“We talked, okay?” I continue. “I get why you did it, and I hope the guitar is awesome and all you hoped it would be. But we’re done. Like. Really, really done.”
With that, I sling my bag into the car, slide into the driver’s seat, and shut the door on him. He stands there, phone in hand, and I look at my ponytail holder on his wrist again, wondering if I should ask for it back.
No, that would just make this whole thing sadder, really, and given that Mrs. Miller has finally reached Michael, he’s being punished enough. Her hair is trembling with righteous outrage, and as she shakes a finger at him, Michael—despite being a good head taller—actually cowers.
Which is fun to see.
I drive out of the parking lot, not bothering to look back in the rearview mirror.
The drive home doesn’t take long since our neighborhood is only a few miles from the store. It isn’t exactly the most scenic of routes, either. When my parents first moved to Perdido, it was actually kind of a cool place. I mean, as cool as a town in Florida that’s nowhere near the ocean can be. It was quirky and eccentric, full of artists and writers and old houses that people had painted nutso colors. Lime green, turquoise, a shade I thought of as “electric violet,” all slapped on these dollhouse-looking Victorian mansions and cozy bungalows.
But over the years, a lot of the cooler people moved out, and eventually beige started making its way back into Perdido. There’s a country club now, too, complete with a golf course—something that made my dad threaten to move. But while Perdido might not be the idyllic little artist community it once was, it’s still a nice place. Quiet, dull, and, as Mom was always pointing out, far enough away that it isn’t really worth visiting. Today’s photographer was the first one I’ve seen in months. There were better targets for the paps to go after.
Like, for instance, Ellie.
Beige had moved into Perdido, all right, but it still hasn’t crept into our neighborhood. My house is actually one of the more subdued on the block, a cheerful yellow instead of magenta or indigo. Tucked back from the street, it’s surrounded by banana trees and bougainvillea, the pink blossoms pretty against the sunshine-y paint. Wind chimes dangle from the porch, glass ones, wooden ones that sound like flutes, and the tacky shell-covered ones they sell in gift shops around here. Mom has a thing for wind chimes.
But it isn’t the wind chimes that catch my eye as I pull into the driveway. It’s the big SUV parked behind my mom’s.
Suddenly, the photographer back at the Sur-N-Sav makes sense.
Chapter 3
I park my car off to the side of the SUV, and when I get out, I give a wave to the security guys. It’s always the same two when El and Alex come to the States, so I’ve gotten used to them. “Hi, Malcolm!” I call. “David, how’s it going?”
David, the younger of the two guys, lifts his bottle of water in acknowledgment while Malcolm just nods. As always, they’re in serious black suits, and I imagine that even with the air-conditioning in the car going full blast, they’re still dying. The heat is no joke, but Alexander doesn’t like bringing bodyguards into my parents’ house, so it’s the driveway for Malcolm and David.
“Still disappointed you guys don’t wear plaid suits,” I tell them as I pass by the car, and while Malcolm just keeps staring at the house through his shades, David cracks a smile.
My keys rattle in my hand as I jog up the steps of the porch to see the front door is open, but the glass door is closed. That means I get a second to see my sister and her boyfriend sitting on the couch, their posture perfect, before I come inside. They look as gorgeous and polished as ever, Ellie with her ankles crossed demurely, Alexander sitting on my mom’s floral couch like it’s a throne.
He always sits like that—maybe he’s practicing.
I think again about the guy taking pictures at the Sur-N-Sav and wonder if I need to mention that right off the bat. Ellie wasn’t thrilled about the prom pics thing (which, I mean, hi, neither was I, and honestly I think I’m the one with cause to complain), and I’m not sure if I want to get into all that on top of dealing with this surprise visit from El and Alex.
Today’s Michael thing probably won’t even make the papers.
As soon as I walk into the house, El—who hasn’t seen me since Christmas—takes one look at my head and says, “Oh, Daisy, your hair.” Her voice, as always, takes me by surprise. Even though we have British parents, neither El nor I picked up the accent. Then Ellie went away to university in the UK and came back sounding like a character from Downton Abbey.
I lift a hand to tuck the bright red strands behind my ear, but then decide to heck with that, my hair is amazing.
Luckily, Alexander agrees (or at least pretends to) because he immediately says, “Personally, I approve, Daisy. Redheads, very popular in my family.”
