Prince material, p.9
Prince Material, page 9
“Next Thursday. I’m nervous as hell, but—”
Nils was cut off by the sound of my door opening.
I turned to see Orson walking in, his backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing that soft, green sweater that made his eyes look like molten chocolate. My heart did that weird flutter thing it had started doing lately whenever he appeared.
He stopped short when he saw me on the call. “Oh, sorry,” he said, already backing toward the door. “My study group was canceled, but I can come back later.”
“No!” The word came out louder than I intended. “I mean, stay. Actually…” I glanced at my friends on screen, who were watching with varying degrees of curiosity. “Would you like to meet some of my friends?”
Orson hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. I could see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also his desire not to make things awkward. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be,” I assured him, patting the space next to me on the bed. “Come on.”
Was I imagining the slight pink tinge to his cheeks as he sat down and settled beside me, his thigh barely brushing against mine? The contact sent a familiar warmth through my body that I tried desperately to ignore.
“Everyone, this is my roommate, Orson,” I said to the screen. “Orson, meet Greg, Nils, and Tore.”
“Hello,” Orson said, giving an awkward little wave that was somehow both dorky and adorable.
“Mate, Floris has told us so much about you,” Greg said warmly. “All good things, I promise.”
“All lies, I’m sure,” Orson said with a self-deprecating smile that made me want to list every wonderful thing about him.
“Actually,” Nils chimed in, “he mentioned you’re the only reason he’s passing calculus.”
I elbowed Orson gently. “See? I give credit where credit’s due.”
“Speaking of credit,” Tore said, “Floris tells us you’re into photography? Got any embarrassing shots of him we can use for blackmail?”
“Oh god,” I groaned, but Orson’s laugh next to me made it worth it.
“Sorry to disappoint, but Floris is annoyingly photogenic,” Orson said. “Even when he’s face-planted in a pile of leaves.”
“That was one time!” I protested, remembering how I had slipped on wet leaves that day and had landed rather inelegantly. Orson had taken some pictures before helping me up. “And I thought we’d agreed to never mention that again.”
Orson tapped his chin. “Funny, that’s not how I remember it. My recollection is that you begged me to forget it ever happened and that I told you I wasn’t sure if I could do that. I made no promises.”
That had the others in stitches, of course, even more when I pouted.
“You’re all terrible people,” I declared. “I don’t know why I’m friends with any of you.”
“Because we’re charming and delightful,” Greg said with a grin that had charmed countless tabloid photographers.
The conversation flowed easily after that, with Orson fitting into our dynamic as naturally as if he’d always been there. My friends asked him questions about his photography, his classes, his family, and he answered everything with that quiet confidence I’d come to associate with him. He and Greg got into an animated discussion about modern versus classic architecture, while Tore kept trying to get Orson to share more embarrassing stories about me.
“There has to be something,” Tore insisted. “You’re living with our resident disaster gay prince. Has he tried to microwave metal yet?”
“That was one time,” I protested, “and I maintain that container didn’t clearly state it had a metal handle. Plus, I was twelve, okay?”
“He did wash his red socks with a white shirt again last week,” Orson offered, his eyes twinkling. “Then declared his now-pink shirt to be the new fashion color this fall.”
“Betrayal!” I clutched my chest dramatically. “And here I was, about to nominate you for roommate of the year.”
When Greg mentioned something about his sister Charlotte’s latest charity event, I caught the slight widening of Orson’s eyes, the barely perceptible straightening of his shoulders, but he didn’t say anything. I watched him carefully, wondering if he was connecting the dots.
When we finally ended the call forty minutes later, Orson was quiet for a moment, still sitting close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“So,” he said slowly, “that was Prince Gregory… Right?”
“You recognized him?”
“Kind of hard not to. He’s only been on every major news outlet since birth.” Orson turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. “And the others?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. They’re also princes. Nils is from Sweden, Tore from Norway.”
“Oh god.” Orson buried his face in his hands. “I talked about architecture with the prince of England.”
“Technically, he’s not the prince of… Never mind,” I said quickly when Orson’s face tightened. “I know they’re all royals like me, but they’re my friends and they’ve had my back for as long as I can remember. It’s not easy finding true friends in my world.”
“I can’t believe I told a bunch of princes about that time you got stuck in the revolving door at the library,” he groaned.
“Hey, that door was definitely malfunctioning,” I defended myself. “And besides, they’ve seen me do way worse. Ask Tore about the time we tried to convince the palace guards I could speak to ducks.”
He let out a sigh. “I wish I had known. I would’ve shut up. God, I probably sounded like an idiot.”
“Hey.” I touched his arm gently, trying to ignore how my fingers tingled at the contact. “You were perfect. They loved you.”
“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”
“I’m saying it because it’s true.” I smiled, remembering one of my favorite movies. “Have you ever seen Notting Hill, with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Do you remember that moment where Julia’s character, Anna Scott, is giving that speech in the bookstore? About being just a girl?”
