Chapter 13

13

EXCLUSIVE: "Still the Best of Friends"

Thousands of miles away from home, a prince and his ex have reunited. A royal insider tells People , "His Royal Highness and Mr. [Léon] Barnard have remained the closest of friends" following their breakup and the very publicized video of Jadon badmouthing his country's prime minister, who happens to be Léon's father.

In exclusive photos, Jadon and Léon are seen at an LA Dodgers game (where the prince threw the first pitch!), laughing and mingling with VIPs. Later, they were snapped sharing a private lunch. Léon captioned a cute pic of the two: "LA with this one!"

Our insider insists, "They've been close for years. At the end of the day, they're very supportive of each other."

Holidays are sparse in Réverie. We celebrate New Year's with the rest of the world. Réverian Independence Day is in early August. Every year, the country commemorates the current monarch's birthday. Varied religious holidays are observed in different regions of the island too, vibrant, colorful festivals that wash over the streets for days.

But nothing compares to how the Hayes family does special occasions.

The Hopper is closed for the evening. All the lights are off, save for the track of bulbs over the bar. Situated on the café's tables and front counter are boxes labeled in heavy black Sharpie— Decorations! Not Dominic's Toys!

Tonight's mission: stringing Halloween lights.

"Orange ones next."

Reiss is balanced on a questionably safe folding stepladder. For an hour, he's been affixing countless bulbs to higher and higher surfaces. It's a wobbly dance that he seems comfortable doing while I gasp, swear under my breath, and try to slow my anxious heart down.

Somehow, I've been coerced—tricked—into being his assistant.

"Orange ones," he calls again.

I snort while rifling through a box. "Bossy."

"Is this," he says as I pass him the bulbs, "the most work you've ever done?"

"No," I huff.

From high above, he smiles incredulously.

I almost knock him off the ladder myself. "I work hard."

"Putting on a suit and tie," he says while clipping the lights, "then smiling for a bunch of cameras isn't hard work."

"You've obviously never been to a state banquet. Or a charitable ball."

"Nope."

On the counter, classic '90s music plays from his phone's speaker. I detangle a new string of lights. I'm faster than I was when I first arrived, but now I'm distracted.

Reiss has never been to a banquet. Or something like the Sunset Ball. Should I ask him? Whatever's happening between us is still new, nameless. The speech was supposed to be a last resort, but we're edging closer to November, and even with Léon around, the headlines aren't changing quick enough.

Do I want the Sunset Ball to be our goodbye?

"See," Reiss says, grinning crookedly. "You're not about that hard-work life."

"Just hang the lights," I say with no heat, offering him the new strand. Our fingers brush. He hums as he works, and my eyes linger on his ass in a pair of heather-gray joggers a second longer than I mean them to.

We haven't had much alone time recently. Between play rehearsals and his short film project—and Léon—these moments are rare. I'm starting to recognize the tightness in my chest when hours go by without even a text.

I miss him.

In the beginning, I never expected to meet a boy. To care about him this way. But here I am, smiling when he says, "Next box." Happily unraveling decorations for a holiday I never gave any thought to before.

I ask, "Why is this such a big thing for your family?"

Outside the lights, the other boxes are stuffed with decorations his parents plan to put up tomorrow.

"My fam loves holidays." He looks mortified. "They're single-handedly keeping Party City in business."

I laugh, even though I've never heard of the company.

"Fourth of July. Thanksgiving. Christmas." He loops more lights. "Valentine's Day is super extra."

"Why?"

"My dad proposed to Ma right here." He gesticulates wildly. I almost climb the ladder to steady him. "Before they bought this space."

Once he's back on solid ground, Reiss tells me about his parents meeting during university. Their nightly study sessions at the coffee shop led to dates. To his dad proposing on one knee with a ring in an empty mug.

"Someone posted a video of it on Facebook," he says, helping me work through the next box. "It got a lot of buzz. Doubled the café's sales for nearly two years. So, when the previous owner was ready to sell, he gave my parents a generous discount. For all the extra attention."

I smile, soft, unfiltered. It's a love story like Papa and Mom. One that I'm certain can't ever happen to someone like me.

"Do you like it?" I say after clearing my throat. "All the holiday stuff?"

He ducks his head, face twisting.

"Wait…" I dip to meet his eyes. "You do! You're so into it."

"I'm not!"

But he is. It's the pink spreading across his face. His proud eyes admiring what we've accomplished so far. It's another thing I like about him. How nerdy he is about movies and holidays.

