
“Dad…” I say, not wanting him to start talking about death again.
But he shakes his head, as if that’s not what he was going to get into right now.
“Just remember to follow your heart,” he says. “In life, in love, and in leadership. It won’t steer you wrong.”
“Thanks, Dad, now get some rest,” I tell him, and he settles back down into his bed.
Talking to my dad always fills me with strength and resolve. I don’t know what I’ll do after he’s gone.
Of course, just like my mom is hoping, I’m right that everything will turn out okay. My mother never goes without something to worry about. I’m the one who shouldn’t worry, because I always get what I want, and things will work out just fine.
But that’s what everyone always tells themselves, at the beginning of their own story.