The Royals Next Door by Karina Halle

Fourteen

It’s Wednesday, and I’m in hiding.

My mother is still not talking to me, though she’s out of her room more often. As a result, I’ve started hanging out in my bedroom. Trying to avoid looking at the internet and social media, because I know people are talking about me in some way. The other night, after Monica told me she saw my picture, I spent hours going through every single article or post there was about me online.

Yeah, my name is out there. Local schoolteacher Piper Evans. I’m pretty sure someone, aka Amy, tipped them all off to who I am. Luckily, none of the posts seem to focus on the fact that it looked like a date; they are more concerned with what happened next, when Harrison grabbed Joey’s thumb. A lot of the comments are about how Harrison is hotter than ever (I told you that he had a huge online following), and that the jerk Joey deserved it. Then again, a lot of people despise Monica and everyone associated with her, so all the comments from those people say that Harrison should be charged with assault and that everything Monica does is a disaster (Eddie’s name is rarely mentioned).

Anyway, none of that was good for my mental health. I’m just glad I destroyed the newspaper before my mother could see it and that she’s not one for being on the internet. In her paranoid, vulnerable state, this would really set her back.

Alas, I’m starting to realize that hiding out isn’t doing me any favors either. Part of me wants to hide out for the rest of the summer and not emerge again until the school year starts in September. The other part of me doesn’t want to be intimidated any longer. Why should my fear of what people will say about me control what I do with my life? Why give people that power over me? After all, they’re going to think what they want whether I’m inside the house or not.

So I decide it’s a good day to go into town. I’m going to go grocery shopping, get a coffee, go have lunch alone at the Treehouse restaurant (I mean, I’m not dumb enough to go back to the Blowhole). I’m going to do the things that scare me because I don’t want to be afraid anymore. If someone recognizes me and takes my picture, I’ll deal with it. I don’t need Harrison to protect me (not that I’ve seen him since he was patrolling in that boat, and even then it was from a distance).

It’s . . . not so bad.

I take the Garbage Pail to the grocery store and do a big shop for the week. It’s packed, a lot of tourists and seniors, our two competing industries here, and people are nice and friendly. I know I should go to some of the other coffee shops in town, but the idea of a cinnamon bun is too enticing, and as much as it would suck to see Amy again, I know I can’t avoid her forever.

As it goes, Amy is working.

I get in line, and she doesn’t see me until I’m right there.

I give her a sugary-sweet smile. “Hi, Amy. Cinnamon bun and a large lavender oat-milk latte, please.”

She stares at me for a moment and then looks over my shoulder, as if expecting Harrison.

I continue to smile, though it’s turning more wicked than sweet as she slowly puts in my order.

“I’m surprised to see you,” Amy says after she yells the order to the barista in the back.

“Oh? How so?”

“I thought you would be too embarrassed to show your face. Making the front page of the local paper, not a good look.”

“Hmmm. I didn’t see it,” I lie as I swipe my debit card in the machine. “But I do love publicity. I’ll have to hunt down a copy somewhere and frame it.”

She flinches. That throws her game off.

“It’s nothing to be proud of,” she says under her breath, handing me my pastry, which is mashed inside the paper bag, icing spilling out and onto the counter.

“Don’t worry,” I say to her quietly, wiping the counter off with a napkin and tossing it at her chest. “I’m sure one day someone will care about you enough to write you up in a newspaper. If not for being a bitch, maybe for being a shitty server and barista.”

And then I walk over to the wall to wait for my coffee.

She’s so stunned by what I just said that she stares at me for a few moments before the tourists waiting in front of her start waving impatiently in front of her face.

Then I get my coffee, the barista handing it to me with a sly, cheeky smile, and I’m out of there.

I grin and laugh to myself all the way to the harbor, where I find a bench under a cherry tree and enjoy the view, my heart racing, adrenaline pumping. I can’t believe I just told Amy off. That girl has had it a long time coming, but I really didn’t think I’d be the one to do it.

I have to say, it felt good. She probably expected me to smile forever or hide forever, but I am tired of faking it, being nice, and trying to get people to like me. Fuck them if they don’t.