He tousles his own reddish-blond hair with a smile, and I’m reminded why everyone in the world is pretty much in love with him. Prince Alexander James Lachlan Baird, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, next in line to become King of the Scots, is both cute and a surprisingly nice guy. Definitely nicer than El.
“It’s her Little Mermaid hair,” my mom says, coming in from the kitchen with a full tray in her hands, complete with teapot and our nicest china cups. Before Ellie and Alexander happened, we didn’t even own nice china. Or a teapot for that matter. We made tea in mugs with water from the electric kettle.
But I get it—once their oldest daughter started dating a prince, fancy china seemed like the least they could do.
Mom sets the tray on the table, but no one makes a move to actually pour any tea, probably because while Alexander—and now El—live in cold, misty Scotland, this is Florida in May, which means the idea of drinking hot beverages seems insane, if not masochistic.
“Wasn’t it purple for a little while last year?” Ellie asks me now, and I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Did you really come all the way from bonny Scotland to interrogate me about my hair choices?”
Ellie’s nostrils flare a bit and she laces her fingers together between her knees. “It just seems like there’s always something new with you. That’s all I’m saying.”
I shrug. “I like trying different things.”
This is one of the major differences between me and Ellie—she’s been Princess Barbie since birth, pretty much. Me? I’m still . . . figuring things out. When Michael said music was “our thing” in the parking lot, he wasn’t wrong, exactly. When I’d dated him, I’d been super into learning to play the guitar, almost as intense about that as I’d been about origami lessons the year before. Or the art classes I took freshman year. But honestly, how are you supposed to know what you like unless you try stuff?
Ellie says it’s “flighty,” but I think it’s fun, and before she can get going on that train of thought, I change the subject back to her, where it always ends up anyway. “I didn’t know y’all were coming.”
Mom is sitting in her wingback chair, so I flop in Dad’s recliner, and Ellie frowns a little.
My sister has always been one step away from having mice make dresses for her, but ever since she met Alexander, her Disney Princessness has been dialed up to eleven. While we both got Mom’s light hair, El’s was always shinier, more golden. Right now, it falls in soft waves to her shoulders, held back with a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She’s wearing jeans, as is Alexander, but even those look fancy on them, probably because they’ve paired them with expensive leather loafers. Alexander is wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and El has on some kind of drapey navy blouse with little white polka dots all over it.
With that, I sling my bag into the car, slide into the driver’s seat, and shut the door on him. He stands there, phone in hand, and I look at my ponytail holder on his wrist again, wondering if I should ask for it back.
No, that would just make this whole thing sadder, really, and given that Mrs. Miller has finally reached Michael, he’s being punished enough. Her hair is trembling with righteous outrage, and as she shakes a finger at him, Michael—despite being a good head taller—actually cowers.
Which is fun to see.
I drive out of the parking lot, not bothering to look back in the rearview mirror.
The drive home doesn’t take long since our neighborhood is only a few miles from the store. It isn’t exactly the most scenic of routes, either. When my parents first moved to Perdido, it was actually kind of a cool place. I mean, as cool as a town in Florida that’s nowhere near the ocean can be. It was quirky and eccentric, full of artists and writers and old houses that people had painted nutso colors. Lime green, turquoise, a shade I thought of as “electric violet,” all slapped on these dollhouse-looking Victorian mansions and cozy bungalows.
But over the years, a lot of the cooler people moved out, and eventually beige started making its way back into Perdido. There’s a country club now, too, complete with a golf course—something that made my dad threaten to move. But while Perdido might not be the idyllic little artist community it once was, it’s still a nice place. Quiet, dull, and, as Mom was always pointing out, far enough away that it isn’t really worth visiting. Today’s photographer was the first one I’ve seen in months. There were better targets for the paps to go after.
Like, for instance, Ellie.
Beige had moved into Perdido, all right, but it still hasn’t crept into our neighborhood. My house is actually one of the more subdued on the block, a cheerful yellow instead of magenta or indigo. Tucked back from the street, it’s surrounded by banana trees and bougainvillea, the pink blossoms pretty against the sunshine-y paint. Wind chimes dangle from the porch, glass ones, wooden ones that sound like flutes, and the tacky shell-covered ones they sell in gift shops around here. Mom has a thing for wind chimes.
But it isn’t the wind chimes that catch my eye as I pull into the driveway. It’s the big SUV parked behind my mom’s.
Suddenly, the photographer back at the Sur-N-Sav makes sense.
