Chapter 10

10

YOUNG, BLACK, AND…ROYALLY UNINTERESTED?

All eyes are on Prince Jadon. He's the brooding bad boy royal making headlines and crushing hearts globally. TeenBuzz sat down with him to learn everything about him. From his fav TV series to his love for pop band Moonglow to what an American boy must do (and what not to do) to win his heart!

"Are all your dates like this?"

I smile sheepishly at Reiss. We're standing on Ocean Avenue. Under the blue-and-yellow arch leading to Santa Monica Pier. It's the first place I thought of after last night. Where Mom always wanted to take me.

A perfect first date with Reiss.

Next to me, a throat clears. "I look ridiculous."

Correction: a perfect first date with Reiss and Ajani.

I twist to face her. "You look fine."

She's dressed in yoga pants, an "I ? Beach Life" T-shirt under a blazer, designer sunglasses, and a bucket hat to hide her instantly recognizable hairstyle. On a late Saturday afternoon, the foot traffic around the pier is heavy. We need to blend in.

Reiss eyes me, smirking. "Sweet threads."

The fact that I'm wearing his yellow hoodie, the one he gave me after the pool incident, is a complete coincidence. It complements my joggers and retro Lakers Dunks, the purple rib-knit beanie covering my curls. No other reason.

I ignore the fire spreading up my neck. "I've always wanted to visit the pier."

Crinkly-eyed, he says, "Let me show you around."

He navigates us through the crowd, down a steep hill. The moment we step onto the pier's worn wooden surface, Santa Monica blooms around us. Cloudless azure sky. Cool air soaked in salt and a heady spicy-sweetness from all the food vendors. The afternoon's soundtrack is a mash of screams from the Pacific Park amusement rides, seagulls mewing, and waves crashing.

Golden sunbeams accentuate Reiss's smile. "You have to try this."

This: a freshly made tamale from a bright red food cart.

This: a cup of mango slices sprinkled with Tajin seasoning.

This: a Wagyu beef hot dog with seaweed, teriyaki sauce, and Japanese mayo. I shamelessly bite into it. Reiss's laugh when sauce drips from my chin is like a burst of dopamine.

"Sorry," I moan, still chewing. "It's incredible." Another bite. "I can't stop."

"I have good taste." His eyes linger on me.

I hide my smile behind a napkin. "What's next?"

He leads me over to the chipped blue railing overlooking the shore. We fit between friends taking selfies and an old man watching birds soar. The horizon stretches forever. Sunlight smears a gilded band across the teal water. My breath hitches.

"What?" Reiss asks.

The ache in my chest is loud. "It reminds me of Réverie."

We lean against the railing together. His elbow presses to mine, telling me to go on.

"How peaceful the sea is," I say. "Like walks with my mom. Or when my papa would tell me stories passed down from the elders."

"What's it like? In Réverie?"

"Breathtaking sunsets." I smile almost absently. "Mountains to the west. Never-ending beaches. The stars—do you know how the palace got its name?"

He shakes his head, self-conscious. "They don't teach us much outside of US history. A lot of European history too. But not yours."

"Of course not," I huff. "Centauri Palace was named after Omega Centauri. The constellation. When my people were at war for their freedom—when their struggle was nearly unbearable—the elders would say Look to the stars . Omega was the clearest constellation in the night sky." My heart thuds with pride, remembering how Papa would recite this story. "They promised that every generation would remember what they did. Just like we remember the stars."

Awe widens his eyes. As if he's hungry for more.

"When they designed the palace," I explain, "they wanted it to stand out like the constellation. A place my people look to for strength."

"Sounds amazing," he exhales.

It is, though I haven't thought about that story in so long. I walk the halls, pass all the art and statues. Our journey etched into the architecture. But I forgot what the palace means to Réverians. To our existence.

How much of that weight I've unconsciously carried with me here.

I study Reiss. I wonder what it'd be like to take him there. To my home. Show him around Centauri Palace and the sprawling marketplace, to the field where I play football. What would it be like to introduce him to my world? How would my parents feel about him?

It's a heavy thought. One I'm not ready to parse through.

"Réverie is incredible," I tell him instead, grinning. "So much life. Community."

He shifts closer. Our biceps touch, then our shoulders. A solid wall of warmth and support.