I happily munch on my squished cinnamon bun, feeling like I’ve won something for once. Maybe my own respect for myself. Maybe I’ve owned the fear.

So I sit there for a bit under the sunshine, the fresh sea breeze in my hair, watching the tourists walk to and fro, smiling and happy to be in such a beautiful place, and I’m hit with the feeling that this beautiful place is my home and I’m not going to let anyone make me feel like I don’t belong here.

When I’m done with the sticky pastry and on a sugar high, I decide I don’t even need lunch after all. I did what I needed to do. So I go peruse one of the local bookstores for any new romances, pick up a copy of an enemies-to-lovers one set on a cruise ship, then get in my car and head back to the house.

I’m unpacking my groceries from the trunk when I hear a throat clear from behind me.

I know it’s Harrison. Trying not to sneak up on me this time.

I still don’t turn around.

He clears his throat again for good measure.

When I finally turn around, I do a double take. He’s carrying a loaded laundry basket in his arms. Dressed back in his usual, including his shades.

“Uh,” I say, “that’s not for me, is it? Because while I like to think I’ve been a good neighbor, doing laundry is below my pay grade.”

“The dryer is broken,” he explains. From the stiff tone of his voice, it sounds like this is the last place he wants to be, which makes me feel a little sad. “I was wondering if I could use yours. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“So they have you getting groceries and doing the laundry. Jack-of-all-trades strikes again.”

“Do you think this makes me doubt my own masculinity?” he asks idly.

No. Not even a little.

He continues. “You wouldn’t expect Agatha to walk all the way over here, across your rough and weedy land, with a heavy basket of laundry in her hands, would you?”

“ ‘Rough and weedy’? Those are ferns.”

“Your driveway has potholes that nearly swallow your car every time you drive on it.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Sure. The laundry is below the deck. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I walk past the car and down the side of the house, which, yes, is rough and weedy. There are some stone steps, but they are rather sporadic, and I could totally see Agatha losing her footing and having an accident here.

Under the deck there’s something like a basement, which has a big freezer where my mom likes to stockpile chicken breasts “just in case,” as well as some gardening equipment, tools, and old paint cans, and of course a washer and dryer. It’s actually not as creepy as it sounds, and we’ve tried to dress it up a little with some paintings and rugs and a heater in the corner to keep things dry and toasty.

But my focus isn’t on the décor. It’s on Harrison, who follows me down the path and into the room.

I don’t know if he feels it or not, but the tension between us is high. I mean, it’s probably in my head, but since it’s been nearly a week since I saw him, and I last saw him under strange circumstances, things feel strained and raw and weird.

But if he feels it, he doesn’t show it. In his professionalism, he strides toward the dryer and starts throwing the laundry in.

“I’m going to go unload the groceries,” I tell him.

“Need any help?” he asks, pausing.

“No. Just do what you have to do here . . .”

I leave the room and head back out onto the path and up toward the car, feeling uneasy. Not in a bad way, per se, but after everything, and especially after what Monica said, I feel like whatever strange and fleeting relationship we had before was . . . just that. Strange and fleeting. And that it won’t ever go beyond that.

And that doesn’t stop me from being foolishly disappointed for the way my feelings went. I never believed I had a chance with Harrison, never really thought he would be interested in me, definitely didn’t think that something would or could happen between us even if he was. But I still had feelings all the same, and there’s really nothing I can do about them except suck it up and try to forget about it.

It’s just hard when he lives next door. Even harder when he has to come by to do the laundry.

I’m heading back for the third paper bag full of groceries when I see Harrison going to the trunk of the car and scooping it up in his arms.

“I’ve got it,” I tell him.

“Oof, it’s heavy,” he says, ignoring me and brushing past me to the house. “What did you buy?” He pauses by the front door and peers inside. “A million bags of flour?”

“Shhh,” I tell him, trying to wrestle the bag away from him, but he’s not having it. “It’s a surprise for my mom. She’s . . . not doing too well.”

Harrison’s face softens. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, but please, let me have this.” I hold my arms out for the bag. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if she sees you in the house.” Another thing to set her off.

He nods, handing the bag to me, then anxiously rubs his fingers along his scruffy chin. “Yes, of course.”

