Chapter 6

6

THE FALL OF JALE

Ever since Réverie's Prince Jadon and model/political son Léon Barnard split, fans of #JALE have been in mourning. Speculation behind the cause of their sudden breakup has been rampant. Here & Queer sat down with three prominent gossip bloggers to discuss their theories, the prince's viral meltdown, and why his trip to America is a cry for help.

"My prince," Ajani says, her tone just barely even, "are you sure this is the way?"

I bite a corner of my lip, looking down. My phone's GPS claims we're close. The place I'm searching for is two minutes away. But we've been walking for almost thirty. I can read the annoyed edge in Ajani's eyes.

"Yup." I nod. "Just around that corner."

And another block. Maybe. I don't usually travel by foot.

On cue, Ajani says, "Remind me again why we're hiking instead of taking a car? Or a helicopter ?"

"I don't want to draw any attention," I reply. Ajani lifts an eyebrow as I turn around in a circle, trying to follow the uncooperative arrow on my screen. My face wrinkles. "Any extra attention. If we show up in a bulletproof Rolls-Royce, what will people think?"

Ajani waves toward the hot pink Porsche zipping by us. "That we have class?"

"I don't want to be noticed, okay?"

"Fine." Ajani exhales. "Next time I'll wear proper shoes."

I grimace at her boots. "Sorry."

It's a nice day in Santa Monica. Buildings reflect golden arcs of sunlight onto the streets. Thick trees sprout through the sidewalks, providing ample shade. Most of the people are flooding in one direction: Third Street Promenade, a three-block shopping district nearby. We fight the tide the opposite way.

Since Annika wasn't completely wrong about the play audition, I've decided to follow another one of her suggestions: exploring places Mom loved when she lived here. First stop is Pacific Harmony, a vintage music store. At least five of Nana's photos featured Mom sitting on the shop's floor, big headphones on, browsing through vinyls.

"Turn left," the GPS instructs.

The area is semi-busy. Tourists wandering around, locals stopping at their favorite restaurants and cafés. We pass a shirtless guy with a guitar. Someone dressed in Sailor Moon cosplay. A pack of all-black-wearing goth kids, their faces painted like skulls.

LA is full of overachievers desperate to be noticed. I don't want to be one of them.

In a shop's window, I see my reflection. Face shiny with sweat, flat curls, my expression somewhere between annoyed and murderous. I'm the actual poop emoji minus the smile.

The crosswalk's electronic voice repeats, "Walk! Walk!"

"Almost there," I tell Ajani.

"I'm so excited," she deadpans.

I'm unbothered. There's this anticipation vibrating through my bones. At seeing the record store. Being in a place my mom loved so much.

But the air is sucked from my lungs when I stand in front of Pacific Harmony.

Correction: the former Pacific Harmony.

The storefront is still there, but the inside is dark. The guts ripped out. Construction equipment is scattered all over the floor where Mom used to sit. On the door, a bubblegum-pink sign with blue lettering reads:

COMING SOON…YOGA & YOGURT!

"I don't understand," I say, throat tight. I recheck the address I found online. "It's supposed to be right here."

"The music shop?" An older Black woman in a cowboy hat pauses next to me. "Closed a month ago. Probably haven't updated their business profile. The owners retired. Lovely couple. This neighborhood's gonna miss 'em."

Then she drifts away with the crowd.

I close my eyes, thumping my head against the glass door. " Ow . Fuck."

While I sulk, Ajani stays silent. It's one of my favorite things about her. When I need to pout or scream or break things, she never intervenes. Even though she could. Papa probably thinks she should .

She knows I need to get whatever out of my system first.

After a moment, she says, "Would you like to go somewhere else?"

No , I want to say. I planned my entire Sunday around this. A day without Samuel advising new ways to improve my "likability stats." Without Annika being everyone's favorite for doing nothing but being photographed sipping boba. A day without overthinking what next week at Willow Wood is going to be like.

And now, when I look out at Santa Monica, all I see is a city where I still can't escape this Shiny New Prince Jadon I'm expected to be.

All I see is…

A pair of bunny ears painted on a coffee bean. A green-and-peach awning. The shop from my first morning before school.

"My prince," Ajani says, weary, "I don't trust that face you're making."