How, unlike Léon, he keeps letting me into his world.

"What does it for you?" I rub my chin, barely holding it together. "Is it the decorations? Songs? The costumes? Do you secretly have dreams about dressing up as Santa—"

"Let me stop you right there," he says, climbing the ladder again.

This time, I reach out. My palm presses to the small of his back. My other hand hovers near his thigh. The coffee shop is cast in shadows. Too dark for anyone to see inside, but I hear my pulse grow louder at taking such a gamble.

"It's fun ," he finally grumbles. "We have this tradition."

"Tell me it involves elf hats."

"I'm gonna kick you out," he threatens, but there's a grin in his voice. "Instead of trick-or-treating, my parents invite all Dom's friends here. Ma makes kettle corn with M&Ms. Dad whips up his specialty green milkshake. There's music and games and—I dunno. I like it."

I do too. Even if holidays aren't a major thing in Réverie, it'd be nice. To have that many memories with just my family, not the entire country.

Guiltily, I rub the back of my head, say, "I'm going to Grace's party. Léon is too."

With me, as a friend , I think to add, but Reiss doesn't need me to.

He says, "Figured." It comes out even, nonchalant. "That's not my scene."

We shift to another corner. He sets up the ladder. I unravel another string.

"Besides," he says, smirking, "The last party I went to, I met a real asshole."

"Are you sure? Maybe you read him wrong?"

"I didn't. He was an arrogant, royal pain in my—"

"That's enough of that," I say. As he works, my fingers tiptoe over the knobs of his spine. "Would you…want to help me pick out my costume?"

"No." Again, I can hear his smile.

"Should I go as James Bond?" I tease. "Ken from Barbie ? A Victorian aristocrat? You could help me with my wig—"

"How about," Reiss interrupts, "a pretentious, entitled king?"

I make a face. "A bit basic."

"We'll get you a robe, a crown, and a big scept—" He stops abruptly, swallowing. His dark eyes trace down my chest, lower. "Um, never mind."

"No, no." I grin. "Please continue. Something about a big—"

Before I can get the word out, he blurts, "All done! Er, hit the lights for me?"

I let it go. For now. Because, with one flick, the entire Hopper is transformed.

I'm standing in a meadow made of stars. A freshly shaken snow globe, glitter falling from the ceiling. LEDs throw soft purples against the walls. Orange icicles wink in and out above the bar, the café's perimeter made of glowing candy corns—yellow at the base, tangerine at the tip. Strands of mini-jack-o'-lanterns outline the menu.

As Reiss climbs down, I steady him. One of his hands slips around my neck, while the other grips my shoulder. I squeeze his waist. Fight a shiver when his fingers tease along the short hairs on the back of my head. We pause, frozen, his feet still not touching the ground.

"You're, uh." His Adam's apple dances. "Kind of strong."

I smirk. "It's all the waving I do. Hard work being a royal."

"I bet."

When I finally lower him, he doesn't speak. Instead, he tugs me through the swinging employee door. Into the half-dark back room. He nudges me against a supply shelf. Reiss plants his hands on either side of my head, leaning in, but never all the way.

I watch him hover, biting his lip. "Is this some form of new employee initiation?"

"You don't work here."

"Not yet." I drag my fingers up his sides. "Was considering it. You know, to prove myself."

He edges even closer. "Prove what?"

I shrug one shoulder. "That I'm more than just dimples and a great kisser."

"Who said you were a—"

I seal my lips over his. I wait until his muffled words turn into a soft exhale, then cup his cheek. Guide him. We're still new to this. He's still new. On campus, we hide in darkened classrooms or empty bathrooms for practice, for ten-second spurts of mouths fumbling and hands searching and things stopping way too soon.

Afterward, he always stares at me, breathing hard. Like he wants more. Like he can't get the words out to tell me.

But I need him to say it. I don't want to get it wrong.

"Hey." I rest the back of my head against the shelf to look at him. "Before we continue—and please , continue—is this…are you…do you want something else?"

"Something else?"

I lift the hem of his T-shirt. Tap the waistband of his joggers. We're so close, he undoubtedly feels how hard I am.

" Oh ."

That one word—sound, really—bubbles a laugh from deep in my chest.

He grins too, red-faced. "Yes, but…thing is. I'm sort of, like, a virgin."

Oh , I think this time. I don't know why I didn't consider that. Why I thought he was like me. Why, suddenly, this means a lot more.

