Horatio called out his good-bye, but Hamlet gave chase up the dimly lit, dark wood lodge steps. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?” he asked.
“It’d be weird,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. The suite my parents and I were sharing was the first floor up from the great room, so I was on the landing quickly.
“And it wasn’t weird with Horatio?” he asked, still following me.
“It was,” I said, stopping at my room, nearly catching my long hair on the antlers hanging from the door.
“So?”
“So nothing. I don’t want to.” The truth was I
did
, and that was what had me worried. I’d always been more than a little curious, and every once in a while, when I thought of Hamlet, it wasn’t just as friends. I had pangs of jealousy when he skulked off with some girl, and occasionally I looked a little too long when he locked lips with one of them. But with him front and center, and the possibility of his kissing me being real, I knew I should decline.
“Horatio got to,” Hamlet argued. “That seems a bit unfair.” He was acting like a spoiled little boy, which made me want to kiss him far less. Which is why I did it.
“Okay?” I asked, flinging my arms wide after planting a fast, annoyed kiss on him.
He stood really still, and because the torch-shaped hall light was directly behind his head, it made it hard for me to see his expression. Then he inched forward and I could see there was no mirth on his face, only intense desire. His palms cupped my face and when his soft lips brushed against mine, I wanted to both run away and stay there forever. This was bad because it felt so good. Better than good. It felt right.
I yanked my head back and said nervously, “Okay, then, so we did it. Now… good night.”
I fumbled with my key and then opened my door. When I stepped inside, he was still standing in the same position. “Huh,” he said, bemused. “Good night.” He walked away, running his fingers through his hair as he pounded down the steps, presumably to rejoin Horatio.
That night I could hardly sleep. I spent the first half of the night thinking about how beautiful Hamlet looked as he had come closer, and how amazing he smelled, and how confident yet gentle his touch was. I spent the second half of the night thinking about how stupid I’d been to allow it.
The next morning, I didn’t talk much to my parents at breakfast. And when we all got on the royal jet, I put my backpack on the seat next to mine and pulled out my homework. When Hamlet and Horatio tried to sit with me, I shook them off, claiming that I had tons to do, and tried to ignore the kick in my stomach when Hamlet leaned in to say they’d be mere feet away if I changed my mind.
When we were waiting for our bags to be unloaded, Hamlet sidled up next to me. “You’re acting weird,” he said. “We okay? I mean, last night—”
I waved my book right in front of his face. “I’m fine. Mrs. Bernstein is tough, though, and there was a quiz while we were gone. I need to do well on the makeup. That’s all that’s wrong.” In my attempt to sound normal, I knew my voice had gotten higher and less convincing.
He shrugged, fighting back a smile, or so I thought. “Movie tonight?”
I shook my head. “Studying,” I said, looking down at my book, hoping he couldn’t see the pages shake. How had I never noticed how darn good he smelled? Seriously. Like pine trees and musk and rosemary. Had he changed deodorant? Was he suddenly wearing cologne? He was going to have to move away or I was going to fling my book aside and smooch him right there on the tarmac in front of all our parents.
He left, and I was quite relieved to have escaped such embarrassment.
The next day, Horatio drove Hamlet and me to school, much to my concern. We rode together every day, and saying no would have been an even bigger clue that I’d totally lost it. But in the car, I couldn’t talk or join in the conversation. I sat in the back telling myself to stop thinking of Hamlet. Obviously, it didn’t work.
Wordlessly, I got out and waved over my shoulder to them, slipping into a circle of my friends, resisting the urge to watch him walk to his locker. Lauren asked how France was, and I answered in as few words as I could, and then Sebastian brought up a party they’d all attended in my absence. I breathed for the first time in over twenty-four hours.
First period was history, and Ms. Stone was delivering a heartfelt lecture on the importance of due process when Hamlet opened the classroom door and said I was needed in the office. As often happened when Hamlet spoke to the female teachers, her eyes glazed over in acquiescence. I never knew if it was his good looks or his celebrity that got them, or a combination of both. Leaving my stuff behind and wondering why I could be needed, I hurried out of the room and into the hall. Hamlet closed the door for me and followed.
When we were on the stairs, I stopped. “I know where the office is, Hamlet.”
“They didn’t actually call for you.”
I hesitated and started to get mad. “I have to go back to class,” I said. I had never gotten in trouble and didn’t want to start.
