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“Is this a good idea?” she demands. “It’s not what we talked about, Het.”
“I wasn’t part of that conversation,” I say. “I haven’t been part ofanyconversation, so I think it’s a great idea.”
Abigail stands in the doorway, having a silent argument with Hettie. I’m not about to push past her or lay a hand on either of them to move aside, so I wait. Impatiently.
She looks different, not like the Abigail who had been my friend. The hair that had been a rainbow of colours over the years is back to basic black, cut short and sharp at her jaw. Her glasses are purple now, and there are more studs in her ears than when she left.
It’s her eyes that are the most different: still bright green, but no longer full of laughter and adventure. She looks at me warily, coolly appraising me.
I’ve never not been welcome in this house. Or anywhere in Laandia.
Finally, Abigail moves aside and I step into the house.
At least the house looks the same and I half expect Mrs. Locke to greet me with a snack and questions about my family.
But it’s only Abigail to greet me… and the sounds of girlish laughter.
“Bo…” Hettie puts a hand on my arm. “Let me first—”
“Do it now,” I plead. “I can’t wait anylonger.”
I think she’s about to argue, but with a shake of her head to Abigail, she leads me down the hall to the living room at the back of the house.
It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The place still smells like apple candles and cookies. The pictures on the walls are the same—photos of Abigail and her brothers over the years, the family grouped together with big smiles and funny expressions.
Hettie is in a lot of the pictures.
I’ve been here countless times with Hettie, with Spencer. This was where we hung out; a safe space away from me being a prince and from Hettie’s family.
I catch my breath before I step into the living room. Plants fill the windowsill, but I don’t go there because out the window, I can see the castle in the distance. The couch is new, but the comfortable recliner where Ted Locke would sit and talk books with me is the same.
Hettie and I, along with Spencer, would sit with Abigail and her parents, crowding around the coffee table or the kitchen table, and play games—Abigail loved board games. There is still a shelf full of them behind the new couch. Scrabble and Monopoly, Risk and Ticket to Ride.
Twister in the basement the night Spencer brought beer. The silly Ouija board Hettie demanded we try and then got scared when the thing moved.
But I’m not here to play games. And I’m no longer seventeen.
The television is on. She—Tema—is sitting on the floor playing with LEGO. I don’t make a sound. My heart stutters as Hettie lets me drink her in.
She’s—she’s beautiful.
Dark reddish hair caught up in an easy ponytail with frizzy curlicues surrounding her face. Pale pink Taylor Swift sweatshirt over bright purple leggings. Round cheeks in a heart-shaped face that is all Hettie.
She smiles at something on the TV, completely caught up with her life at the moment. A kids’ show on television, toys to play with. Her tiny hands press the colourful blocks together.
She’s mine? It doesn’t seem possible. This tiny person came to be because I loved Hettie, loved her so much that we made a baby.
That I knew nothing about.
I make a noise deep in my throat, full of pain and fear and anger—why didn’t she tell me? How could Hettie keep her from me?
What am I about to do to her life? How can I just show up and tell her I’m her father?
How do I even be a father to her?
Hettie puts her hand on my arm, which is a good thing because I was just about to bolt. This isa lot.This is a child—my kid.
How can I be a father if I couldn’t even be a husband?