I turn to her, grinning. "Caffeine break?"

The Hopper's interior doesn't disappoint. It's like picking up your favorite book: the worn pages soft under your fingertips, the scent something no one can ever properly replicate.

Small circular tables frame the perimeter. Cozy armchairs fill out the center. All-white walls except for the one behind the espresso bar. It's pastel pink with Welcome Home painted in large black letters. Other than the soft strains of music playing overhead, the café is quiet and mostly empty.

Perfect . Caffeine and anonymity.

"New customer!"

At the front counter, a boy who can't be older than ten grins broadly. His sponge-twisted curls are almost as tall as he is. Up close, I spot the mini-step stool he's standing on to reach the digital register. There's something familiar about his dark eyes, his light brown skin. Pinned to his black apron is a name tag: Dominic!

"Wow," he gasps, blinking at Ajani. "Are you from a comic book?"

Ajani's lips quirk the tiniest amount. I lean forward, whispering, "It's a secret. Promise not to tell?"

Dominic nods eagerly. "Do you wanna order?"

"What do you recommend?"

His face brightens like the fairy lights strung around the letterboard menus. "The Dominic Special. Caramel iced coffee. Lots of cream. More caramel. Whipped cream and—"

"Let me guess," I say, amused, "even more caramel?"

"Extra, extra caramel drizzle." He strikes a pose like a boy band member—arms crossed, chin on his knuckles, smoldering eyes and lips puckered.

I can't hold in my laugh. It dies quickly when the door leading to the café's back room swings open and out walks Reiss. I freeze like if I don't make any sudden movements, he won't notice me.

He does.

His eyes narrow. Then, he yells over his shoulder, "Ma! Dom's at the register again. We're breaking, like, at least a dozen child labor laws."

A woman's voice from the back shouts, "Dominic Ezra Hayes!"

"You're such a narc," Dominic complains, hopping down from his stool.

Reiss's eyes grow cartoonishly wide. "Who taught you that word?"

"Megan."

"Megan's a terrible influence," Reiss says.

Dominic sucks air through his teeth, stomping away. "You're a terrible brother!"

"That's my job," Reiss calls to the swinging employee door before turning to me. "Were you really gonna order the Dom Special?"

I shrug. "Sounded interesting."

"It'll give you diarrhea." Something flashes in his eyes. "Actually, you look like you need a good stomach cleanse."

My face prickles. But I'm not angry. Not when his lips curve upward as he watches me from behind the counter. He's wearing the same black apron as Dominic. I guess his family owns the shop.

"Fine." I cross my arms. "What do you recommend?"

You can tell a lot about someone by their coffee shop order. I want to know what he thinks of me. When he looks at me, what does he see?

Reiss doesn't falter under my gaze. "I'll surprise you," he says.

"Shouldn't you ask if I have any allergies?" I inquire. "Dairy issues?"

He sighs. "Do you?"

"Nope," I say, satisfied at the way his brows furrow in annoyance.

Then, I see it. The little crinkle in the bridge of his nose. Like he's fighting a smile that never appears.

He up-nods at Ajani. "For you? Ajani, right?"

She looks marginally impressed. "Tea. Black."

"Got it."

When Reiss walks away from the register, never typing in our orders or telling us a price, I say anxiously, "Wait! I can pay."

"Your money's no good here," he says, already behind the espresso bar, filling a metal pitcher. "Find a table. Let me do my job in peace."

My next protest evaporates in my throat. I'm too distracted watching him.

Reiss's movements are effortless. The flexed cords of muscles in his forearms as he steams the milk before he glides over to a tea station. He bobs his head to the café music, in a zone. Once again, I'm nobody to him. I don't pout or skulk over to a corner table, wanting his attention on me for a little longer.

I'm being silly. Reiss is at work . It's not like there's anything going on between us either. We had one moment at the party. Then, the thing at my locker. A five-second connection over shoes during the auditions. That doesn't mean anything, right?

I don't want it to mean anything, right?

"Careful." Out of nowhere, a plate and a mug are placed in front of me. "It's hot."

Without prompting, Reiss eases into the chair opposite me. One table over, Ajani's already sipping her tea.

I blink at the cinnamon roll drizzled in icing he brought. Then, the steaming mug. The drink's perfectly silky brown surface is broken up by white latte art.

