Chapter Sixty-Five
Tristan’s Point of View:
The sun is already fully out by the time I get out of bed. If I was back home, as a member of the Pengawal, I wouldn’t have the luxury of sleeping so much, under any circumstance.
Living in the human world has made me soft. I sat by the side of my bed for a while, yesterday’s memories rushing back to me.
My irrational desire to go to the concert, the three friends, and the cute wide-eyed girl who is most likely the lost princess and only surviving heir to the throne.
All the emotions I had pushed away by sleep rushed back at me and I grimaced, grateful that Drew, the guy I share the room with, was already up and out.
My first concern now is how to break the news to my mates without starting a debate. I know some of them wouldn’t share my sentiment about keeping the rival away from the troubles of Mr. Harrington.
By the time I take a shower and walk into the empty kitchen, my mind is a whirlpool of thoughts. Lucky for me, none of them are at home at this time.
It’s only a lucky or unlucky coincidence that I found the princess when my two-day break from both of my jobs coincided.
Their absence would give me a chance to gather my thoughts and decide how best to break it to them. Not telling them is not an option.
I owe it to them that they know we didn’t come here in vain. Besides, issues like this have a way of coming out, and I don’t think I’ll be able to bear the backlash if word eventually gets out that I found and hid information on the princess’s whereabouts.
I just have to avoid them all for a little while more while I watch the princess before I give it away. I’m suddenly hit by a thought that makes me question why I haven’t thought of it before.
I’ve been looking at it all from my perspective before, from the perspective of my people; but does she even know who she is? If she eventually hears it all, would she be ready to leave her life here and come and take on the responsibility of ruling? One thing is sure though; I have to get to know her better.
Fiona’s Point of View:
We’ve been here for more than two hours, my feet are sore from standing, my hands are crying from having to carry clothes and pull zippers and Eleanor has only been trying on her millionth cloth since we got here.
Now, she’s smoothing out a flimsy flared moss green gown I know she won’t possibly wear even if she bought it, but I don’t say anything, just flashing a tired smile at whatever she says.
I exhausted my store of compliments and suggestions about an hour ago, going from a comment on each dress to a grunt at the unacceptable.
I’m grieving the nap I have lost by standing in this clothes shop for so long, especially since I slept really late and woke early.
All my efforts at going back to bed after breakfast this morning had proved abortive, with my head running at major speed and crazy theories popping in my head.
Back when Eleanor had been invested in reading psychology-related books, she had diagnosed me, calling me a GAD patient.
Whenever I had trouble with a situation, I would categorize each event and reaction mostly on paper, reading the meaning of every single thing and trying to draw a solution from it.
As much as this method of mine simply made me more worried and confused most times, rather than helping me with my issue, I have never been cured of it.
When I realized I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep this morning, I resolved to analyze the situation, writing and ripping pieces of paper, then picking up the ripped pieces and burning them in the sink, watching the water wash down the ashes like some kind of ritual.
I had been busy analyzing the weird hot guy from last night and trying to connect him to all the other dots when Eleanor arrived at 12 for our shopping date, bringing James with her. It was after I had let them in that I realized that I hadn’t even gotten dressed.
Eleanor claps her hands and gestures to me with a bashful look on her face.
“Done!” I gave her an unimpressed look and held out a load of clothes in my hand, so she could take some off, and we could check out and leave.
Her face drops “Aren’t you getting any? I showed her my left hand, so she could see the four T-shirts and jeans I had picked out.
Not even a gown? I shake my head, sticking to conserving all my leftover strength for the drive home or till I can eat something.
My hope that she’ll leave it like that evaporates as Eleanor starts to look through the rack next to her, mumbling something about finding a pretty dress that is just perfect for me earlier.
I know I have no chance of escaping the clothes, so I just pray she finds that “perfect” dress soon enough.
My prayer is answered as she comes back, bearing a cute sky-blue strapless top gown. Grudgingly, I admit it’s pretty.
“Try it on, come on,” she urges, and I acquiesce, walking into the dressing room.
The dress fits like a glove, as expected. I stopped doubting Eleanor’s perfect sense of fashion a long time ago, especially since she got some edge from being born to a fashionista mother.
However, all her efforts in getting me to take more interest in dressing out more have fallen flat.
It’s not that I look shoddy, myself, but I’m perfectly fine with throwing on a cute t-shirt on flared jeans with flat sandals to a birthday party without caring about coordinating colors.
I walked out and spread my hands out for Eleanor to check out how it fitted. She gives applause and pretends to be paparazzi, making flushing sounds with her lips and teeth.
I turned to the mirror and looked at the clothes again. It goes down straight on my body, with a little slit at the side.
The blue blends well with my hair color and I find myself wondering if it would still blend if my hair was still in its natural state.
I change, and we gather our lot, heading to the counter to pay. The girl at the counter, who is someone familiar with us, smiles when she sees us.