Later, after Fergus closes the castle door firmly behind him, my grandmother stands beside me in the foyer, brushing her palms like she’s scuffing off dust.
“Well . . . I’m glad that’s over. Will you join me in the library for a glass of sherry?”
“Yes. There’s more we need to discuss.” I look her in the eye. “You’re not going to like it.”
She just nods, stalwart and unshakable as she’s always been. “I’ll tell Fergus to bring the extra-large glasses.”
THREE WEEKS.
It doesn’t seem so long. Only two more than one. Three weeks. It doesn’t sound so long to say it out loud. Only two syllables. But in some ways, the last three weeks have felt endless. Filled with self-doubt and questioning of what I should have done differently—what I should do now and next. The exhausting inner debate. Do I call him? Do I wait for him to contact me? Is he still filming? Should I go back to Anthorp Castle? Is he still there or is he behind the palace gates? There hasn’t been a word about him on the news or in the headlines. Why hasn’t he called? Does he ever think of me? When I told him I needed time and space, I didn’t think it was over. I didn’t believe that was really the end. Should I have stayed longer? Did I judge too quickly, did I leave too soon?
But it hasn’t all been regret and self-pity.
I stopped crying after four days.
I stopped checking my mobile for a text or missed call after ten.
After sixteen, I stopped looking up and down the street when I stepped out of the library, searching for a black SUV and wild green eyes.
After eighteen, I accepted that Henry wasn’t coming for me.
I still dream of him, though. Every night, in bed, I hear his voice and imagine his long fingers plucking at the strings of that old guitar. I see his smile in my mind and can swear I smell him on the bedsheets. And then the dreams come, but there’s not much I can do about that.
Because sometimes, life is very much like a book—we don’t get to write our own ending; we have to accept the one that’s already on the page.
Slipping back into my life was easy, because it was ready-made, like a child’s bin of LEGOs—the pieces designed to seamlessly interlock. Organized and scheduled.
But at the end of the first week, day seven, something strange happened. Something that turned out to be not so bad.
I began to look for ways to deviate from my routine. To move away from the consistency I’d once craved. I went into work early and left after sunset—not just to keep busy, although that played a part, but more because I was yearning for something . . . different. Something new. I satisfied the itch with small things at first: rearranging the furniture, hanging new drapes, walking a different route home each day, offering to sit with baby Barnaby from upstairs so my neighbors could grab a bite, popping over to Mother’s for dinner randomly instead of the staid Wednesdays and Sundays.
One night, Annie took me to a pub two towns over, to meet her new boyfriend, Wade, who thankfully isn’t at all a douche-canoe. The place was a bit rowdy, crowded, and loud. But I didn’t mind so much.
Another time, it was dinner and dancing with Willard. The funny part was, I kept glancing at the band while they played, because there was a pushing, pulling sensation inside me—and I had the maddest urge to pop up on the stage and grab the microphone for a song or two. I didn’t actually do it, but I thought about it.
And I wasn’t afraid.
Because once a shell is broken, it can’t be put back together again—not really, not in the same way it was. The cracks will always be there.
That’s the Henry Effect.
And it’s miraculous. Freeing. And despite how it all shook out in the end, I will always love him for that. I will always be grateful. And I will always remember the sweet, teasing prince who changed me for the better.
The symposium. My Waterloo.
The second week I was back at work, Mr. Haverstrom asked me if I would be presenting after all, now that my Palace business had concluded early. He told me he understood if I declined, because I hadn’t had the time to prepare a presentation.
He gave me an easy out. And I could’ve taken it.
But I didn’t.
So here I am. In the largest conference room in Concordia Library, facing a packed room, over two hundred filled chairs and more attendees standing along the back wall. All eyes on me.
Willard and Annie are in the front, as close as they can be for moral support . . . and to catch me if I pass out. I know my cheeks are bright, flaming red. My knees are trembling and my stomach spins like a top. As I step up to the microphone, the panic surges right up to my throat, threatening to swamp me.