He caught me by the arm and said, “Ophelia, we should talk.”
I didn’t walk away, but I didn’t speak.
“I…” he began. “I never thought much about you in that way. You’re adorable and have a great body and—” He stopped when I crossed my arms around my middle. “This is coming out wrong. You’re younger and we’ve always just been friends, you know?”
I did. And though I knew he would be right to say things shouldn’t change, I braced myself because it was gonna suck having him tell me anyway.
“But,” he said. A magical word. “I… Oh, hell.” He stepped forward and pulled me close. My legs went weak as his tongue slipped into my mouth and he wove his fingers into my hair.
I stepped back. “This is such a bad idea,” I said, barely able to stand. “We
are
friends, and this could be a disaster.” He seemed as dazed as I felt, so I had the chance to continue. “When was the last time you dated someone for more than a month?”
The question snapped him to alertness. “Well—” he began, looking like he had evidence to the contrary, and then started to laugh when he realized he didn’t. “Ophelia, most girls are interested in dating a ‘prince’ and are not especially interested in me, which gets old fast, or they’re classmates who might see the difference, but once I spend more than a few minutes alone with them, I realize they’re really dull.”
I smiled. He had complained about this problem before.
“But you…” he said. “I know you don’t want me because of what I am—”
“I don’t?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.
His smile matched mine. “And I know you’re not dull.” We stood in silence. “I’m going away in less than a year, and who knows what will happen then? But after I kissed you the other night, it was weird because, well, I suddenly couldn’t think of spending the rest of my time home without you. And not the way things were before, but like this.” He stepped close again and planted a kiss on me that was so intense that neither of us noticed Mr. Johnson, the assistant principal, walk up behind us.
He cleared his throat. “Hamlet, this is not—” I leaped back in shock, and he said, “Oh. Ophelia. I didn’t realize—” Unexpectedly, he looked embarrassed. Then he went back to stern professionalism. “Why are you both not in class?”
Red-faced, I looked down and mumbled that I was just going. Hamlet ambled a few paces behind me and when I reached for the door to Ms. Stone’s room, he said quietly, “We’re not making a mistake. Don’t you see we were meant for each other? How can this bring us anything but happiness?”
I knew it was naive. I just didn’t realize how complicated it would become.
Almost two years later, when I was waiting for Hamlet to leave the reception of his father’s funeral, the memory was oddly comforting and sweetly distracting. I shivered, and Horatio threw an arm around me, making me glad that kiss between us had been so mutually unappealing, because Horatio was the best friend I ever had.
Hamlet came banging through the stairwell door, ripping at his tie. “Get this thing off of me,” he called out, then ran toward us and threw the tie over the edge.
“Hamlet!” I cried out.
“Someone can sell it on eBay.” He shook hands with Horatio, and we all moved to the patio furniture by the roses.
“How bad was it?” I asked as we settled on a pair of lounge chairs. Lying next to him, I felt warmer already.
“Hell. All those people talking to me like I could help their futures. And most of them didn’t know my father at all. Just met him during handshaking photo ops.” Horatio and I nodded. I shivered, and Hamlet put his arms tighter around me. “Actually,” he said to me, “your dad was the coolest.” “Coolest” and my dad were never before and never since mentioned in the same sentence, as much as I loved him, so this took me by surprise.
“He told me things about my dad I didn’t even know and gave me a letter my father wrote to me when I was first born.” Hamlet touched his suit pocket reverently, and I heard the paper crinkle. “It’s about my father’s hopes and dreams for me. About how he never expected to l—” His voice broke and he breathed deeply. “Never expected to love anyone as much as he loved me, and h… how it had only been a few days since I’d been born, and how he couldn’t im… imagine how he could grow to love me more as I got older, but that he knew he would. Pretty amazing stuff.” He looked away, and I held his hand tighter, willing myself not to think about the box of my mother’s journals that I had hidden under my bed, journals that said the same kinds of things about me.
Horatio got a text and, after he shoved his phone back into his pocket, Hamlet asked, “Kim?”
Horatio nodded and told me she was a girl he met at school. Hamlet said he liked her but didn’t sound too enthusiastic.
“What’s your problem with her?” Horatio asked. “Kim’s pretty.”
“True,” Hamlet agreed.
