Page 57 of The Thing About My Prince
It seems like sharing a room wasn’t even necessary. We’ve not been able to talk about the book in here because of the whole bugging situation. But, while it’s pointless on that front, I do like how comforting it feels to sleep in the same space as someone who sees a lot of things the same way I do.
Like last night, I tiptoe past the bed toward the bathroom, dodging the squeaky spots on the floor so as not to disturb her, if she is truly asleep.
As I brush my teeth, my eyes settle on the silk rose in the vase on the windowsill over the bath.
Motherfuckers.
And which motherfucker exactly is responsible for bugging me?
It’s shocking and yet also incredibly not shocking at the same time.
I can’t even bring myself to be furious about it anymore. Instead, I see it as vindication of my decision to get away from all this bullshit, regardless of what some members of my family and the media might say.
Fuck that whole “deserting his duty” horseshit.
It’s hardly like I’m a top-ranking royal. I’ve always had to earn my own money anyway. So why it matters to anyone if I make my living here or in the US, where I get way more privacy, I will never know.
The abandoning-my-country stuff is such utter bollocks. The royal institutions have done nothing but abandonmeevery time I needed them, every time the media turned on me.
After stripping down to my boxers in the bathroom, I head back into the bedroom with my pile of clothes.
This chaise is not exactly the most comfortable thing I’ve ever slept on, but being around my parents is so exhausting I could nod off on a clothesline.
Less than a minute after I’ve tucked myself in, Lexi mutters something.
Is she talking in her sleep?
I lift my head from the pillows to listen with both ears and also to peer over the foot of the bed to look at her. There’s almost no light in the room, but it’s obvious she’s lying on her back now, arms out of the covers.
“Oliver,” she says in a hushed voice.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
Or is she saying my name in her sleep? The thought of that is immensely flattering. Until a second later when I remember her life is currently wrapped up in writing a book about me, so it wouldn’t be surprising if I were occupying her brain at all times, even when she’s not awake.
“Why isn’t your mother more sympathetic about the way the press treats you?”
She’s not even close to being asleep.
I lie back down. “Do we have to do an interview right now?”
It’s only after I’ve used the word “interview” that my stomach lurches at the thought of the bug. But then I remember it’s in the bathroom, and the door’s shut, and we’re talking in whispers, so hopefully it can’t hear.
“Obviously, I’ve seen the old stories.” There’s a rustling of sheets that sounds like Lexi sitting up.
“You mean the ones where they called her shit like Her Royal Thighness and Lady inWeighting?”
“Can’t hear you,” she says in a strained whisper.
“The shit about her weight.”
“What?” her voice is a little louder now.
Now I come to think about it, we have no idea if there aren’t other listening devices in here that we didn’t find.
I push myself up to sitting so I can look up over the foot of the bed again.
And there she is, half sitting up, the top of her powder-blue pajamas showing above the covers.
