“The official family name is Mountchristen-Windsor,” Henry says. “Hyphenate, like yours. So my full name is … Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor.”
Alex gapes up at the ceiling. “Oh … my God.”
“Truly.”
“I thought Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz was bad.”
“Is that after someone?”
“Alexander after the founding father, Gabriel after the patron saint of diplomats.”
“That’s a bit on the nose.”
“Yeah, I didn’t have a chance. My sister got Catalina June after the place and the Carter Cash, but I got all the self-fulfilling prophecies.”
“I did get both of the gay kings,” Henry points out. “There’s a prophecy for you.”
Alex laughs and kicks his files for the campaign away. He’s not coming back to them tonight. “Three last names is just mean.”
Henry sighs. “In school, we all went by Wales. Philip is Lieutenant Windsor in the RAF now, though.”
“Henry Wales, then? That’s not too bad.”
“No, it’s not. Is this the reason you phoned?”
“Maybe,” Alex says. “Call it historical curiosity.” Except the truth is closer to the slight drag in Henry’s voice and the half step of hesitation before he speaks that’s been there all week. “Speaking of historical curiosity, here’s a fun fact: I’m sitting in the room Nancy Reagan was in when she found out Ronald Reagan got shot.”
“Good Lord.”
“And it’s also where ol’ Tricky Dick told his family he was gonna resign.”
“I’m sorry—who or what is a Tricky Dick?”
“Nixon! Listen, you’re undoing everything this country’s crusty forefathers fought for and deflowering the darling of the republic. You at least need to know basic American history.”
“I hardly think deflowering is the word,” Henry deadpans. “These arrangements are supposed to be with virgin brides, you know. That certainly didn’t seem to be the case.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m sure you picked up all those skills from books.”
“Well, I did go to uni. It just wasn’t necessarily the reading that did it.”
Alex hums in suggestive agreement and lets the rhythm of banter fall out. He looks across the room—the windows that were once only gauzy curtains on a sleeping room for Taft’s family on hot nights, the corner now stacked with Leo’s old comic book collectibles where Eisenhower used to play cards. The stuff underneath the surface. Alex has always sought those things out.
“Hey,” he says. “You sound weird. You good?”
Henry’s breath catches and he clears his throat. “I’m fine.”
Alex doesn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch in a thin thread between them before he cuts it. “You know, this whole arrangement we have … you can tell me stuff. I tell you stuff all the time. Politics stuff and school stuff and nutso family stuff. I know I’m, like, not the paragon of normal human communication, but. You know.”
Another pause.
“I’m not … historically great at talking about things,” Henry says.
“Well, I wasn’t historically great at blowjobs, but we all gotta learn and grow, sweetheart.”
“Wasn’t?”
“Hey,” Alex huffs. “Are you trying to say I’m still not good at them?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Henry says, and Alex can hear the small smile in his voice. “It was just the first one that was … Well. It was enthusiastic, at least.”
“I don’t remember you complaining.”
“Yes, well, I’d only been fantasizing about it for ages.”
“See, there’s a thing,” Alex points out. “You just told me that. You can tell me other stuff.”
“It’s hardly the same.”
He rolls over onto his stomach, considers, and very deliberately says, “Baby.”
It’s become a thing: baby. He knows it’s become a thing. He’s slipped up and accidentally said it a few times, and each time, Henry positively melts and Alex pretends not to notice, but he’s not above playing dirty here.
There’s a slow hiss of an exhale across the line, like air escaping through a crack in a window.
“It’s, ah. It’s not the best time,” he says. “How did you put it? Nutso family stuff.”
Alex purses his lips, bites down on his cheek. There it is.
He’s wondered when Henry would finally start talking about the royal family. He makes oblique references to Philip being wound so tight as to double as an atomic clock, or to his grandmother’s disapproval, and he mentions Bea as often as Alex mentions June, but Alex knows there’s more to it than that. He couldn’t tell you when he started noticing, though, just like he doesn’t know when he started ticking off the days of Henry’s moods.
“Ah,” he says. “I see.”
“I don’t suppose you keep up with any British tabloids, do you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Henry offers the bitterest of laughs. “Well, the Daily Mail has always had a bit of an affinity for airing our dirty laundry. They, er, they gave my sister this nickname years ago. ‘The Powder Princess.’”
A ding of recognition. “Because of the…”
“Yes, the cocaine, Alex.”
“Okay, that does sound familiar.”
Henry sighs. “Well, someone’s managed to bypass security to spray paint ‘Powder Princess’ on the side of her car.”
“Shit,” Alex says. “And she’s not taking it well?”
“Bea?” Henry laughs, a little more genuinely this time. “No, she doesn’t usually care about those things. She’s fine. More shaken up that someone got past security than anything. Gran had an entire PPO team sacked. But … I dunno.”
He trails off, and Alex can guess.
“But you care. Because you want to protect her even though you’re the little brother.”
“I … yes.”
“I know the feeling. Last summer I almost punched a guy at Lollapalooza because he tried to grab June’s ass.”
“But you didn’t?”
“June had already dumped her milkshake on him,” Alex explains. He shrugs a little, knowing Henry can’t see it. “And then Amy Tased him. The smell of burnt strawberry milkshake on a sweaty frat guy is really something.”
Henry laughs fully at that. “They never do need us, do they?”
“Nope,” Alex agrees. “So you’re upset because the rumors aren’t true.”
“Well … they are true, actually,” Henry says.
Oh, Alex thinks.
“Oh,” Alex says. He’s not sure how else to respond, reaching into his mental store of political platitudes and finding them all clinical and intolerable.
Henry, with a little trepidation, presses on. “You know, Bea has only ever wanted to play music,” he starts. “Mum and Dad played too much Joni Mitchell for her growing up, I think. She wanted guitar lessons; Gran wanted violin since it was more proper. Bea was allowed to learn both, but she went to uni for classical violin. Anyway, her last year of uni, Dad died. It happened so … quickly. He just went.”