"Is that…" I examine it closely. "An alien?"

"A panda . Don't judge me." His cheeks are glowing. "I'm no good under pressure."

"Performance anxiety?" I find myself saying in a teasing voice.

He rolls his eyes, but the blush doesn't fade. He's not wearing his apron anymore. His pink waves look good against the yellow and blue of his striped T-shirt. When he relaxes in the chair, his ankle accidentally brushes mine. "Just try it."

I raise an eyebrow. "Are you always this bossy?"

"If the occasion calls for it." Another streak of rose tints his nose.

"Hmm." I skim my ankle against his. "Sounds fun."

He coughs, eyes bulging.

I carefully take a sip. The shock of flavor is instant. It's a hot chocolate, as good as the ones made by the chefs inside the palace, but different. Creamier, with pops of spice. Cinnamon and nutmeg and—

"Ginger," Reiss says, smirking at my stunned expression. "The Reiss Special."

"Why is this so good ?" I slurp more.

"It goes really well with"—he points to the plate—"that."

I've had cinnamon rolls before. Centauri's pastry chefs are some of the finest in the world. But this is…

"I think I'm dying," I moan, shivering. It's incredible. Tangy cream cheese icing. Buttery soft texture. The dough peels apart easily, revealing layer after layer of sugary cinnamon. "Who made this? Do you have personal chefs in the back?"

"Do we what ?" Reiss's eyes crinkle when he laughs. "It's just a cinnamon roll."

"How dare you," I say, mouth full. "This is a gift from the gods."

"We buy them from a local baker."

I wave off his nonchalance, sipping from my mug. He was right. The hot chocolate's spiciness with the roll's sweetness is unbearably good. I keep my ankle pressed to his. He doesn't shift away.

"I'm honored our little shop meets royalty standards," Reiss comments.

"It was…okay," I say, trying not to lick sugar off my fingers.

He stares at me weirdly. A wave of self-consciousness seizes me. Then, he's leaning forward. "You've got icing right—"

His fingers hover near the corner of my mouth. I don't breathe.

He jerks back. "Sorry, um—"

"It's fine," I say. I track the way he watches me, face reddening, while I glide my tongue over my mouth, licking away the stray icing. "Better?"

"Oh, fuck," he whispers, then nods. "Sure. Great."

The squeak in his voice is cute. Wordlessly, Ajani shifts to a different corner of the café. Not without shooting me a judging stare, first.

"Are you on break?" I ask Reiss.

"They made me take one." He signals toward an older woman behind the register, rearranging coffee bags, and a tall, brawny man wiping down the espresso machine. His parents, I deduce. Both share little features I can see in Reiss. "Guess I'm making it hard to beat those social outcast allegations."

I shrug. "Better than a pretentious prince."

" Arrogant ," he corrects, biting on what I hope is the start of a smile. "And the jury's still out on you."

We go quiet. Like at the party, music settles between us. I'm not used to this. Wanting to fill the spaces with words. Worrying that my silence will be the reason someone walks away.

Loneliness and I are soulmates. The closest people to me, outside of my family, are the palace's staff. Every interaction I had at Académie des Jeunes Dirigeants felt cursory. I was the prince to them, nothing more. No one wanted to put in the effort of getting to know the other sides of me.

Kofi was the exception, but even he walked away.

Sometimes, with Léon, I wondered if he stuck around out of obligation. Because of the connection our papas share. Not because he loved the real me.

Too many seconds pass before I realize I'm too far in my own head.

"So, His Royal Arrogance has a sweet tooth," Reiss finally says. He stares at me, considering. "What else?"

I blurt out, " The Way He Looks ."

Deep, confused wrinkles form in his forehead.

"That's my…" I pause, trying to sound a little less unhinged. "That's my favorite film."

He nods without saying anything else. I take that as a cue to continue.

"I watched it years ago. On a jet somewhere," I say.

It popped up in my Recommended For You list on YouTube. I remember curling up in a soft leather seat. Earbuds in. Eyes glued to the screen as a sweet love story between a blind boy and the new student in his class bloomed.

"I don't know." I shrug. "I wanted that. To fall in love with someone who'll walk me home. Who makes me dance. Who holds my hand when the world is mocking us."