"I miss it." I lower my eyes. Another wave dampens Santa Monica's shore.

Reiss laughs quietly. "You talk like you're never going back."

When I tense, his gaze intensifies, like he's searching for the reason. My brain says not to tell him. As a royal, I've learned only to give what is necessary. Because the world will take so much from you. Expect so much of you.

I've been betrayed, hurt too many times to do this again.

But my heart—it trusts Reiss. He's been open, unguarded. Forgiving when he could simply be cruel like everyone else has.

It's okay , I tell myself, just this once .

"I can't go home," I admit. "Not until I prove myself."

His eyebrows jump up, so I share the barest details. Papa's anger about the video. His demands. How I'm supposed to be the prince my people deserve. I leave out the parts about what the prime minister said and fill it in with how much I want my old life back.

"I'm sorry, that sucks. But I don't know." Reiss shrugs. "Maybe give this place a chance. While you're here, at least. Not all LA people are bad."

"I never said LA people were bad," I retort.

"Your RPF did." The corners of his mouth rise. "Some of us are worth getting to know more. Try it."

There it is again. Those amused crinkles around his eyes. The steadiness in his stare that I fall into.

I bump his shoulder. "I'm here with you, aren't I?"

"I'm so honored," he says wryly. "Come on. There's a lot more to do."

Playland Arcade is just in front of Pacific Park. A spill of noise greets us when we step in. Laughing children, the sharp clatter of air hockey tables, and the sad sound of characters dying. Ajani secures us rechargeable game cards. We leisurely walk around, scouting for what to play first.

I stop abruptly in front of a row of Skee-Ball machines parked opposite the bank of claw machines brimming with stuffed animals.

Reiss's face wrinkles. "I don't know. I'm not very good."

"Afraid I'll beat you?" I challenge.

His eyes narrow. "Fine. Let's go."

As he brushes against my arm, he says, "Be gentle with me," in a coy voice that leaves me frozen for five long seconds.

The newer machines with glow-in-the-dark inclines are occupied by kids half our size. Reiss strolls over to one of the classic versions at the end of the row. I quickly swipe my card. Cheesy music plays. A set of Masonite-covered balls releases into a slot on the side.

My first attempt is decent. The ball hops up the ramp, landing in the center hole. The digital scoreboard lights up: 30 points. I whoop. It's a short-lived victory, as my eight other balls land in lower-value slots.

"150 points," I announce, the machine spitting out a small strip of prize tickets.

Reiss gives me a slow, unenthusiastic clap.

"Don't worry," I say, skimming my fingertips across the back of his hand as I pass, "I can teach you."

"Can you?"

I rest my hand lightly on the small of his back. He's in a long-sleeved graphic tee and denim shorts today. I guide him forward, chin on his shoulder. With another card swipe, a new set of balls releases. I push the first one into his palm.

"It's all in the arm," I instruct. "And the hips."

"Any other tips?" he asks, amused.

My back stiffens. "Nope. Sorry. Um, proceed."

His first roll is wobbly. The game makes a pathetic noise as the score reads 0 points .

"So close," I encourage.

After a couple of practice arm swings, he says, "Oh, that was just a warm-up."

My brow creases. "Just a warm—"

His next roll is smooth, fluid. The ball leaps gracefully from the incline's peak into the 40-point hole. The next lands in the 50. Another 50. His fifth and sixth balls swish into the tiny 100-point rims at the top corners.

The scoreboard climbs and climbs. Red flashing lights twirl, a siren wailing. Reiss ends at 480 points, a new high score.

I stare at the long ribbon of tickets he rips off. "You said you weren't very good."

"I'm not." That damn crooked grin. "Lo crushes me whenever we play."

Whatever frustration, embarrassment I have from losing, from him scamming me , quickly dissipates at the light in his eyes. The innocence in his pout. A laugh shudders through me.

Reiss Hayes is an anomaly. And I'm so into him.

He uses his winnings to buy Ajani a stuffed Charizard from Pokémon. He gestures in my direction, says, "For putting up with him."

She almost smiles, the traitor.

At the front of the arcade is a photo booth. "We have to," I tell him. "For the memories."

We don't exactly fit behind the closed curtains. We're both too broad-shouldered. I scoot left. He squirms right. Nothing works, so I suggest, "What if you sit on my lap?"

