His phone had buzzed a few times right after we left the vehicle, but I think he must’ve silenced his phone because it’s been quiet since.
“For me, the fact that I don’t have to take pictures, and no one really knows who I am feels freeing. When you show up with a guy who looks like he’s a professional wrestler and an assistant, people know you’re someone, even if they don’t know exactly who, which means they linger until they figure it out. You have no idea how many times I’ve taken a picture with someone only to be asked who I was after.”
“Oh, your ego must’ve been crushed.” I knock my shoulder with his and he captures my hand in the exchange.
“I’ve just always been different than my family.”
My attempt at bringing humor fails, and we stroll hand in hand down the crowded walkway, the view of Brooklyn ahead of us and Manhattan behind. His admission only reminds me of how different I am from my family.
“Why?” I ask, curious to hear more.
“The cameras make me uncomfortable.”
“You’ve never grown used to them?”
We stop halfway across the bridge and lean on the railing. He takes out his phone and snaps a picture of the Manhattan skyline. “I’ve learned to tolerate them. Haven’t you noticed that most pictures of me are usually ones I had no idea were being taken?”
I recall the pictures I’ve seen of him online and he’s right—him jumping off a cliff, him on his four-wheeler back home, him entering or leaving a nightclub in Europe. The only pictures I’ve seen of him where he’s posed are the ones with his entire family or when someone he meets must request it.
“So living in the microscope isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? You’d give it all up to live a normal life where you have to make your own meals, do your own laundry, and work for every penny?”
He laughs. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
I join in on his laughter. “Yeah, I imagine it’d be hard to walk away from all that, no matter how much you don’t like the cameras.”
“It’s more my family. I can’t leave them, especially right now.” An awkward silence descends between us until he clears his throat. “Let’s talk about you. I can’t give away too many royal secrets to you.”
Panic squeezes my heart. Is he expecting me to talk about my family? That’s usually a no-fly zone for me. “There’s not much to tell.”
He positions me in front of the Brooklyn side and snaps a picture. I attempt to smile casually since this will be the only night I’ll spend with him and this photo will probably be deleted in a month. Then again, maybe he’ll keep it as a memory of a night shared with a stranger, exploring the city. A girl can dream.
We walk again, continuing on toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge.
“What about your childhood? Siblings? Parents?” he asks.
Of course we’re going to start there. “No siblings.”
“That’s it?” he asks.
I normally spurt out the news about my mom having died in the Iraq War just to get the pitying looks over with, but I won’t see Adrian after tonight, so I decide he doesn’t need to know that sometimes I chew the same cinnamon gum my mom always had in her purse to remind me of her. Or that I buy the perfume she wore so that the memories I still have of her won’t fade. Her voice quiets a bit in my memory with each passing year.
Tonight isn’t the night to tell him my sad story.
“That’s it,” I say and shrug. Nothing to see here.
“What’s it like growing up normal?”
I sputter out a laugh. “You mean not being followed around and having a list of royal duties?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“I don’t think it’s as liberating as you think it is.”
“Certainly more liberating than ruling an entire country.” We reach Brooklyn and he flags down a taxi. “Where to now?”
I slide onto the bench seat and he follows, his large body occupying the majority of the space. His long legs are spread wide, his knee dangerously close to mine.
“Wherever you want,” I say.
He smirks and shakes his head. “It’s your choice. The bridge was mine.”
“Bar?”
“Done.” He leans forward to talk to the taxi driver. “Best bar around here.”
The taxi driver glances to me in the rearview mirror like “that’s not my job.” But he pulls away from the curb.
“Aren’t you worried?” I whisper after the driver puts his earbuds in.
“Worried about what? Oh, taking over.” He shrugs. “I was brought up knowing it would be my role.”
He’s so forthcoming with me and here I am lying by omission, like I came from some great family. But this is only one night and it’s not like he has the ability to hide anything. His entire life is documented somewhere.
“I meant being”—I glance at the driver, who’s now having a conversation of his own with someone on the phone—“recognized.”
“I’ve gone this entire night without it happening. I think the majority of the time, if anyone does think it’s me, they talk themselves out of it. Because in their minds, a prince would come with an entourage and never be in their corner bar.”
That makes sense.
The taxi pulls up to the curb in front of a neighborhood bar that looks like it will be filled with regulars, not outsiders. But it’s probably better this way. His chances of being recognized here are less than at a club. I’m not the only girl in her twenties who follows the prince on Instagram.
I pull out some money, but Adrian shoos my hand away, pulling out his money clip and paying the driver. He wastes no time before taking my hand and opening the door to the bar, where “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard blares. I raise my eyebrows at Adrian, and he chuckles, pressing his hand on my back for me to continue.
We find a dark booth in the corner by a long shuffleboard, and an older woman comes over.
Pulling the pen from behind her ear and sliding on the eyeglasses that are hooked on by a chain around her neck, she prepares to take our order. “What would you like?”
I look over the menu in the middle of the table. “Martini with a lemon twist?”
She stares at me but writes it down and looks at Adrian. His good looks don’t faze her in the least. “And you?”
Adrian’s expression suggests he already likes her. I’m not sure what he likes. Her rudeness? “I’ll have a Rusty Nail. But can we start with two shots?”
Her pen stays poised over the paper, waiting for him to give her specifics.
“Woman’s choice,” he says.
Both sets of eyes land on me.
“You want me to choose?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Okay…” I think for a moment because what would a prince like as a shot? Surely he doesn’t want a girly one, plus I doubt this place would even have the ingredients for something like that. “Crouching Tiger?”
Adrian smiles and looks at our waitress—who never gave us her name, nor does she wear a name tag. She scribbles it down and walks away without a word, her glasses falling back down to her chest as she slides her pen behind her ear again.