My face instantly heats. Why did I tell him all that?

Reiss's lips slowly lift.

"There's one scene," I continue, smiling sheepishly. "The boys sneak out. To watch the eclipse. On the way home, Gabriel, the new boy, gives Leonardo a ride on the back of his bike. It's this moment—" My breath catches. "Leonardo smiles. He trusts Gabriel. Nothing bad will happen as long as he's with him. It's…"

I trail off, barely able to swallow. I'm almost scared to look at Reiss.

But I do.

He's grinning. "I've seen it," he admits. "A prince with solid taste in films? Damn. Didn't expect that."

Something squeezes my chest. Pride? Happiness? I could never convince Léon to watch The Way He Looks . To get him to see what it meant to me.

But something in Reiss's expression tells me he understands.

I clear my throat. "What about you? I saw all those movie posters on your Instagram—"

The moment it's out, I cringe hard. Well, shit .

I ignore Reiss's sly grin to finish: "What's your favorite film?"

He doesn't hesitate. " God's Own Country ."

"I don't know it."

Reiss groans like I've offended generations of queer filmmakers. Within seconds, he launches into his favorite parts. The gorgeous imagery. Moments where the cinematography left him speechless. The way the movie speaks with very little dialogue.

"And the wall scene!"

He's all animated hand gestures, wild expressions. It's fascinating. A little funny, too.

"It's the reason I got into directing," he says, his voice softening. His ankle shifts away. Mine instinctively follows.

"Go on," I request.

"I'm applying to USC's School of Cinematic Arts." He drums his fingers on the table's edge. "I worked so hard to earn my scholarship to Willow Wood. It's gonna look great on my college app. Going to USC is my dream."

"Wait." I jolt. "USC? My mom graduated from there."

"I know," he admits with a guilty smile. "I might've googled you. Low-level shit only. No wiki pages."

I flex an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Tell me, Reiss Hayes, are you secretly writing fanfic about me? What's your AO3 username?"

His mouth opens, another admission so close to his lips. He stops, shaking his head. "You're a certified asshole."

"I prefer Your Royal Asshole, thank you."

He snorts. For a moment, I stare at his mouth. The way his teeth pull on his lower lip, leaving it redder and fuller.

Eventually, he says, "What do you dream about?"

Home almost crosses my tongue. I swallow it back. Telling him that could ruin everything I'm working for.

Truth is, I don't have another answer. Royals don't get to dream. It's the crown, first. Duty and service to your people above everything. Just because I want to go to university, spend four years discovering myself like Mom did, doesn't mean it'll happen.

What would I even study?

And I can't have what two movie characters had. Or what Papa and Mom had either—falling in love over macarons during a one-week holiday. Look at my history. It didn't work with Léon, and we live in the same country. What normal boy wants to suffer through all the drama of dating a royal?

"Hey"—Reiss nudges my ankle—"what's with that expression?"

Reflexively, I reach up to touch my cheeks and brow. Oh .

"My sister calls it RPF," I say, self-conscious. "Resting prince face."

Reiss chokes on a laugh. "Wow. That's…awful."

I kick his shin.

" Ow . Fine." He edges his chair back. "I don't care what you dream about."

My shoulders relax, relieved he's letting it go. But then he stands, picking up the plate. We reach for the mug at the same time, fingers brushing. His knuckles are soft. I steady his hand when he almost drops everything.

His stare is like a wildfire under my skin.

"Uh," he stammers, "my break's over."

Before he's too far away, I ask, "Does this mean we're…okay? I can stop avoiding you?" My lips tick up. "For status purposes, of course."

His mouth twists into that crooked grin. "No. We're not okay."

My expression falters. "Why not?"

"You still haven't apologized," is all he says, adjusting the dishes in his hand. He starts to leave, then pauses. "But at least I know you're not the monster everyone says you are."

"That's a start!" I insist.

"Watch that movie, Your Royal Arrogance, or I'll tell everyone you can't open your own locker!" he half-yells with absolutely no conviction in his voice.

A full minute passes before I turn to look outside. My reflection in The Hopper's main window is absurd. Unforgivable.

Who the hell does Reiss Hayes think he is, making me smile this hard?