His eyebrow lifts, doubtful. "What if you sit on my lap?"

"Oh." My face burns. "Okay."

And there I am, prince of ?les de la Réverie, second in line to the throne, easing into the lap of a pink-haired Californian boy.

He swipes his card. The touchscreen lights up. Like last night, his breath dances over my ear as he picks a setting. Every motion pushes his chest into my back. I don't move, too afraid he'll notice I'm semi-hard in my joggers.

"This one?"

He's picked the classic design. I slowly turn my face. His teeth tug on his lower lip, leaving it red, a little swollen.

I rush out, "Sure. Definitely. That works."

"Cool."

His other hand squeezes my hip. Lightning strikes in my veins. I squeeze my thighs together, praying to whatever god that presides over this damn pier to keep my body in check.

"Smile!"

"Wha—"

The first shutter catches me off guard. Recovering, I prepare myself for the next one, watching the countdown on the screen. Reiss holds up his hand, his thumb pointed downward with his index finger curled forward. I snort, then mirror him. We grin widely as our fingers form a heart.

For the third photo, I make a joke, and the shutter goes off as Reiss's head tips back in laughter, my own head resting on his shoulder.

"Last one," he whispers.

I angle my head to look at him. His soft smile. The flecks of hickory in his dark eyes. His slow breaths. My hand slips up to cradle the back of his neck.

"Three…two…one."

We don't blink. Our eyes never leave each other. The shutter clicks.

"Here." Outside, Reiss passes me the photo strip. "You keep it."

The final shot at the bottom is hard to rip my gaze from. We're almost kissing.

A very, very close almost.

"Thank you." I slip the photos into the kangaroo pocket of my— Reiss's —hoodie. "Let's go see the park."

Reiss rejects getting on the Pacific Wheel, the solar-powered Ferris wheel. "I don't do heights," he says. Instead, we walk around the rides before he coaxes me to the end of the pier for carne asada tacos at Mariasol.

There, we eat and watch the sunset streak the sky a heavy pink from a patio overlooking the Pacific.

"What was it like"—I squeeze lime over my taco—"being raised here?"

His index finger raises in a "one moment" fashion. He's already halfway through his third taco. After swallowing, he launches into life in Santa Monica.

As a kid, he fell for the laid-back culture. He hates visiting his cousins in Seattle, because it never rains in Southern California like it does there. Growing up, his passions jumped from animals to surfing, then finally film.

"Dom came along when I was six," he says, crunching on nachos. He talks about adjusting to life as a big brother. The coffee shop came a little later, his hardworking parents quitting their respective jobs to open the business.

"It was their dream. Since college, I think."

I wonder if Mom's ever had thoughts like that. Abdicate her queenship. Return to her other passions. I'm too nervous to ask her. Too scared she'll say this is who we're supposed to be, period.

Reiss talks about primary school. Never having a real friend group until Karan and Lo. Getting into Willow Wood.

"At first, it sucked," he admits after stealing my last taco.

"You mean, life as a social outcast?"

He tosses a used lime at my chest. "No." A frown tightens his features. "Being one of the very few Black kids there."

I nod. It's one of the most painfully apparent things about Willow Wood. Other than the oversaturated, pretentious content. There's just enough visible melanin to check all the diversity boxes. I've never experienced that in Réverie.

We go quiet as we eat. At the table next to ours, two college-aged boys share enchiladas. One has tan skin and dark hair, wearing a Stanford sweatshirt and black-rimmed glasses. The other's wild curly hair stands out against his fair brown complexion. His T-shirt reads Staff of Once Upon a Page .

Without staring, I can tell they're in love.

It's in their smiles. Their easiness. The way the curly-haired boy feeds his boyfriend.

Something shifts in my belly as I turn my gaze back to Reiss.

Léon was never like this—so open. Vulnerable. We're sons of powerful figures. Our walls are built so high, sometimes we couldn't see the sun. Or each other.

He'd let me talk for hours about the things I hated, what I wished was different, but he rarely shared his own struggles. He was great at deflecting. Maybe he was better at being a royal than me too.

Our waitress refills our water glasses, head tilted as she looks at me, then Reiss. Wordlessly, she slips back inside.

