Prince material, p.11
Prince Material, page 11
“Oh, relax. I’m not going to tell anyone. Though I have to say, you’re not quite what I expected from a prince.”
“Thank you, I think?”
“It is a compliment,” she assured me. “Now, who wants seconds?”
12
ORSON
I woke up with that frenetic energy of a Christmas morning, and that despite having slept on our lumpy couch. A week of that and I wouldn’t be able to walk, but I’d bear it with a smile on my face if that was the price for having Floris here.
I’d missed him. Funny how that worked. I hadn’t expected to miss his constant chatter, his terrible jokes, even the chaos he brought to every space he occupied. But I had. It had felt like someone had dimmed the lights, though come to think of it, that was probably because of all the stress around Mom and not so much Floris. That seemed a far more likely explanation.
But the fact was that I had missed him. Now he was here for a whole week, and I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t quite believe he’d chosen to spend his Thanksgiving break with us instead of choosing one of the undoubtedly far more exotic options he’d had. He’d mentioned an invite to go scuba diving in the Caribbean, and yet he was here.
It had meant a lot to Mom too, I could tell. He’d loved her gumbo, always a surefire way to get my mom’s approval, but she genuinely liked him. She’d loved the gift basket he’d brought her, which had included a refrigerator magnet with cute little wooden shoes, a gorgeous colander with pictures of tulips, and oven mitts in that classic white-and-blue pattern the Netherlands were famous for. Delft Blue, Floris had called it.
We’d talked for a long time yesterday, all four of us, and he’d drawn even Tia into our conversations. She now stared at him with little hearts in her eyes, despite knowing he was gay.
I couldn’t blame them for liking him. What was not to like? He was the best friend I could’ve ever wished for, and I was stupidly excited to show him my city.
After a simple breakfast—I warned Floris to leave room for snacks—we headed out. The French Quarter was alive with its usual mix of tourists and locals, music spilling from doorways and mingling with the sounds of horse-drawn carriages on cobblestone streets. I watched Floris take it all in, his eyes wide as he studied the wrought-iron balconies and colorful facades. The morning sun caught his hair, turning it almost golden, and I forced myself to look away.
“This is incredible.” Floris craned his neck to study a particularly ornate balcony. His fingers twitched like he wanted to touch the intricate ironwork, an urge I was well familiar with. “It feels like I’m somewhere else entirely. It’s hard to believe this exists in the same country as Worcester, that they’re both in the US.”
“We certainly like to think we’re special,” I said with a grin. “And we have the language to prove it. Creole is nothing like you’ve ever heard.”
Floris turned to me, frowning. “I thought it was bastard French, for lack of a better word.”
I shook my head. “It’s a mix of French, African languages, Spanish, and Native American words that all came together in its own complete language system with unique grammar and pronunciation. Like, in French you’d say je vais for ‘I go,’ but in Creole, it becomes mo té allé. Mom’s family spoke it at home when she was growing up, and even though we don’t use it much in our house, you can still hear it all over certain neighborhoods, especially when the older folks get together.”
“Oh wow, I never knew. But you understand it?”
I wiggled my hand. “Enough to get by if needed, but I’m not fluent in it.”
We continued our walk, making our way down Royal Street.
“How did all this survive Katrina?” Floris asked. “The French Quarter, I mean. The water must have been brutal on these old buildings.”
My chest tightened at the question. “This part of the city is actually on higher ground, so it didn’t flood.” I paused, swallowing past the sudden thickness in my throat. “The water went other places instead.”
Something in my tone must’ve alerted him because Floris turned to study my face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s okay.” I took a deep breath. “I should learn to talk about it.”
He reached for my hand and held it for a moment. “Maybe, but when you’re ready. Not because I keep pushing you with questions.”
“It’s okay.”
He let go of my hand again, and I felt strangely bereft.
“So, where are these famous beignets you keep promising me?” he asked, and I appreciated his forced change of topic.
“Café du Monde is just ahead.” I led him toward the familiar green and white awning. “Fair warning: you’re going to get powdered sugar everywhere. It’s basically a requirement.”
“Food that requires wearing it? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
Leave it to Floris to get me out of my head.
The café was busy as always, but we managed to snag a table near the edge where we could watch the street life. Floris’s face when he took his first bite of a beignet was almost comical, his eyes widening as the hot, fluffy pastry practically melted in his mouth.
“Okay,” he said after swallowing, “I concede. These might actually be better than stroopwafels. Infinitely messier, but wow, they’re yummy.”
“I’ll take that as high praise.” I watched as he tried to eat the next one more carefully, failing to avoid the shower of powdered sugar. A white streak appeared on his nose. He looked so freaking adorable.
“You’ve got…” I gestured to my own nose.
He wiped at it, managing to spread more sugar across his face. “Better?”
“Worse, actually.” Without thinking, I reached across the table with a napkin, gently wiping the sugar away. His skin was warm under my touch, and our eyes met for a moment that felt charged with something I wasn’t ready to name.
I pulled back quickly, heat creeping up my neck. “There. Now you look less like you lost a fight with a powdered donut.”
