Page 42 of The Impossible Princess
“Penguin vomit is an allegory.”
Drain.
His gaze softens and shifts, and he lets me choose a Kroner film—all slapstick and sight gags—but twenty minutes in, his hand resting across my ankles isn’t enough. I shift, rotating until I’m tucked up at his side. Friends do this.
Then he moves his arm along the back of the sofa, and I scooch closer. Friends do this, too.
He doesn’t say a word about the cinematic genius of Aksel Kroner, but I laugh so hard I cry, pulling up the cuff of my sweatshirt and wiping away tears. We talk through the credits and talk until the screen goes blue.
“My godmother loves these movies. We used to watch them together.”
“Used to?” His fingers comb through my hair, lifting the strands and letting them fall against my back.
“She’s—” What do I say? My godmother isn’t gone. I’m lucky so much of her is left. “Her memory isn’t—sometimes she still calls me Clara but usually not.”
He pulls me closer. I brace myself, my hand resting over his heart, and every centimeter of my skin is alive to his nearness. He places his palm over it, his breath matching mine.
“How’s her health?”
“Mostly good. She has a little cottage on the palace grounds, and it’s calm for her there, unchanging. It’s ideal when you consider how many people have to live in care centers or nursing homes.” I shake my head, desperate to stay focused. “I’m not saying that some of them aren’t quite good. I toured one last year with my sister. Vorburg has a lot of innovations in that line.”
“Vorburg? Something good comes from Vorburg?”
I give a little laugh, and kneeling on the sofa, I pull away. My glance catches the TV. A clock is bouncing slowly from one corner of the screen to the other. 2:14 AM. Security will be livid. I give Max an apologetic look. “I’ve kept you awake.”
“Isn’t that just like royalty,” he says, lacing my fingers in a loose grip, “always thinking they’re the center of the universe. I called you, Highness. I kept you up.”
“Next time you can choose. We’ll settle in for a night of burning Protestant Reformers. I’ll even bring the licorice.” Our mouths are keeping things light and friendly. The rest of our bodies are having another conversation entirely.
“I love licorice.”
I glance down at our hands, at the slow drag of his fingertips across my palm. I’ve been so good for so long. So good. It’s no wonder I’m slipping now. No wonder I’m slipping with him. “Why did you ask me to come, Max?”
He smiles a lopsided grin. “I didn’t know your taste in movies was so bad.”
I wrap my arms around him. “I wanted to see you too,” I say, the words muffled against his shoulder as he returns my embrace.
This is dangerous. I’ve walked so far down a forbidden path tonight that the usually deafening roar of royal duty and my mother’s wishes have been drowned out by how much I want him to kiss me. Still, I haven’t said anything I can’t take back. I haven’t said anything I can’t hide under the broad umbrella of friendship. I’m still safe.
His heartbeat is strong, and I hold my breath in case moving triggers another look at the clock.
He rests his head on mine. “Rough day?”
I nod.
“Mine too.”
My arms tighten around him, and I smell his particular dusky citrus scent. I’m convinced I could pick him out of a crowd of thousands blindfolded.
“Max?” I ask.
He takes a breath. “What?”
The reservoir is spilling over, water cascading down the dam, ominous patches developing in the earthen embankment. The ground is practically shaking. I have been so good for so long. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right.”
Do I sense a hesitation?