"I'm not. Léon and I, well."

"Thanks for telling me," he whispers, still chewing his lip in that unsure way, like his brain's firing off a million other questions.

"We don't have to," I quickly add. " You don't have to. Ever. If it's something you're ready for, talk about it with that person first. Consent is important. Communicate. Be clear."

Wow, I didn't mean to sound like one of those online guides Papa showed me when we had The Talk. But it's true. I want Reiss to feel safe with whoever.

He relaxes, one side of his mouth rising.

"Cool. I want that," he says. "Eventually. Not now."

I smile, then nod.

"Right now…" He's close again. Breath ghosting my lips. Hands smoothing from my hips to my back, lower. I gasp at his boldness. "I kind of want to make out before Ajani shows up to crash the party."

"We have an interesting history with parties," I say playfully.

"God, shut up. No one talks like that."

My retort dies when his mouth crashes onto mine. It's fine. Who cares about words, anyway?

Grace's party is at a rooftop club her dad rented out. As promised, a step-and-repeat awaits guests once they've cleared the bouncers crosschecking the invite list. Flashes pop across my vision. Photographers shout my name. I slip into prince mode—shoulders straight, back stiff, smiling and nodding regally.

As best as I can in my costume, that is. Despite Reiss's very… convincing outfit suggestion, I went simple: the original Black Panther suit from the Marvel films, minus the mask.

Warmth sidles up to my side. More shouting. Not my name, this time.

"Léon! Over here!"

"This way, Léon! Nice! Closer to the prince!"

Without hesitation, Léon follows directions. He tosses an arm around my shoulders. Flaunts a well-trained grin that's all fangs. For tonight, he's gone full Twilight —dark skinny jeans, red contact lenses, black V-neck T-shirt with I Suck in a dripping blood font. The finishing touch: glitter smeared across his skin.

"I hate this," I say through my teeth, still smiling.

"Cheer up, Spare." He half-turns his head for another photo. "This is the easy part. The fun hasn't even started yet."

"The fu—"

I'm cut off by another photographer: "Prince Jadon! Are you and Léon friends again?"

I blink, throat gone dry, but Léon quickly steps in.

"The best of friends," he assures the crowd, making a show of grabbing my hand before tugging me farther down the carpet. "Shall we?"

Ajani and Léon's bodyguards lead us inside. It's all low lighting and velvet booths and glow-in-the-dark bars serving nonalcoholic drinks. Golden Medusa heads are carved into the walls. The DJ transitions from Zayn to K-pop. Sweat and body sprays and the salty ocean air from the open balcony doors waft around us.

From behind a roped-off section with green sofas, Grace spots us. She's dressed as an angel with a white silk minidress and LED light-up wings. Her smile is small and guarded.

"You look great," I say, by way of greeting.

"My hero," she says, winking.

On the walk here, I've accumulated history's worst wedgie. Still, I manage a grin, waving at the others.

Nathan's werewolf look is completed by yellow contacts and pointed ears, claw shreds along his T-shirt. Morgan's all goth: hair in a braided crown, black tulle lace dress, severed hand perched on her shoulder. On Grace's other side, Kaden hasn't put in any effort: he's wearing a Trick or Treat shirt that has an arrow pointing from the "Treat" to his crotch.

Over the music, Léon clears his throat.

"Everyone," I say, "this is Léon."

He bows, kissing the back of Grace's hand. "Enchanté."

She raises an eyebrow. Asking her permission to bring Léon was a chore by itself. "Charming," she says, smirking. "Glad you could come."

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Whoa." Nathan nearly spills his glowing orange drink, tiny umbrella included, sidling up to Léon's side. "Immortal enemies at the same soirée? Fuck Edward and Jacob. We're hot."

Léon inspects him. I know that look. One second from saying something cold and rude.

I almost step in to spare Nathan, but Léon surprises me with a grin.

"I like you," he says.

The semi-dark club can't hide the brightness in Nathan's cheeks.

"Join us," Grace insists, and I find myself wedged between her and Morgan.

All around, phone cameras flash. Selfies and videos of weird, offbeat dancing to Halloween-themed songs. I pose for the occasional photo, shout lyrics along with Grace for her TikTok.

A sofa away, Léon is absorbed into multiple conversations. This is his element, thriving under the spotlight, instantly fitting in with strangers. He doesn't have to force it. Unlike me.