"Anyway." Reiss sighs. "Lo helped me dye my hair green. Then bright red. Now pink. I gave everyone at school another reason to stare. Other than my skin color." He smirks. "Also, fuck them. I look amazing."

"Now who's the confident one?"

"Can't help facts." He leans in. "Or maybe you're just rubbing off on me."

Silence again. I see the moment he realizes what he said. The big eyes, drooping mouth. I burst into laughter. Even Ajani chokes on her water.

"That's it." I snatch his Mexican Coke away from him. "No more. You're cut off."

Under the table, his ankle crosses over mine. He presses firmly. "What if I'm not ready to go home?"

That instant charge from the photo booth returns.

I clear my throat. "Then don't."

I don't know if I'm talking to him. Or myself.

Do I want to stay?

I never answer that question. Night creeps over the pier. Our time is winding down. Reiss's parents don't have a strict curfew, but they still want him home at a reasonable hour. We climb back toward Ocean Avenue with the same reluctant energy.

My phone pings. A message from Samuel. I ignore it, but my eyes catch on the date:

October 12 . Tomorrow is Reiss's birthday.

"Shit," I hiss, reality sinking in. We stutter to a stop. My eyes scan around, Ajani shifting into position as if I've spotted a threat, ready to use her stuffed Pokémon as a weapon. But that's not it. I say to Reiss, "Can you wait right here? I forgot something."

He frowns.

"It'll be only a minute," I promise.

"Sure" is barely across his lips before I signal Ajani to follow me. We hastily move through the crowd. Back to the pier. There are even more bodies than earlier. I almost trip over a group taking selfies in front of the Route 66 sign.

I don't know where I'm headed until I see a yellow shop with a blue and white awning and a neon sign: Funnel Cakes .

If Papa saw me here, buying a plate of greasy fried dough instead of baking something , he'd exile me to a place far worse than California. It's a poor substitute for a real cake. But I'm working with very little resources.

"Cake," I announce, breathless, when I reach Reiss again. "Kind of."

A beat. Reiss blinks at the golden dough buried under powdered sugar. Eventually, his lips tip into an intrigued smile.

"Is this for…my birthday?"

I nod. "A valid interpretation, right?"

He laughs. "It's the thought that counts."

We share the chewy lump. It's not as mouthwatering as anything Reiss has treated me to, so far. The weird mix of too much oil and even more sugar leaves my throat dry. But he doesn't complain. He beams, and I do too, absorbed in his world.

In his Santa Monica.

Nearby, outside Palisades Park, an amateur rapper/singer duo mashes up Nas's classic "If I Ruled the World" with that "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" song I hear everywhere. There's powdered sugar on Reiss's nose. On my hands too. I dust them off, then step forward.

We're under the arch. A cloud of silvery light pours on us.

"You've got a little—" I swipe my thumb over the tip of his nose. "Sugar."

Harsh pink floods his cheeks. "Is it bad?"

"No. But…" A wild spike of adrenaline flows in my blood. My fingers slip lower. Brush powder from the corner of his mouth. "There too."

It's like something out of a movie.

Ocean Avenue's traffic slows. Every noise muted by the sound of my heart. Reiss inhales sharply, anticipation burning in his eyes. Consent in his dilated pupils. But I don't want to read the signs wrong.

"Can I kiss you?"

My fingers are still hovering near his mouth. His gaze is steady. I wait for him. He doesn't take long. Swallowing, he says, "Yes."

I press my lips against his, closing my eyes.

Santa Monica fades. Nothing matters more, not a single car honking or breeze changing, than his fingers touching my jaw. My hand on the nape of his neck. His soft mouth opening. The tease of sour lime and powdered sugar and him .

His kiss tastes like everything wrong is finally going right.

" My prince ."

An urgent voice. I think it's Reiss. But it can't be. Our lips are still shifting, learning. It comes from somewhere else, but my brain is caught in the sparks exploding behind my eyelids as his hands grip my waist.

Wait, no. Those aren't sparks. They're flashes . Quick bursts of light followed by shutter noises louder than the ones from the photo booth. Voices yelling from all sides of me.

"Prince Jadon! Turn toward me!"

"Your Highness! Over here!"

"This way, Jadon! Look at the camera!"