Page 66 of The Unlikely Heir
Here’s something to make you smile. I saw this in Brussels and thought of you.
A lump forms in my throat as I stare at the photo of the tiny yellow dandelion surrounded by gray.
Swallowing hard, I try for a lighthearted reply.
I’m so glad invasive weeds make you think of me.
It’s a spot of hidden beauty.
Yeah, I got that, Oliver. I also get that every time you show me this unexpected side of yourself, I fall deeper into my crush. I’m in so deep now that I don’t know how I’ll extract myself.
I don’t type that message though.
Instead, I do a quick Google and go with my trademark, a random piece of information.
Fun fact: every part of a dandelion plant is useful. Its roots, leaves, and flowers.
Maybe I should have tried harvesting it then.
Side hustle of the prime minister: selling dandelions. I can see it. I might join you if this royalty thing doesn’t work out. Although maybe I should take Nigel’s suggestion. Maybe being a jester is the right career path for me.
I’m trying to make light of it, but part of me is withering inside. When you’ve always had a sneaking suspicion the world sees you as the punchline to a joke, it’s not nice to have it confirmed.
Oliver doesn’t reply.
Is my self-pity too much for him?
As the minutes tick by and my phone remains silent, doubt and self-recrimination make themselves at home in my head.
Do I really have any right to complain?
After all, I have so much privilege. I never knew any kind of deprivation growing up. And now I’ve been thrust into a world of absolute abundance where very few material things are beyond my reach.
Oliver grew up surrounded by poverty and has known real hardships in his life. Maybe he’s decided he’s had enough of a self-pitying, whining prince. Maybe he thinks I need to toughen up and accept this is the trade-off for a life where I get opportunities and experiences most people could only dream of. I just have to accept that I will constantly be judged and ridiculed.
My phone beeps and my pulse skitters. I pick up my phone in trepidation. Is this Oliver telling me to get over myself?
The message is from Oliver, but it’s not what I expect.
Are you free tonight?
How is it possible that four simple words in a text message can cause such a spike in adrenaline? Along with relief.
I quickly type out my reply.
Yes.
Do you want to come on an outing with me?
A lightness fills my chest, like my lungs have turned into hot air balloons preparing for lift-off.
Sure. But it sounds suspiciously vague.
I’m deliberately being suspiciously vague.
I can’t help smiling at that.
I’m sure my mother warned me against accepting invitations from suspiciously vague people offering to take me on outings.
