Peach

Home isn’t the same without Gracie. Since it’s hockey season, she’s gone back to Copper Valley, a thriving city in southern Virginia where Manning’s team, the Thrusters, plays. Meemaw has deserted us for the casinos in Mississippi, which is good, because I found out why Judge Liverspot retired and I haven’t been able to look her in the eye since.

Joey’s spending her weekends in Copper Valley too, since Zeus delayed retirement by a year to play for the Thrusters too.

So Saturday morning, Papaya’s sleeping in while I sip my coffee—that I made myself—and research alternate school options for her.

All alone. On the back porch of my cookie-cutter house that has all the modern amenities Meemaw’s trailer didn’t have, but none of the personality.

In the peaceful chill of early December in the South.

With no fireplace. No chance of pretty snow.

My toes are cold.

The last time my toes were cold, Viktor wrapped my feet between his legs until they were warmed up, and just to be safe, he pressed my hands to his bare chest and kissed me silly until I climbed on top of him and rode him under the covers until we were both breathless, sated jellyfish.

I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a slow breath. I hope he’s okay. That he’s not hurting. That his family has been nice to him this week and no idiotic dukes have tried to bully him into making him remind them that he’s the fucking king, because I know how much he wants to earn his people’s respect rather than demanding it because he has a title.

He hasn’t called or texted.

Not that I expected him to.

I left.

I’m the one who owes him first contact.

I should text him. Apologize.

There’s no point in trying to explain.

Because the truth is, I’m scared. And I think he knows it.

Of course he knows it.

He’s Viktor. He knows.

He knows me.

Holy hammer of Thor, he knows me.

But does that mean he knows me and he loves me? Or does that mean he knows me well enough to know he shouldn’t love me?

“Hey.”

I startle and look up. Papaya fidgets in the doorway. She’s in a T-shirt she got at school that says something in German, and black pajama pants. Her hair’s a mess on top of her head, and her face is scrubbed clean of makeup.

She doesn’t look like a sullen teenager. She looks like a lost little kid.

I set my laptop aside and pat the spot beside me on the porch swing.

Instead of sitting next to me, she curls up on her side and lays her head in my lap. My entire chest squeezes around my heart, and I have to swallow twice to get rid of the lump growing in my throat.

“I figured out the dot puzzle,” she tells me.

“Good.”

“I miss Viktor.”

And there goes my heart falling over dead in my chest again. “I’m sure he misses you too.”

“Can we go back?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Papaya—”

“I’ll be good. I swear I will. And now that he’s not king anymore, even if I slip up, it won’t be such a big deal.”

“He doesn’t have to quit being king just because we’re not…there anymore.” I can’t say just because I don’t love him, or just because we’re not married anymore, because neither of those is true.

“But he’s not the king anymore. And I thought he’d come find us, but he hasn’t. So we need to go to him.”

“Yes, he is the king—”

“No, he’s not.”

She sits up and grabs my phone with fingers that are entirely too quick. “Have you been learning to pick pockets?” I ask.

“Shush your mouth. I’m typing.”

“Papaya.”

“No. I learned a long time ago, but I quit after I picked my great granddaddy’s spare dentures. Okay? Here. Watch this.”

She shoves the phone at me and hits play on a video before I can stop her.

And then she lays her head on my shoulder.

On the screen, Viktor steps up to a podium. I saw him give a speech here before, right after we got to Amoria, and I realize he’s addressing Parliament. There’s the official seal of the country, with the flag behind him. He’s dressed in a smart suit, because that’s what he’s always worn.

“Good morning,” he says into the microphone, then repeats it in both German and Italian. His voice, so deep and steady—Thor, I miss him. His eyes are shadowed, his hair slightly unkempt, his blue dress shirt straight, and now I’m wondering if he’s wearing those crazy shirt garters.

I miss his shirt garters.

“I’ve spoken with the Prime Minister at length the last two days over an illness sweeping through our nation, and I wish to address it to you this morning,” he continues.

There’s a murmur among the lawmakers.

“When I was a boy, my grandfather told me stories of Amoria, of the neighborhoods he visited. The people he saw sharing vegetables out of the gardens in the summer, knitting baby blankets for the wee ones born in winter, coming together to fix automobiles that had refused to start, and clearing pathways in fresh fallen snow. Those are my people, Viktor, he would repeat. ‘Tis why we were the country of love. We loved our neighbors.”

That lump is coming back in my throat. I hold the phone closer to my face, looking at his face, at the weariness, the hauntedness, the five-o’clock shadow suggesting he hadn’t shaved, which is about as un-Viktor-like as it gets.

He’s hurting.

But he’s still doing his job.

“Love—that is what we wish to be known for, is it not?” He looks around, and when he nods, I assume everyone is nodding with him. “So why is it so difficult for us to give love? What does it cost for us to give love? ‘Tis free to accept our neighbors as they are, is it not?”

There are small murmurings, but they quickly die down.

And I wonder if he’s talking to me, or to his Parliament, because he’s right.

What does it cost me to love?

My pride. My fear. My sense of worth.

“Ah, but what if you are not loved back?” he continues. “’Tis true, it is a risk we take in choosing to embrace the love that our country is known for, but my friend, not being loved back, when you are truly giving your love and not just the specter of it—that is not your failing. Have you ever known a man who loved too much? Have you ever accused another of giving too much? Of caring too much, or of wishing too much good upon another? No? I daresay I have not either. I’ve known men who cared too little. I’ve known men to be self-serving. Arrogant. Neglectful. But I’ve never known a man who would love too much, and I’ve never known a man who regrets offering his love.”

“Isn’t that awesome?” Papaya whispers.

I can’t answer her, because that dang knot is back in my throat, and this time it’s brought its friends, the tears, which are blurring my vision.

“I expect you anticipate my interest in love comes from my personal life,” Viktor continues. “’Tis true that my wife has left the country, and I miss her greatly. But my purpose in talking about love today is not to discuss my life, but to challenge you to examine where your ideas of love fit within the goal of Amoria’s desire to be known worldwide as a country of love. The original country of love. The best country of love, encompassing love as a practice, not love as a theory.”

Papaya pokes me. “See? He misses you.”

I ignore her and try to be subtle about wiping my eyes.

“My purpose in being here today is to tell you that I am not leaving Amoria, but I am abdicating the throne.”

I gasp.

Parliament gasps.

Papaya giggles.

“I took this crown,” Viktor continues, “because I believed in the Amoria of my grandfather. I believed it to be my duty to continue what my ancestors began. But I have not been your king. Every decision I have made, every public word I have spoken—until today—and every project that I have endorsed, I have done on the advice of the man who should have been your king from the moment he set foot in this country. With your vote to legalize gay marriage in Amoria yesterday, you have cleared the path for your rightful king to take his spot. ‘Tis been my honor and privilege to serve you, and I swear upon my father’s and grandfather’s graves, that I shall continue to serve you as I am best able for the rest of the days of my life. Ladies, gentlemen, your king.”

When Viktor turns to welcome Alexander to the podium, I give up any hope of stopping my tears. Both men are misty-eyed, two brothers hugging before the world.

Papaya pokes me again. “He gave up his kingdom for you,” she squeals. “You have to go back.”

I shake my head, because he didn’t give up his kingdom for me.

He did what was right.

Because that’s what Viktor always does.

He always does what’s right.

And it’s about time I do what’s right too.

Not what’s easy.

What’s right.