I take the bag and head inside, placing it on the counter.

Then I head over to the door to close it, but Harrison is still there.

“Can I . . . talk to you?” he asks. “Somewhere private?”

I swallow. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it can’t be good.

“Sure,” I tell him, trying to smile. “How about the dock? I mean, my dock. It’s half-sunken, but as long as no media are out and about, we should have it all to ourselves.”

I close the door, and he follows me the other way around the house, past the garden (which I eye with disdain since the blackberries have returned), and down the rickety wooden steps that lead to the dock.

Even though it’s the afternoon and it’s north facing, there’s still a bit of sunshine left. I would usually feel relaxed the moment I step here, but with Harrison with me, there’s no chance of that. I sit down on the more buoyant edge of the dock and stare out at the narrow isthmus, the fancy houses that line the shore on the other side.

Harrison stands beside me for a moment, seemingly not sure what to do. Then he finally sits down on the dock beside me, crossing his long legs. Probably doesn’t want to get his suit dirty.

“So . . . what’s up?” I ask him, trying to keep my tone light. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I know,” he says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to come by earlier and talk to you, but . . .”

I wait for him to finish. Ahead of us on the water a fish jumps.

“I just wanted to apologize.”

I turn my head and squint at him. “What for?”

“For a couple of things. But what it really comes down to is that I’m sorry for being a wanker.”

“You aren’t a wanker—”

“No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “No, you’re wrong, Piper. I was a wanker. I got drunk and did things I shouldn’t have done. I acted like a bloody fool, and I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t embarrass me!” I exclaim. “Honestly, you didn’t.”

“I did. If I hadn’t been . . . If I hadn’t lost my temper around that cockweasel, then I wouldn’t have made front-page-fucking-news. And you would have been spared.”

“They didn’t name me, and anyway, I don’t care. I was there. I know what happened. You stuck up for me.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have.”

Ouch. Now that’s a blow to the chest. “But . . . I’m glad you did. You don’t know what that meant to me.”

“I acted like an idiot. Like I had no control. I just . . . lost it, at a time I shouldn’t have.”

“But you defended me,” I press on. “You defended me against a man who destroyed me, who made me feel gaslit, who made me feel like I had no place here or anywhere. You stood up for me, and you’re you and I’m me and . . .”

It meant more than you’ll ever know.

He frowns, and I see my reflection in the aviators. “What do you mean, you’re you and I’m me?”

I shrug. “You know. You’re . . .” I gesture to him and then wave at myself up and down. “And I’m . . .”

“This guy did a real number on you, didn’t he? Gaslit is the right fucking term. You sound just like him.”

I sigh. “I just mean, I’ve never had someone so . . . worldly and successful and smart and strong and respected go to bat for me. I’m used to having no one. To have it be you . . .”

I trail off and look down at the water sloshing rhythmically against the dock. I’ll say too much if I don’t shut up now.

“Then that isn’t right,” he says, his voice low, adjusting himself slightly to sit closer to me. “Because any man, any person worth their salt, would see how good you are. How sweet you are. How fun. You have a very pure, very big heart, Piper, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth your time. Sure, you run your mouth off a bit, but it keeps people on their toes. I know you keep me on my toes.”

“I annoy you,” I tell him. “There’s a difference.”

“You don’t annoy me,” he says. “You . . . transfix me.”

Transfix? Does he really know the way to my heart? Is he purposely going the Mr. Rochester route?

“Is it like staring at an eclipse?” I ask, half joking.

“Something like that,” he says after a moment. “Look at me.”

When Harrison tells you to look at him, you look at him.

He puts his glasses up on the top of his head so I can see his gorgeous eyes squinting at me. This feels like something big here, like this means something. A man who keeps his control behind a barrier is now baring himself for me to see.

Or maybe that’s what I want to see.

“I think you’re . . .” He licks his lips, and I watch, entranced. “A rare and precious thing. And it pains me to know how easily you’ve been discarded in the past, that others haven’t treated you with the respect that you deserve. And that’s why I need to apologize to you, because the last thing I wanted was to disrespect you or cause trouble for you. I fear I did that by not only making a scene in public when I should have been on my best behavior, behavior that was always supposed to reflect on you, but I got drunk and made you take me to your room. You put me to bed when I was a wasted shitbag; you took care of me. Were at my side when I had a nightmare, of all things. You did all that despite the trouble I put you through, and . . . well, my apology won’t ever seem like enough.”