"Smile more," Morgan advises, bumping my knee. "You look miserable."

"Didn't we discuss this?" I say, nudging her back. "I don't need a babysitter."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a tiny grin at the corners of her mouth.

When Rihanna's "Disturbia" comes on, someone shouts, "Fuck yeah, this is my song!" The crowd erupts. I half-turn to Morgan.

"No date tonight?"

"As if I'd date anyone from our school," she says dryly. Her phone lights up. She checks it. "Willow Wood is fine, I guess. The people? Not so much."

"Present company excluded?"

She pointedly looks toward Kaden. "Included."

I shake my head, chuckling.

Her attention shifts to where Léon is laughing at something Nathan says. "Bringing your ex here? That's shocking."

I want to tell her it wasn't my choice. That, like everything these past two months, I'm doing it for a reason. A reason I'm questioning a lot lately. But we're not on that level. We're not even friends, despite the weird ache in my belly that wishes we were.

"In a good or bad way?" I ask.

"Undecided," she shouts, eyes on her phone again.

Kaden flops next to her, almost tipping over his mock-margarita. "What's with the face, Morg?" He tips his chin up. "Or are you just in character? Wednesday Addams, right?"

She exhales. "Go be basic somewhere else, Kaden."

He peeks at her phone. "Oh, fuck me. Again? Who reads the news at a party?"

"Me," she snaps. "Don't act like I haven't seen you checking ESPN at these things."

"That's different," Kaden moans. He sips, then sighs. "What's Anderson Maddow, Rachel Anderson, or whoever yelling about now?"

For a beat, Morgan stares, like she's considering leaving him without an answer. Or simply leaving. I am too.

Finally, she says, "You know Lio Heart?"

Kaden shrugs lazily. "The pop singer? Sure."

"Lio was supposed to headline the Gateway Music Festival in Tennessee," Morgan explains, lifting her phone. "But after they came out as nonbinary last month, the organizers backed out. Too much pressure from ‘concerned' parents. It's bullshit. There are a bunch of petitions going around. Fans are upset."

"Is that all?" Kaden guffaws. "Who the fuck wants to go to Tennessee anyway?"

"Not the point," Morgan tries.

He waves her off. "Lio needs to perform somewhere queer-friendly—like here!"

"What about the fans there who deserve to see them live? Be exposed to people like them?"

"Move. Live somewhere else."

Morgan looks ready to throw her phone at his head. I feel it swelling before I recognize it. The fire behind my ribs. The want to step in. Speak up.

"They're our age ," Morgan argues. "They can't just move. Not everyone has a trust fund waiting for them when they turn eighteen. This is all they have."

"It's a music festival," he asserts. "Not life or death."

"For some of them, it is!"

Kaden ignores her outburst, leaning over to pat my knee. "Help me out here, Prince. She's overreacting, right?"

I fight with the heat building inside me.

It's just us. Grace is pretending to care what some zombie cheerleader is happily yelling at her. Nathan and Léon are absorbed in their own chat. It still feels like a million eyes are on me. Like at any moment, someone will pop out of nowhere with their phone, recording whatever I say. Like that night with Kofi.

An old Kesha song comes on, but all I hear is Mom's voice: I thought we agreed on staying out of the headlines unless it was for a good cause .

Then Papa's: Prove you're the kind of prince Réverie deserves.

Réverie doesn't want a prince who involves himself in conflict. Who speaks out. Who's seen arguing and yelling and smacking that smug, toothy grin off Kaden's face.

But it's what I want.

Only, I can't afford to be that prince. So I say, "I think my opinion, either way, won't change the outcome," trying not to grimace when Morgan gives me an icy glare.

Kaden salutes me with his empty glass. "Very diplomatic."

"Bathroom break," Morgan grumbles to Grace, tugging her away without sparing me another look. Kaden leaves too.

I turn to Léon. "Can we talk?"

"About what?" Léon returns, only half acknowledging me as Nathan dances nearby.

The crowd's thicker, the noise overwhelming. I raise my voice to say, "Your papa. About what happened."

About what's happening inside me , I think to add. The continuous stirring in my chest. I need to get it out.

"My…papa?"

I nod, not that Léon's looking at me. He's cackling, mimicking Nathan's motions.

"I want to talk about—"

"Jadon, seriously." Léon lets out a heavy sigh. "I didn't come all the way to America to talk about him."

I clench my teeth. This is the Léon I've known forever. The one whose walls come up so swiftly when it comes to his parents.

