Majesty

The Washington twins had been coming to the Patriot—the cozy, unassuming taproom at the back of the boutique hotel—since they were sixteen: always walking in this way, through the back. They loved it here. The atmosphere was casual enough that no one ever bothered them, and if they drank too much they could, literally, stumble around the corner home. One time when she’d stayed out past curfew, Sam had tried to climb the palace’s outer wall to sneak back in. She’d ended up with bruises on her butt for weeks.

She cast a quick glance around the room, with its dark-paneled walls and scattered knickknacks: an old American flag behind glass; a set of beer caps arranged in the shape of the royal crest; a Revolutionary War sword, mounted firmly to the wall in case anyone tried, unadvisedly, to use it.

The bar was nearly empty right now, just a few hotel guests reading newspapers, which made sense given that it was barely noon. The brunch crowd were all in the glamorous dining room at the front of the restaurant—though Sam and Jeff had long ago convinced the bartender to let them order brunch back here, in the peace and quiet.

With uncharacteristic nervousness, Sam took a seat and pulled out her phone. Her screen was lit up with dozens of messages. She swiped past most of them, zeroing in on her thread with Marshall.

7:08 a.m.: Hey, are you okay?

An unfamiliar warmth blossomed in her chest. No one except Jeff and Nina ever checked in on her like this.

Sam knew it was her fault. She kept people at a distance, held them back with her breezy attitude and her attention-seeking clothes and her repeated insistence that she didn’t need any help, thank you very much. And then Marshall had come along, and had somehow seen her barricade for what it was—because he’d built one of his own, too.

Her breath oddly shaky, she tapped out a reply. I’m so sorry about everything.

His response was immediate. I’m the one who should apologize. I pushed you in the pool, after all.

I’m still sorry. People said some really ugly things about you in the comments. Sam hesitated, her fingers paused over the screen, then added, Have you talked to your family?

There was a long pause, as if Marshall was debating what to tell her. There are some protesters outside Rory’s apartment. But the police are already clearing them out, he added quickly. It’s nothing she hasn’t handled before.

It made Sam slightly nauseous that Marshall’s family took this kind of vitriol as a given. She wanted to scream at all those anonymous people, logging on to their computers and writing nasty comments simply because they liked being hateful.

Sam swiped at her phone to pull up a gossip site, and stared again at the photos—at how her tanned, freckled arms looked next to Marshall’s brown ones. Underneath that skin they were the same, a frame of bones supporting a tangle of nerves and muscles and a steadily beating heart. It seemed ridiculous that anyone should care what color wrapped around it all.

She wished she knew how to make things better. Except…maybe, in some small way, she and Marshall were doing just that.

If they kept up this relationship, the entire world would see Marshall in a place of honor at a royal wedding: dancing the opening song, standing next to the Washingtons in official photos. Sam was aware how powerful that kind of imagery could be—maybe even powerful enough to change the national discourse.

But at what cost to Marshall and his family?

I’ll understand if you want to call the whole thing off, she forced herself to write, pulling her lip into her teeth.

Nope. The media attention sucks, but it’s worth it.

Sam’s heart gave a strange lurch. She began tapping at the screen, but before she could reply, another text appeared from Marshall.

Kelsey texted this morning. Your plan was genius.

She leaned back on the barstool to catch her breath. Right. This was all just for show.

Of course I’m a genius, she managed, striving to match his irreverence. Btw, next time we make out, can we face the other way? I want to make sure the photos get my good side.

Sam stared at her phone, but there was no immediate answer. She turned it over, shoved it away from her, leaned her chin in her hand, then impatiently flipped it back over. The three little dots of the typing bubble had appeared on Marshall’s side of the conversation.

Sure, he replied. Lucky for you, both my sides are gorgeous.

Sam sent an eye-roll emoji, then tossed her phone forcefully into her bag.

Her eyes caught on a girl sitting across the bar, in sunglasses and a green dress with wispy sleeves. She’d hunched her shoulders forward, deflecting attention, though no one seemed to pay her any mind.

“Daphne?”