“My hero.” His smile was soft, almost fond. “So, what else do I need to see while I’m here?”
The question brought back that familiar weight, the one that always came with thinking about my dad, about what had happened, about how I had failed him. But this was Floris. He’d chartered a private plane to get me home when Mom was sick. He’d become so much more than a roommate or friend. He was someone I trusted, even if that trust terrified me sometimes.
“There’s something I want to show you,” I heard myself say. “But it’s not exactly a tourist spot.”
He must’ve heard something in my voice because his expression turned serious. He reached across the table, his hand landing on mine for a moment. The touch was brief but grounding, giving me courage. “I’d love to see it… and listen to your story.”
He knew. It didn’t surprise me, and that, too, was a comfort. “Thank you.”
We walked in comfortable silence, leaving the bustle of the French Quarter behind. The streets became more residential, houses showing varying stages of repair and renewal. Some areas still bore the scars of Katrina, even after all these years—water lines visible on buildings, empty lots where homes once stood. Floris seemed to sense I couldn’t talk and he continued to walk quietly beside me, taking it all in. His hand brushed against mine from time to time, and I loved that casual reminder that I was not alone.
Finally, we reached the house. My old house. It looked different now. It was renovated, painted a different color, someone else’s home. But I could still see it as it was that day, water rising faster than anyone had predicted.
“This is where we lived,” I said quietly, “when Katrina hit.”
Floris moved closer, his shoulder brushing mine in silent support. He didn’t speak, just waited.
“What’s your first memory?” I asked him. “The first one you can remember?”
He smiled. “Sledding down a mountain in Austria with my uncle Friso, who is now king, and my cousins. I had just turned five. We were on a family trip there, and we were high up in the mountains, where there was snow even in the summer. My father didn’t like it one bit, as he’s afraid of heights, but my uncle lived for that shit. We didn’t bring a sled, of course, but he found a thick trash bag and used that. And off we went, me between his legs and him holding on tight to me as we whooshed down the mountain. Best thing ever, which is why it must’ve burned itself into my memory.” Then his smile faded. “But I’m gonna take a wild guess and say yours isn’t quite so positive.”
I shook my head. “I was four. Old enough to remember, not old enough to understand. Tia was only a few months old, and she was sick with pneumonia.” The words came slow, each one heavy. “She was a preemie, born at twenty-nine weeks with underdeveloped lungs, and she had bronchopulmonary dysplasia, a lung illness. That’s why my parents were so hesitant to evacuate. Putting Tia in a shelter full of other kids would’ve put her at high risk. And we thought we were safe here. The forecasts kept changing. First, they said the storm would turn, then that the levees would hold. By the time we realized how bad it was going to be, it was too late to evacuate.”
I could feel Floris’s eyes on me, but I kept my gaze on the house. “The water rose so fast. Dad got us onto the roof. He carried Tia up first, then came back for me. Mom had managed to get up by herself and was holding Tia. But I was scared, trying to climb too quickly. I slipped.” I swallowed heavily, the scar on my shin aching. “Cut myself pretty bad on the edge of the roof. Dad had to climb all the way back down to push me up.”
The memory was vivid: the howling wind, the rising water, my father’s strong hands lifting me. “He managed to push me up onto the roof, but then the current was too strong. He couldn’t hold on anymore. Mom tried to reach him, but…”
My voice cracked. Floris’s hand found mine, warm and steady, grounding me in the present.
“I watched him disappear under the water.” The words felt like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside me. “He died saving me. And sometimes I wonder… if I hadn’t slipped, if I hadn’t been so clumsy, he wouldn’t have had to come back for me…”
“Stop.” Floris’s voice was gentle but firm. “You can’t think like that.”
“Can’t I?” I turned to look at him finally, seeing nothing but understanding in his green eyes. “He was an engineer, Floris. He could’ve done so much good, helped so many people. Instead, he died saving one scared kid who couldn’t even climb a roof properly.”
“A four-year-old kid, who must’ve been terrified. A kid who grew up to want to prevent other families from going through the same thing.” His hand squeezed mine. “Who’s brilliant and dedicated and working so hard to make a difference.”
“But what if it’s not enough?” The question that had haunted me for years finally spilled out. “What if I can’t live up to his sacrifice?”
“Oh, Orson.” Before I could react, Floris pulled me into a tight hug. I stiffened for a moment, then melted into it, letting his warmth seep into all the cold places inside me. “You don’t have to earn the right to be alive.”
“But he died saving me.” The words felt like they were being torn from somewhere deep inside. “He could’ve stayed on the roof with Tia, but he came back for me. And now…”
“Now you feel like you have to live up to that sacrifice.” Floris squeezed my hand. “Like you have to be perfect to justify his choice.”
I looked up then, meeting his eyes. “How did you…?”
“Because I understand what it’s like to feel the weight of someone else’s expectations. To think you have to be perfect to be worthy of what they gave up for you.” His thumb traced circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. “But Orson, your dad didn’t save you so you could spend your life trying to prove you deserved it. He saved you because he loved you. Any parent worth a damn would choose their kid’s life over their own. That’s the whole essence of being a parent, isn’t it?”