I blink at him, still stuck on him calling me a rare and precious thing. I clutch that phrase to my heart.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, my throat feeling thick. “It’s really okay.”

“And I avoided you all week because . . . I was too afraid to face you.”

His eyes are downcast. Instinctively, I reach over and put my palm to his cheek, his skin hot from the sun, his stubble rough. “You’re facing me now. Please know that I always want you around, no matter what. And I accept your apology, even though I don’t think you needed to make it. I’m just so happy that you came with me. It meant a lot.”

“I really fucked that up,” he says, his eyes lifting to mine, his face turning just slightly so he’s close to kissing the palm of my hand.

Put your hand away. Stop touching him.

Remember what Monica said.

I relax my palm to let my hand fall, but he reaches out and envelops the back of my hand with his, pressing it against his cheek, holding it there. His eyes are searching mine, something very alive and anguished running through them. My palm tingles against his skin.

He closes his eyes and then moves my hand over to his mouth and places a kiss in my palm. Warm, fiery shivers cascade through my entire body, a fizzy, weightless feeling in my core.

Now I’m transfixed.

I just know that those lips against my palm are turning me inside out, and if this man were to ever kiss me on my mouth, I might not survive it.

He pulls my hand away from his mouth and lowers it, giving it a tight squeeze before letting go.

“I should go check on the laundry,” he says, his gaze leaving mine and staring across the harbor.

I’m certain that the laundry isn’t dry yet, but he obviously wants out of this situation. He gets to his feet and stares down at me. “Are you staying here?”

I shake my head. It’s so nice on the dock, but I have groceries to put away.

He puts his hand out and I put my hand in his, and he effortlessly lifts me to my feet.

With the dock slanted and unsteady to begin with, I rock a little on my feet, and his other hand shoots around to the small of my back, holding me in place.

Holding me against him.

His other hand lets go of mine and then slides into my hair, fingers gently working in through my strands, cupping the back of my head.

Friday night plays through my mind again, except this time we’re not in the dark of my bedroom in the middle of the night and he’s not disoriented and drunk. We’re on the dock, in the bright open sunshine, and judging by the searing clarity in his eyes, he’s sober as anything.

“I don’t know what to do about you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting across my face, settling on my cheekbones, my nose, my mouth.

I have a hard time swallowing. “What do you mean?” I whisper, afraid that if I talk anymore, any louder, that I’ll break this spell.

He presses his lips together, as if to keep the words inside. He shakes his head slightly, his brow crinkled. “If I were a lesser man, I’d kiss you right now.”

I blink at him, my lips burning at the suggestion, my stomach doing flips.

My god.

“If I were a lesser man, I’d gladly lose control,” he goes on, his voice low and rough and aching. “I would throw all caution to the wind, and I would give in and never look back.” He gives me a faint smile. “But I don’t want to be that man. That’s not who I am; that’s not who I’ve worked all my life to be. You deserve the best, Piper, but I can’t give you the best, can’t give you what you really need. It’s better if I stay away.”

Wait. Wait, what?

“Stay away?” I whisper, his fingers making a light fist in my hair, and oh god, it’s impossible to keep steady.

“I like you a lot,” he says, closing his eyes, still pressing me against him. “I like you more than I can come to terms with right now. It’s . . . a foreign feeling. But it’s not one that I can afford to feel. Especially when it comes to you.”

He leans in and kisses my cheek, slow and lingering, and then pulls back.

Lets go of me.

I am bereft without his touch.

“What if it’s not up to you?” I say quickly as he turns around, feeling panic claw through me. “What if I feel something for you too? Doesn’t that make a difference? Don’t I make a difference?”

He stops and glances at me over his shoulder. “It makes all the difference, Piper. And that’s the problem.”

Then he walks over to the stairs, leaving me on the dock with my heart at my feet and an aching emptiness in my chest.