The other girl removed her sunglasses with obvious reluctance. “Hey, Samantha,” she said, and glanced down at her phone.

“You’re waiting for someone,” Sam realized. Of course, girls like Daphne didn’t sit at the bar of the Patriot alone. The way Sam did.

“No. I mean, I was waiting for someone, but he probably isn’t coming.”

“It was Jeff, wasn’t it?” When Daphne didn’t answer, Sam knew she’d guessed right. “Hey, if it helps, I guarantee he’s not in any shape to be out right now. Not that I’m doing much better.”

To her surprise, Daphne made a strange spluttering sound that was almost a laugh. “I should have known not to make plans with your brother the morning after one of your parties.”

“In that case, want to join me?”

Sam didn’t know what had prompted her to ask. It felt like a violation of her friendship with Nina to sit here with Jeff’s other ex-girlfriend. Although…just last night, Nina had insisted that she liked Ethan.

And right now, Daphne didn’t seem like her usual shiny, perfect self. She seemed as disappointed at being stood up as any other girl, and Sam liked her the more for it.

“All right.” Daphne slid down from her barstool and moved to the one by Sam. She crossed her ankles, her hands folded in her lap, the way photographers always asked Sam to sit for her formal portraits. Actually, it looked quite regal.

The bartender came over, his smile carefully polite. He was far too professional to reveal that he knew who they were, or that Sam had been all over the headlines that morning. “What can I get for you ladies?”

“Coffee,” Sam groaned just as Daphne murmured, “A cappuccino, please, extra dry.”

When the bartender turned aside, Sam glanced curiously at Daphne. “So, I saw you talking to Jeff at the party.”

“For a while,” Daphne said carefully.

“Are you guys getting back together?”

“I don’t know.” Now Daphne was the one looking meaningfully at Sam. “I mean, I keep wondering if Nina is still in the picture…”

So, Daphne was fishing for information. Sam hesitated, feeling suddenly protective of her best friend. She wasn’t about to tell Nina’s secret—but she also didn’t want it to seem like Nina had been waiting around all these months, pining uselessly for Jeff.

“Actually, Nina has moved on,” she said carefully. “She’s into a guy at school.”

There was a funny note in Daphne’s voice as she replied, “Oh, you mean Ethan?”

Sam was too hungover, and too confused, to hide her surprise. “How did…”

“I saw them together last night,” Daphne said easily, and Sam nodded. She hadn’t realized things with Nina and Ethan had worked out, and in such a public way that Daphne had seen them. Then again, Sam had been pretty distracted toward the end of the party.

The bartender returned to deliver their coffees. Sam was too impatient to wait for cream or sugar; she immediately took a sip. But the coffee’s bitter heat did nothing to settle her nerves.

“How do you handle the press?” she asked abruptly. “I mean, obviously you never ended up in photos like mine. But still…you never seem bothered by the media.”

“Oh, they bother me plenty.” Daphne stirred a sugar packet into her cappuccino, then delicately tapped her spoon against the side of the cup. “You think it was fun for me last summer? The paparazzi chased me for weeks after your brother broke up with me, trying to get a picture of me crying. It took every ounce of my self-control to ignore them.”

Sam felt suddenly guilty that she’d never considered Daphne’s feelings once, not during the entire time Jeff had dated her. It was just…Daphne hid her emotions so well—the way Beatrice did, the way Sam was supposed to do—that it usually seemed like she didn’t have any at all.

A curious silence fell between them. Sam thought back to this morning’s confrontation with her mom. Suddenly, amid all the insults and sharp words, one sentence stood out. Then maybe I should get Daphne to teach me how to be a princess!

“Would you help me?” She spoke without thinking, the way she always did.

“Help you?” Daphne gave a puzzled frown.

“Teach me how to handle the press, to be more likeable. You know you’re better at it than I am.”

Daphne seemed surprised by the request—and, really, so was Sam. But where else could she go for help? It wasn’t as if she could search How to be a good princess on the internet.

Daphne gave a slow nod. “Sure, I’ll help.”