“And she’s an amazing writer.”
“Also true.”
“She’s fun.”
Hamlet remained silent.
“Life isn’t always about acting like an idiot,” Horatio said, his voice rising.
“Maybe not, but I know fun, and fun she is not.”
“Screw you. I like her.” Horatio turned onto his back and looked at the starless sky.
“Cut it out, Hamlet,” I said. For a cute guy, Horatio had been alone for a long time, and I thought it was nice he had someone. “Tell me about her, Horatio.”
He told me how smart she was, that they spent their time together reading and studying. I hoped they did more than that, though I didn’t say so.
I said he should bring her to the castle, to which he replied, “She doesn’t know I live here.”
I was shocked.
“It’s easier. I want her to like me for me.”
“Yeah, but that’s a hell of a secret,” I said.
“I’m good with secrets. Who knows if she is?” He shrugged. “This is separate from school.”
“I wish it was for me,” Hamlet interjected.
We nodded sympathetically.
“Funny thing is, I don’t even want to be king.”
“You don’t?” asked Horatio, as if it were the first time Hamlet had mentioned it. Maybe it was. I couldn’t remember it ever coming up. We’d thought his father would live for a lot longer, and Hamlet was rarely serious enough to bother talking about something so important.
“So don’t,” I countered.
“Oh, that’s rich. Your father tells you not to call me, and you don’t. But you want me to stand up to everyone? Say no to this position?”
I stayed quiet, knowing he was right.
“Hamlet, you have to do it,” Horatio said. “It’s expected. Your family’s been in power for generations. You’re next in line.”
“I know, but there’s no way. I’m not ready to lead anyone.”
“That is true,” Horatio agreed with a smile.
“Shut up,” said Hamlet, starting to laugh.
Horatio continued, “You can’t even decide what dining hall you want to eat in each day. How are you going to decide on matters of state?” Hamlet took off his shoe and threw it at Horatio, who caught it and threw it back.
As Hamlet put his shoe back on, he said, “You know I’ll be a figurehead as much as anything. Parliament makes all the real decisions. Even so, I’m not sure I want to…”
I asked, “Without thinking, what would you do if you could do anything with your life?”
A satisfied smile crept onto his lips. “I’d play my guitar.”
We all laughed.
Horatio teased, “You’d starve. You really suck at it.”
“I do not. Ophelia?” he asked, trying to get me to agree with him.
“Well…” I hesitated, trying to imagine Hamlet on a street corner with an open guitar case at his feet, hoping for spare change.
“Okay, you two, enough kicking a guy while he’s down. Have a drink.” We passed the wine around.
“Hamlet, what about someone else doing the job until you’re older? At least until you finish college,” I suggested.
He shook his head. “I don’t know how that would work. Maybe.”
Horatio looked perplexed. “Didn’t anyone mention a plan to you? They must have rules or contingencies for these sorts of things.”
Hamlet turned to me and said, “Your father started talking about it yesterday, but my mother stopped him. Said it wasn’t necessary to bother me with it in my grief.”
Horatio pressed on. “But you have to deal with it soon, right? I mean, the public wants to know—”
“The public?” said Hamlet. “Whose side are you on?”
Horatio took his iPod out of his jacket and focused on untangling the wires, knowing better than to keep arguing.
“Talk to my dad tomorrow,” I suggested.
“Can’t wait.” Hamlet sulked and drank more wine.
The next morning we were all in Hamlet’s room. Horatio was texting Kim, Hamlet was strumming his guitar, and when I wasn’t sketching Hamlet, I was staring at him. I admit it was pathetic, but I fell to pieces watching him play the guitar, no matter how good or bad the sound. Classic girl crap, I know. The hair falling over the face, the furrowed brow as he tried to get the chord right, the guitar resting on his knee just so. Sigh and sigh. I dug it. What can I say?
Anyhow, we were all doing our thing when Gertrude stumbled in, and she did not look pleased to find Hamlet with company. She was still in her shiny sea-foam bathrobe; her hair was matted and she had not taken off her mascara from the night before. My guess is someone had given her something to help her sleep, because it was eleven, and by that point in the day she had usually done her Pilates, showered, dressed, and answered selected pieces of fan mail. She clutched her bathrobe around her and asked if Hamlet would follow her out. Horatio and I exchanged glances, and he went back to Kim.