“The last thing he said was, ‘It’ll be okay, buddy.’” I swallowed hard. “And I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so hard to be worthy of what he did.”
“Orson.” Floris’s voice was impossibly gentle. “You were four years old. You didn’t need to be worthy. You were his son. That was enough.”
“But I have to make it mean something,” I whispered into his shoulder. “His death has to have a purpose.”
“It did.” Floris pulled back enough to look at me, his hands warm on my shoulders. “It meant you lived. You grew up. You became this amazing person who cares so deeply about helping others. That’s more than enough.”
I blinked hard against sudden tears. “I miss him. And I’m scared of losing anyone else. When Mom collapsed, all I could think was ‘not again.’”
“I know.” His voice was soft, understanding. “Is that why you push yourself so hard? Why you won’t let yourself have anything beyond your studies?”
The question hit too close to home. “I can’t afford distractions. If I mess up, if I make the wrong choice…”
“Then you learn from it and try again.” His hands moved to frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You’re allowed to live, Orson. To make mistakes. To want things beyond honoring your father’s memory. But for what it’s worth, I think your dad would be proud of you. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re you. Because you care so much about helping others that you’re willing to give up your own dreams to do it.”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen how you light up when you talk about historical architecture and restoration. That’s your passion, not modern civil engineering.” He leaned forward slightly. “But you’re pushing yourself into a different path because you think that’s what you need to do to honor your dad’s sacrifice.”
“I… That’s not…” But the protest died in my throat because he was right. Of course he was right. “Civil engineering saves lives.”
“So does preserving historical buildings properly. Making sure they’re structurally sound while maintaining their character.” His voice was gentle but firm. “You don’t have to save lives the way he did or how you think you should. Sometimes, the best way to honor someone’s memory is to live authentically, to be true to who you are.”
I stared at him, this prince who somehow saw right through all my carefully constructed walls. “When did you get so wise?”
His smile was soft, real. “I’m full of surprises. Also, probably the sugar high from those beignets. They were seriously amazing.”
I laughed despite myself, and something in my chest loosened slightly. Leave it to Floris to lighten the mood with a joke.
“Want to see more of the Quarter?” I offered. “There’s this amazing historical house museum that shows the original Spanish colonial architecture…”
His face lit up. “Lead the way.”
As we walked through the familiar streets, Floris asked intelligent questions about the architecture, genuinely interested in the historical details I usually kept to myself. And if our shoulders brushed more often than strictly necessary, well, that was because of the crowded sidewalks.
The words he had spoken settled somewhere deep inside me, warm and healing. Maybe he was right. Maybe being alive, being me, was enough.
Maybe.
13
FLORIS
Orson’s bed was only marginally more comfortable than my creaky mattress in our dorm room, but it smelled like him, so I had still slept like a baby. Hell, I’d even slept in somewhat, not waking up till nine.
Thanksgiving preparations were already underway downstairs. I could hear Diana humming as she worked in the kitchen, the occasional clatter of pots and pans punctuating her melody. The sounds and smells wafting up were enough to make my stomach growl loud enough to qualify as its own musical accompaniment.
I’d offered to help the day before, but she’d shooed me away with a fond, “You’re our guest, honey.” Though I suspected it had more to do with protecting her kitchen from my questionable culinary skills than actual hospitality. Orson had probably warned her about the microwave incident and my general proneness to clumsiness. In my defense, how was I supposed to know that aluminum foil and microwaves were mortal enemies? That wasn’t covered in my royal education, though maybe it should have been, right between “proper tea-sipping etiquette” and “how to wave without looking like you’re swatting flies.”
Now I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush hanging from my mouth as I tried to tame my increasingly wild curls. The New Orleans humidity was doing things to my hair that defied both gravity and common sense. At this rate, I’d need a royal decree to get it to lay flat. Maybe I could claim diplomatic immunity from bad hair days? Was that a thing? Note to self: consult with the Dutch ambassador about adding that to international treaties.
Not that it seemed to matter to Orson. Granted, his hair was even wilder than mine, but it only added to his charm. My mind drifted back to the previous day, to Orson standing in front of his old house, to the raw vulnerability in his voice as he shared his story. The weight he’d been carrying all these years, that desperate need to prove himself worthy of his father’s sacrifice, explained so much about him. His obsessive studying, his reluctance to take risks or allow himself any joy beyond academic achievement, his fanatical attention to detail.
My chest ached for how young he’d been, only four years old, watching his father disappear beneath the rising waters. No wonder he triple-checked everything, planned for every contingency, always wanted to be in control. He’d learned too early how quickly life could change, how one moment could alter everything.
And yet despite that trauma, or maybe because of it, he’d grown into someone incredible. He was brilliant and caring and so much stronger than he knew. The way his eyes had lit up when we’d toured that historical house museum afterwards, his whole face transformed as he explained the architectural details… That was the real Orson, the one he kept buried beneath duty and guilt.