Chapter 3
I park my car off to the side of the SUV, and when I get out, I give a wave to the security guys. It’s always the same two when El and Alex come to the States, so I’ve gotten used to them. “Hi, Malcolm!” I call. “David, how’s it going?”
David, the younger of the two guys, lifts his bottle of water in acknowledgment while Malcolm just nods. As always, they’re in serious black suits, and I imagine that even with the air-conditioning in the car going full blast, they’re still dying. The heat is no joke, but Alexander doesn’t like bringing bodyguards into my parents’ house, so it’s the driveway for Malcolm and David.
“Still disappointed you guys don’t wear plaid suits,” I tell them as I pass by the car, and while Malcolm just keeps staring at the house through his shades, David cracks a smile.
My keys rattle in my hand as I jog up the steps of the porch to see the front door is open, but the glass door is closed. That means I get a second to see my sister and her boyfriend sitting on the couch, their posture perfect, before I come inside. They look as gorgeous and polished as ever, Ellie with her ankles crossed demurely, Alexander sitting on my mom’s floral couch like it’s a throne.
He always sits like that—maybe he’s practicing.
I think again about the guy taking pictures at the Sur-N-Sav and wonder if I need to mention that right off the bat. Ellie wasn’t thrilled about the prom pics thing (which, I mean, hi, neither was I, and honestly I think I’m the one with cause to complain), and I’m not sure if I want to get into all that on top of dealing with this surprise visit from El and Alex.
Today’s Michael thing probably won’t even make the papers.
As soon as I walk into the house, El—who hasn’t seen me since Christmas—takes one look at my head and says, “Oh, Daisy, your hair.” Her voice, as always, takes me by surprise. Even though we have British parents, neither El nor I picked up the accent. Then Ellie went away to university in the UK and came back sounding like a character from Downton Abbey.
I lift a hand to tuck the bright red strands behind my ear, but then decide to heck with that, my hair is amazing.
Luckily, Alexander agrees (or at least pretends to) because he immediately says, “Personally, I approve, Daisy. Redheads, very popular in my family.”
He tousles his own reddish-blond hair with a smile, and I’m reminded why everyone in the world is pretty much in love with him. Prince Alexander James Lachlan Baird, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, next in line to become King of the Scots, is both cute and a surprisingly nice guy. Definitely nicer than El.
“It’s her Little Mermaid hair,” my mom says, coming in from the kitchen with a full tray in her hands, complete with teapot and our nicest china cups. Before Ellie and Alexander happened, we didn’t even own nice china. Or a teapot for that matter. We made tea in mugs with water from the electric kettle.
But I get it—once their oldest daughter started dating a prince, fancy china seemed like the least they could do.
Mom sets the tray on the table, but no one makes a move to actually pour any tea, probably because while Alexander—and now El—live in cold, misty Scotland, this is Florida in May, which means the idea of drinking hot beverages seems insane, if not masochistic.
“Wasn’t it purple for a little while last year?” Ellie asks me now, and I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Did you really come all the way from bonny Scotland to interrogate me about my hair choices?”
Ellie’s nostrils flare a bit and she laces her fingers together between her knees. “It just seems like there’s always something new with you. That’s all I’m saying.”
I shrug. “I like trying different things.”
This is one of the major differences between me and Ellie—she’s been Princess Barbie since birth, pretty much. Me? I’m still . . . figuring things out. When Michael said music was “our thing” in the parking lot, he wasn’t wrong, exactly. When I’d dated him, I’d been super into learning to play the guitar, almost as intense about that as I’d been about origami lessons the year before. Or the art classes I took freshman year. But honestly, how are you supposed to know what you like unless you try stuff?
Ellie says it’s “flighty,” but I think it’s fun, and before she can get going on that train of thought, I change the subject back to her, where it always ends up anyway. “I didn’t know y’all were coming.”
Mom is sitting in her wingback chair, so I flop in Dad’s recliner, and Ellie frowns a little.
My sister has always been one step away from having mice make dresses for her, but ever since she met Alexander, her Disney Princessness has been dialed up to eleven. While we both got Mom’s light hair, El’s was always shinier, more golden. Right now, it falls in soft waves to her shoulders, held back with a pair of sunglasses that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She’s wearing jeans, as is Alexander, but even those look fancy on them, probably because they’ve paired them with expensive leather loafers. Alexander is wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and El has on some kind of drapey navy blouse with little white polka dots all over it.
