We have a lot of work to do, hard conversations to be had, but this is our new beginning.
I focus on my menu as Andrew moves into the room and takes the third seat. Zack moves for the fourth, but my hand lashes out, and I curl my fingers around the back of the chair.
“I’m not ready,” I tell him, and he nods. But then, of course, he takes up a table one over from us, watching and waiting.
“She’s eating in The Mess,” Zack says, lifting his eyes to look up at Tristan, and then Creed. Zayd comes in a moment later with Becky clinging to his arm like a leech. My blood goes cold at the sight, and I whip out my journal again, scribbling furiously in it. My eyes lift from the page to find Tristan’s gaze locked on me. He scowls and turns away, storming out of the dining hall and slamming the door behind him.
Zayd and Creed say nothing, moving past me to sit at the Bluebloods’ table in the corner.
I glance at Zack, and he gives me a small, private little smile that Miranda notices, sucking in a deep breath.
“You have so much to tell me,” she whispers, and I grin.
It’s good to have her back … even if I don’t trust her. Not yet anyway.My room is much the same as it was last year with the exception of one thing: new locks on the door. Not that I think it’ll stop the Bluebloods completely, but it should buy me some extra time.
Miranda takes a spot on the end of my bed, and this strenuous silence falls between us. I bite my lip and lean my back against the door, searching for the right words to say.
“There’s so much I need to tell you,” she starts, taking the words right out of my mouth. Her blue eyes flick up to mine, and I hate that her gaze reminds me so much of Creed. I don’t want to think about Creed unless I’m thinking about how to destroy him. “First off: have you heard about Windsor York?”
My brows go up. The name isn’t familiar, so I shake my head, pushing off from the door and moving over to the fridge in the kitchenette for a pair of sodas. I toss one to Miranda as she grins big.
“He’s tenth in line for the throne, you know,” she continues, popping the top on her can and taking a sip.
“The throne … what throne?” I ask, and Miranda laughs.
“You really don’t keep up on current events, do you?” she asks, cocking a brow. She flashes me a smile before continuing on. “The throne of England, silly, duh. You know, like Prince William and his wife, Kate?” I just stare at her. “Kate Middleton? Like, everyone is talking about her? Prince Harry and Meghan Markle? No?!” Miranda exhales and stands up, like this is too important to let go of. Personally, I think this is a stall tactic to keep us from discussing real issues. She waves her hand dismissively. “Windsor is, like, well, technically he’s a prince. He’s the queen’s great-grandson” I just stare at her as she bites her lower lip. “He stole his parents’ yacht and crashed into a dock, sent ten people to the hospital. He’s just lucky he didn’t kill anyone.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, opening my own soda and taking a drink. The fizzy liquid coats my tongue as I look Miranda in the eyes and try to pretend like nothing happened between us. So much did. So, so much. But how do I even broach the subject? “Miranda, I’m—” I move to apologize again, but she cuts me off. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it at all?
“He’s been kicked out of so many schools all over Europe. They really want him to get his act together, so they’re sending him overseas.” She grins at me and then picks at the top of one of her socks. She’s got on the super tall ones today, too. I wonder if she’s still seeing that girl, Jessie Maker. Do I even have a right to ask? I figure I probably don’t. “Specifically, they’re sending him to America.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “California.”
“So?” I ask again, and Miranda leaps to her feet.
“There are only three prep schools in California worthy of a prince: Coventry Prep, Beverly Hills Prep, and Burberry Prep. Marnye, I’m pretty sure he’s coming here.” I’m not entirely sure what this conversation has to do with anything, but I also don’t want to spit on Miranda’s goodwill, so I make myself smile.
“That’s amazing,” I tell her, my voice far too soft for such a normal conversation. She stops talking and her mouth purses into a thin line, eyes flicking to the side, like she can’t quite bear to look at me full-on just yet. I try one last time. “Miranda, I …”