He nodded.
“That’s kind of what it’s like for us. We may be princes, but underneath, we’re just guys, standing in front of others, asking them to…” I trailed off, realizing too late what I was quoting, and heat rushed to my face.
Orson’s warm, brown eyes met mine, something soft and undefined passing between us. The air felt thick suddenly, charged with possibility. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Thanks for including me,” Orson said quietly, breaking the moment. But his smile held a warmth that made my stomach flip.
I watched him get up and head to his desk, presumably to study, and tried to calm my racing heart. What was happening between us? Was this proof that whatever it was, he was feeling it too? I had no idea, but was I brave enough to find out? The thought of ruining our friendship terrified me, but the way my body reacted to his presence, the way my heart lifted at his smile…
Maybe some risks were worth taking. I just had to figure out if this was one of them.
And maybe stop quoting romantic comedies before I completely exposed myself.
Though knowing my luck, I’d probably end up recreating the entire pottery scene from Ghost before I managed to actually tell him how I felt.
10
ORSON
I’d been at my desk for hours, working through problem sets and triple-checking my calculations. The familiar routine usually calmed me, but today something felt off, like that peculiar stillness before a storm that every New Orleans native learns to recognize. That heavy, electric feeling where the air pressed against your skin like a wet blanket, and even the birds go quiet, as if holding their breath. The kind of atmospheric tension that made the hair on your arms stand up and had you checking the sky, muscle memory from too many summers spent watching for that telltale green tinge in the clouds.
But why was I feeling like this?
Floris was out at some campus event he’d tried to drag me to, something about international students and cultural exchange. The room felt different without his constant motion and cheerful chatter. Quieter, but not necessarily in a good way. I’d gotten used to his presence, his ability to pull me out of my own head when I started spiraling into perfectionist territory.
It amazed me how quickly he’d become such an essential part of my daily routine. Mere months ago, I’d dreaded having a new roommate, and even more after meeting him, since he seemed so carefree and disorganized. But Floris had this way of making everything brighter, whether he was explaining Dutch water management with surprising passion or teasing me about my “excessive” organization habits. He slipped coffee onto my desk during late-night study sessions, dragged me out for actual meals instead of protein bars, and somehow knew exactly when I needed to be pulled away from my books before I drove myself crazy. The friendship that had developed between us felt like finding an unexpected solution to a complex equation: surprising but perfectly logical once you saw all the variables.
The phone’s vibration startled me out of my concentration. I rarely got calls. Mom preferred texting, and Tia was usually too busy as a freshman in college to check in with me regularly. The New Orleans area code made my stomach clench.
“Hello?”
“Orson? It’s Principal Matthews.”
My heart stuttered. Principal Matthews had been Dad’s friend, had given Mom her job after… after Dad had died. He wouldn’t call unless—
“What’s wrong?”
“Your mother collapsed during third period. They’re taking her to University Medical Center.”
The words hit like physical blows. Collapsed. Hospital. The room tilted sideways, and I gripped my desk hard enough to hurt. “Is she okay?”
“They think it might’ve been a heart attack. I called Tia and she’s already on her way to the hospital. Orson, if it was a heart attack…”
I swallowed thickly. “She may need surgery.”
“Yes. I know this is awfully inconvenient for you, but you need to come home. Your mom and sister need you.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll figure something out.” The words came automatically while my mind raced. Flights. I needed to check flights. But last-minute tickets were expensive, and the emergency fund Mom insisted I maintained wouldn’t be enough.
“Glad to hear that. Tia was very distraught, so Mrs. Bowman, Tia’s counselor from senior year, is with her at the hospital now. She has offered to stay with her until you’re here or your mom is released. Is that okay with you?”
Why was he asking me? I wasn’t… Fuck, I was the adult now. With my mom unable to make these decisions and Tia being so young emotionally speaking, I had to make the call. “Yes. Thank you so much. I will… I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I ended the call, my hands shaking so badly, I nearly dropped the phone. Mom. Hospital. Heart attack. The words swirled in my head, each one carrying echoes of that day on the roof, of water rising and choices that couldn’t be unmade.
Not again. I couldn’t lose someone else. Not like this. Not when I was too far away to help.
The door opened, and Floris walked in, his usual energy filling our small room. He stopped short when he saw my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“My mom…” The words stuck in my throat. Saying them would make it real. “She collapsed at school. They think it was a heart attack.”
Floris dropped his bag and was beside me in two strides. “Is she at the hospital?”
I nodded, my hands still shaking. “In New Orleans. My sister’s there, but she’s only twenty and has some developmental delays. She can’t handle this. I need to…” I ran a hand through my hair, trying to focus. “I need to book a flight. I need to go home.”
“Let me help.” His voice was steady, grounding. “I can call my travel planner—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “I can’t… I don’t need…”
“Orson.” His hand landed on my shoulder, warm and solid. “Let me do this. Please.”