"Then what did you come here for?"

"To…" He pauses, eyes finally on me. "To help you, of course."

"Talking about what happened will help."

"No, it won't." He taps my temple. "You're thinking too much."

Before I can argue, he shuffles over to Nathan, swallowed up by the sea of bodies.

It's just me, alone, like always. A fate I'm so accustomed to, I don't even allow myself two seconds to be angry or sad.

I march out onto the terrace, Ajani trailing behind.

For a moment, I watch the deep indigo skies from the railing. A line of red brake lights edges up Ocean Avenue. Palm tree fronds sway. Winking neon stars form Pacific Park. Santa Monica Pier is a constellation in the black sea.

I snap a photo. It's a good one. The clash of colors will pair beautifully with my Tokyo Bio Hack Jordans.

On an empty sofa, I scroll my phone. Haphazardly, I end up on @TheReelReiss's grid. I double tap his birthday post, a slideshow of pictures from age five to the latest of him with his family in front of the Hollywood sign, before clicking on his newest stories.

Pirate Dominic chased by Reiss dressed as Ghostface from the Scream films. His parents in Thing 1 and Thing 2 onesies. Dominic's friends getting brain freezes from lime-green milkshakes. Those same kids dancing with Reiss. Then, Dominic snoring on his brother's shoulder.

I'm surprised by my own soft smile. They're so… normal . A life I don't know. All my family vacations are shared with photographers. Birthdays celebrated with the palace staff instead of my parents.

This is the longest Annika and I have been around each other in three years.

"How appropriate," a voice says above me.

I tip my head back. It's Karan, dressed as the Phantom of the Opera.

"Creeping on my bestie's IG," he goes on before I can say anything, "when you were just holding hands with your new ‘bestie.'?"

His air quotes are as aggressive as his scowl.

My forehead wrinkles. "What are you—"

He cuts in. "I saw how he looks at you. It's the same way I look at—" He stops short. The white half-mask doesn't hide his blush. "Are you sure you're only exes?"

"Karan, listen." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

I pause, reminding myself that Reiss hasn't told his friends about us dating in secret. About why I'm hanging around Léon. He's respecting my situation, which I should do better about thanking him for.

Eyes start to flit to our corner. People casually observe us. I stand, hands raised in a universal calm down gesture.

"Maybe we should talk—"

"You need to be honest with my friend," he demands. "I'm used to people like you. They're everywhere at Willow Wood. But he deserves better."

"I agree, which is why—"

"Some prince you are."

It's like cold water to my face. His icy tone. The four words he spits. My lungs are overheating. I can't stop the way my teeth grind, the venom in my response.

"You don't know me. At all."

He laughs, a short, tinny noise that echoes. "Apparently."

"I'm not like them ," I bite out.

I force myself not to point. To give any sign about who I'm referring to. But Karan's little eyebrow raise, his derisive sniff, says he's already aware.

"Fuck, I was wrong." He steps back. "You're one hell of an actor. Playing both sides. Pretending you're cool. One of us. Bravo, Jadon."

My shoulders droop. The anger recedes, and I gently say, "Karan, I swear. I'm not a bad person. A bad—"

Prince , is what I want to say, but who am I kidding? I'm so far from the royal Papa wants me to be, I might as well abdicate now. Spare my family and country any more embarrassment.

Whatever Karan's going to say next is cut short.

"There you are." Léon approaches. "They're about to cut the cake."

Inside, I hear the dissonance of singing voices. It's not as loud as Karan's expression when Léon grabs my hand, threading our fingers together.

"Let's go, mon—"

"Don't," I hiss, "call me that."

Léon huffs. Then, his eyes turn to Karan. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes," Karan starts.

Léon immediately twists away from him. "We're supposed to be spending time together."

I blink hard. Why has his voice dropped into that deep, rich, sweet tone he only used when we were alone? Why is his thumb stroking the back of my hand?

Why the hell am I not pulling away?

Over his shoulder, Karan shakes his head. In my periphery, phones are focused on us.

Léon's voice startles me. "Jadon."

I barely register how close he is. His crimson gaze leveled with mine. Fangs peeking through his sly grin.

"Relax." He leans close, tipping my chin up before whispering, "Make it look good."

Make what look good?

I don't have time to answer my own question. Because Léon is kissing me. In front of Karan. For all the people watching. And one painful reality kicks me in the stomach:

I don't pull away until the last camera shutters.