“I won’t if you keep making fun of me,” I say.
“You like it,” she says, and pushes me.
We climb out of the truck and find our clothes. Then we walk back to the palace through the gardens, holding hands.
I know everything could be shit again tomorrow, but right now, it might be perfect.
Chapter Forty-One
Hazel
One Year Later
“But what do I call him?” Courtney asks. “Like, to his face.”
“Kostya,” I say.
She sighs over the phone.
“Don’t make it weird,” I say.
“He’s the king of a whole country,” she says. “It’s already weird.”
“They’ve got a parliament now,” I say. “I mean, we’ve got a parliament now? Fuck.”
Courtney laughs over the phone.
“At least becoming royalty hasn’t stopped you from swearing like a sailor,” she says.
“I’m not royalty yet,” I say. “I can misbehave my ass off for another week.”
“I’m really sure you’ll change your ways after that,” she says.
I just laugh, and Courtney laughs too.
“Okay, I have to go to work,” she says. “God, the time difference is impossible.”
I’m watching the sun set.
“You’ll be here and jet lagged in a couple of days, though,” I say. “We’ll feed you good caviar and okay vodka.”
“As long as it’s at least okay.”
“And as long as you don’t tell anyone the vodka’s just okay,” I say.
“My lips are sealed,” Courtney says.
I think I was almost as nervous about the rehearsal dinner as I am about the wedding, but it’s gone smoothly, so smoothly I’m almost suspicious. I haven’t forgotten anyone’s names, I haven’t gotten too drunk, and I haven’t accidentally called someone a raccoon anus in Russian.
It’s almost like I’ve finally learned how to do all this shit right.
Around ten, people start to trickle out. My mom and dad both got slightly drunk, and they each hug me twenty times and tell me that they’re beyond thrilled and over the moon that we’re getting married, and my mom insists that she knew it from the moment she introduced us, though I’m pretty sure that’s bullshit.
Sergei and Dmitri are both drunk, and they both say polite things to me and then clap Kostya on the back and shout.
Niko’s less drunk, and he gives me a warm hug when he says goodbye.
“Take care of him,” he tells me.
Even Kostya’s mom is nice. She’s still wearing black, as if she’s in mourning for his father, but Kostya thinks she’s only doing it out of guilt that she’s so much happier now.
Misha, his brother, just disappears. No one seems surprised.
Afterwards, we walk back and sit at a table with my college friends, Courtney, Alice, and Vivian.
“Kostya,” Vivian says immediately. “I can call you Kostya, right?”
Already off to a great start, I think.
“You met earlier,” I say. “Like, three times. You hung out.”
“I’m just checking,” she says.
“You can call me Kostya,” he says.
“How does that even make sense,” Alice says. “Konstantin doesn’t shorten to Kostya.”
“James doesn’t shorten to Jim,” Kostya points out.
Alice looks at him intently.
“Huh,” she says thoughtfully.
“John doesn’t shorten to Jack,” Courtney says.
“Jack is a nickname for John?” Alice says.
“Guys, focus, please,” Vivian says.
She turns to Kostya.
“I have it on good authority that you thought beer pong was only in movies,” she says.
Kostya looks at me.
“This leads me to believe you’ve never played it,” she says.
“I haven’t,” Kostya says.
Vivian reaches into her very large handbag.
She pulls out a stack of red solo cups and a package of ping pong balls, and I just start laughing hysterically.
“Tell me you brought those from the States,” I say, barely able to breathe.
“Of course,” she says, looking pleased with herself.
“Did you bring a ping-pong table?” I ask, still giggling.
“No,” she says.
Now she looks very pleased with herself.
“I told some of the palace staff that I’m in training for the World Ping Pong Championships, and I really needed to practice my craft,” she says. “Turns out there was a ping pong table in a rec room somewhere, and now it’s in the living room of our suite, along with lots of shitty Ukrainian beer.”
I’ve never seen three women look happier.
It’s not like we have a choice. We head back to the suite they’re sharing in the palace and invite along all the Americans, mostly family and a couple other friends, because if they managed to set up beer pong, I think we have to play it.
They even have a playlist for this, full of Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Bon Jovi, Old Crow Medicine Show, and all the most hyper-American music they could think of.
We set up the cups as Vivian explains the rules. The adults decline beer pong and mill around, wandering from the balcony to the living room, drinking wine.
“I drink if you get the ball into a cup on my side?” Kostya says. He’s frowning at the table, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Right,” says Vivian.
“Why don’t you drink that? It would make more sense,” he says.
“Because I’m trying to get you drunker than me so I can win,” she says.
“The loser gets drunkest?”
Vivian stops and looks at me, standing on the sidelines.
“Cultural thing,” I say.
“I still don’t understand why you don’t just drink the beer,” he says.
“Drinking is not a game in Sveloria,” I say. “They take it very seriously.”
“I can hear you,” Kostya says.
“Just go with it,” Vivian says.
“These cups aren’t even full,” Kostya says.
“Remember the time a couple months ago that your brother was visiting and I got so wasted on three glasses of wine that I spent half an hour trying to talk him into adopting a kitten?” I ask.
“Right,” Kostya says. “Americans.”
“For the record, Misha should not have a cat,” I say.
“No, he shouldn’t,” Kostya agrees.
“Okay!” Vivian shouts. “It’s my turn until I miss, then it’s your turn until you miss. Got it?”
“Got it,” Kostya says.
Vivian wins the first one, and I play her. She wins again, then Courtney beats her and plays Alice. People wander in and out of the room. If they’re surprised that the king is playing beer pong, they manage to keep it to themselves.
“They take this seriously,” Kostya says. He rubs his knuckles down my back.
Beer splashes on Courtney, and she yelps, then laughs so hard she snorts.