Over the next few days, I start—as they say in the business world— “working my network.” Christian doesn’t love the idea that I’m moving to Seattle—he likes the challenge of setting me up with all his newest acquaintances, and ever since he lost his brother and did a stint in rehab, he’s been pretty protective—but he’s a good-natured guy with a gazillion contacts across the country, and he has an interview lined up for me in less than two weeks.
That’s a much faster timeline than I was expecting, but it just makes planning that much more important.
I start hunting for an apartment, working with a realtor that Christian suggested who takes me on virtual tours of apartments with her iPhone. It takes two full days, but I narrow it down to three contenders.
I also start checking things off my New York bucket list—all the things I meant to do while I was here and never got around to. I take the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty and go to the Museum of Modern Art. I run my favorite loops in Central Park. Carolyn and I hit our favorite restaurants, and she takes a day off work so we can run wild around the city, eating at food carts and shopping for some eclectic stuff for my new place. She has better taste than I do. We’re picking though some items at an antique shop in the East Village when I realize how much I’m going to miss her. My eyes fill with tears.
When she sees me crying, she rubs my arm. “Don’t worry, Jess. You’ll be able to visit all the time!” Her voice is chipper, encouraging, but the corners of her mouth turn down a little as she turns to look away.
Everywhere we go, I still can’t help but look for Alec. When we pass the Bystander one evening on the way back from dinner, Carolyn points to the door. “Want to go in for one last round? That place was always one of your favorites, wasn’t it?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and looking across the street.
She furrows her brow. “You sure? You know, I can handle a bar that’s less upscale than the Swan.”
“It’s not that—.”
Then her expression changes, and I know she’s remembering that it’s where I first met Alec. “Oh, my God, how could I forget?” she says apologetically, then puts her hand on my elbow, picking up the pace. “Let’s go to that wine bar you like.”
“That wine bar is expensive.”
She slaps me lightly on the arm. “We both know that it’s my treat. You’re moving away soon—who else will I have to spoil once you’re gone?”
The days go by in a blur of packing, sorting, planning. Carolyn interrupts me in the middle of a two-hour decision marathon about my next apartment.
“Are you sure you’re into this?” she asks from the doorway to my bedroom.
“Yeah,” I say. “Why? Also, what do you think of this place? Should I go with the bigger one, or the one closer to my potential job?”
“For someone who hated the scheduling over in Saintland, you’re sure becoming a planner. Are you positive you’re not doing this instead of going back across the pond and kissing that sexy prince on the mouth one more time?”
“Yes,” I say stubbornly, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Apartments.”
But her words ring in my ears.
I shake them out. It’s too late for that now.
Chapter 44
Alec
It’s another day later—maybe two—when Nate drives me back home from the date with Mariana Moretti. As the streets of Sainthall roll by outside my window, an image of Jessica, riding through these same streets—in what, a taxi? It must have been a taxi, I guess—pops into my head, accompanied by a fresh jolt of pain.
I’ve spent the last two hours sitting across from Mariana Moretti at the Diamond Circle, smiling like nothing is wrong and listening to her speak rapidly in her charming accent about a wide variety of topics ranging from Italian politics to possible vacation spots in Saintland to Black Mirror, a television show that’s apparently sweeping all of Europe up into some kind of fan frenzy. I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t watch a lot of TV before I became crown prince—I prefer movies—but now that I have so many other goddamn things to do, I hardly have downtime for anything else, much less watching TV.
That’s not what occupied my mind all through dinner.
It was all I could do not to completely lose myself in endless comparisons between Mariana and Jessica.
They’re nothing alike. The glint of light on Mariana’s dark hair made me think of how Jessica’s auburn hair would shine in that same light. The way she laughed, high-pitched and pure, made me think of the way Jessica’s voice pitched low when she was hot for me, her panties already soaked…
I run a hand through my hair and try—for the millionth fucking time since she left—to push her out of my mind.
“That could have gone significantly worse,” I say while we’re waiting at a stoplight.
“What could have?”