I looked up at him then, really looked. His green eyes were serious, none of his usual playfulness present, only genuine concern and a steadiness I desperately needed right now.
“I can’t pay you back right away,” I said finally, hating how my voice shook. “Flights are expensive, and the emergency fund—”
“Stop.” His grip on my shoulder tightened slightly. “Money isn’t an issue. What matters is getting you to your family.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m calling my travel planner right now.” He was already pulling out his phone. “Give me your passport so I have your info.”
“I… I don’t have a passport.”
“Your driver’s license, then.”
Right. I had that. I handed him my whole wallet.
“Okay. Pack what you need. I’ll make sure you’re on the first flight home.”
I wanted to argue, to insist I could handle this myself, but the room was starting to spin and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Mom. Hospital. Heart attack. The words kept cycling through my head, each rotation bringing fresh waves of panic.
“Breathe,” Floris said softly, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. “We’ll get you there as soon as we can. Focus on packing, okay?”
I nodded, grateful for the direction. This, I could do. Pack. Simple steps. Logical sequence. One thing at a time.
In the background, Floris had switched to Dutch. It was such a harsh language, like he was choking.
When I had packed my bag, he finished his call. “Let’s go.”
“You got me a flight?”
He nodded. “You’re all set. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“How… what…” I struggled to form coherent questions as Floris grabbed my bag and steered me toward the door. “From Logan? You’re driving me to Boston?”
“No. I arranged for a private charter from Worcester Regional Airport. It’s leaving as soon as you get there, so we need to hurry.” His hand was steady on my elbow, guiding me down the stairs I usually took two at a time. “The pilot is already filing the flight plan and running the pre-flight checks.”
Private charter. The words penetrated my fog of panic. “Floris, I can’t—”
“You can and you will.” His voice was firm but gentle. “Let me do this for you. Please.”
Something in his tone made me look at him. His eyes were intense, almost pleading. “Why?”
“Because you’re my friend, and your family needs you.” He led me to his car, opening the passenger door. “And because I can help. It’s that simple.”
Nothing was ever that simple. But my phone buzzed with a text from Tia—it had been a heart attack, and Mom was in surgery now, needing a bypass—and suddenly, I couldn’t argue anymore. I needed to get there.
The drive to the airport was a blur. Floris handled everything, speaking quietly to airport personnel who seemed to materialize out of nowhere to escort us through security and onto the tarmac. A sleek private jet waited there, its engines already humming.
“I’ll let your professors know what’s happening,” Floris said as we reached the stairs to the plane. “Don’t worry about anything here, okay? Focus on your family.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Then, before I could think better of it, I pulled him into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” I whispered.
His arms came around me, strong and steady. “Text me when you land?”
“Yeah.” I pulled back, trying to ignore how right it had felt in his arms. “I will.”
The flight was surreal. I’d never been on a private plane before, and in any other circumstance, I might’ve been fascinated by the luxury surrounding me. But all I could think about was Mom, lying in a hospital bed while I was trapped in the air, useless.
The flight attendant kept offering me drinks and snacks but my stomach was too knotted to even consider food. I kept checking my phone, even though I knew it wouldn’t work at this altitude. What if something happened while I was in the air? What if…
No. I couldn’t think like that. Mom was strong. She’d raised two kids alone, worked full time, kept us all together after Dad… She wouldn’t leave us. She couldn’t.
But the memory of that day on the roof kept creeping back, the way the water had risen so fast, how quickly everything had changed. One minute, life was normal. The next…
My phone buzzed the moment we landed, making me jump.
Tia
She’s out of surgery. Doctor says it went well. Where are you?
My hands shook as I typed back.
Me
Just landed. On my way.
I hadn’t even thought about how to get to the hospital from the airport, but I didn’t have to. A uniformed driver was waiting for me, holding up an iPad with my name on it. Floris had arranged a car for me, and my heart filled with gratitude all over again. The black, sleek car was another luxury that would’ve embarrassed me if I’d had the capacity to feel anything beyond desperate urgency. The driver seemed to sense my state, breaking several speed limits as we headed toward the hospital.
New Orleans rushed past the windows, familiar and strange at once. The heavy air hit me as soon as I stepped out of the car, that distinctive mix of humidity and history that always meant home. But right now, even that felt wrong, twisted by worry and fear.
I found Tia in the cardiac ICU waiting room, curled up in an uncomfortable-looking chair with Mrs. Bowman beside her. My sister looked so young, her face pale and drawn, and something inside me cracked at the sight.
“Orson!” She launched herself at me, and I caught her in a tight hug. She was shaking, or maybe I was. Maybe we both were.
Whether it was because she’d been a preemie, because she’d been sick a lot as a child, or simply because she was born that way, Tia was sweet and lovely, but very young for her age. She’d been held back twice, and even now, Mom had hesitated letting her attend the local community college.
