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“I wish I were a viscount,” June says. “I could have my sex waifs deal with my emails.”
His next thought is that his mother is going to murder him in cold blood. Beside him, he hears Henry mutter slowly, “Oh my fucking Christ.”
“You,” she says, “are going to make nice with Henry. You’re leaving Saturday and spending Sunday in England.”
She gets up and heads for the door, stopping to kiss her hand and press it to the top of his head. “You’re a dumbass. Love you.”
The most loving mother lmao
Under HOBBIES, it lists polo and competitive yachting. Alex is going to set himself on fire.
“Yep. And for the record, making it was one of the most depressing moments of my career.”
Fucking love you Zahra
Alex pushes them. June steadies them. Nora keeps them honest.
“My parents would say to do what they did: ditch journalism, get really into essential oils, buy a cabin in the Vermont wilderness, and own six hundred LL Bean vests that all smell like patchouli.”
“Shakespearean in that hopefully I’ll get stabbed to death,”
“David,” Alex says. “He’s a beagle. I remember because, like, who does that? Who names a dog David? He sounds like a tax attorney. Like a dog tax attorney. Drink.”
“Allergies: dust, Tide laundry detergent, and shutting the fuck up.”
He is definitely not sweaty or disgusting. He is, instead, bathed dramatically in a sweeping and resplendent sunset,
Sweetie no straight man would notie all that
“I’d rather be waterboarded,” Henry says, smiling back. The camera snaps nearby. His eyes are big and soft and blue, and he desperately needs to be punched in one of them. “Your country could probably arrange that.”
DAMN LMAO
He’s standing in front of Alex wearing not a suit, but a heather-gray T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. He has earbuds in, and his hair is a mess. His feet are bare. He looks, alarmingly, human.
You mean he looks hot, Alex
“Can you move over, Your Highness?” Alex whispers, shoving his shoulder against Henry’s. “I’d rather not be the little spoon.”
“So you do have some fight in you,” Alex says. He bucks his hips, trying to shake Henry off, but he’s taller and stronger and has a fistful of Alex’s collar.
He can almost hear Henry roll his eyes, and he’s thankful for it, the familiar comfort of antagonism.
God I love them
his friendship with Henry and their “shared life experience” as sons of world leaders. Alex thinks their main shared life experience is probably wishing they could set that quote adrift on the ocean between them and watch it drown.
omfg, one commenter writes, make out already. Alex laughs so hard he almost falls in a fountain.
BITCH MCCONNELL,
LMAO
“Fuck you doing here, kid?” he says, watching him like a cat. Alex reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of Skittles, and Luna’s face immediately softens into a smile. “Atta boy,”
Thats adorable
“You wound me.” “You exhaust me.”
Real
Alex grew up with a mother who was a sometimes baffling combination of intensely organized and committed to lines of emotional communication, like an overly invested life coach.
“Don’t act like this isn’t all part of your extra-long game of abusing your position to murder Woody Allen and make it look like an accident,”
Lmao
“How many times do I have to tell y’all not to discuss your murder plots in front of a sitting president?” their mother interrupts. “Plausible deniability. Come on.”
LMAO
“How do you think she learned to get what she wants from strung-out old white men? The most important skill of an effective politician.”
“No,” he says. “As usual, my duties as First Gentleman are to work on my tablescapes and look pretty.”
So, it turns out Henry can be funny. Alex adds that to his mental file.
He knows he talks too much, hopeless at moderating his feelings,
Me too babe
he’s as weird and manic as he wants to be, and Henry jabs back in sharp flashes of startling wit.
He learns about Henry’s life through a weird osmosis of text messages and social media.
Alex learns Henry’s super into classical mythology and can rattle off the configurations of a few dozen constellations if you let him get going.
Im gonna die thats fucking adorable
HRH Prince Dickhead You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life.
I think i just passed away that was so funny
Cornbread stares emptily back at him from inside a huge crate next to Alex’s couch.
He considers finding a couch to sleep on, but what if these demons from hell break out of their cages and murder each other during the night when he’s supposed to be watching them?
“Have you really rung me at three o’clock in the morning to make me listen to a turkey?”
God I fucking love them
“Jesus Christ, it’s like they can see into your soul. Cornbread knows my sins, Henry. Cornbread knows what I have done, and he is here to make me atone.”
“Connect with the turkey, earn the turkey’s trust … befriend the turkey…” “Okay…” “Buy a summer home in Majorca with the turkey…” “Oh, I fucking hate you!”
AHHAHAAHA
Raptors in my bedroom, Henry. And you want me to go to sleep like they’re not gonna bust out of their enclosures and take over the island the minute I close my eyes? Okay. Maybe your white ass.”
They will come in the night, and it will look like a humiliating accident.”
“I thought you’d kill me in a more personal way. Silk pillow over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Sensual.”
“He— Oi! Not for you, Mr. Wobbles! Those are mine!” More rustling, a distant, offended meow. “No, Mr. Wobbles, you bastard!”
Literally me and my cat
“I’m having my entire life haunted by a deranged American Neanderthal and a pair of turkeys, apparently.”
And you learn so much about different types of biscuits, Alex. So much. When the world seems awful, such as when you’re trapped in a Great Turkey Calamity, you can put it on and vanish into biscuit land.”
My face hurts from smiling
“The turkeys are not going to Jurassic Park you,” he says. “You’re not the bloke from Seinfeld. You’re Jeff Goldblum. Go to sleep.”
Sometimes you need someone to tell you youre not going to be jurrasic parked by turkeys
June is in a state, the perpetual mediator.
I feel you June
He is an adrenaline junkie—mountain climbing, cave diving, pissing off Alex’s mother. Flirting with death, basically.
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Alex hears himself shout before he even consciously decides to say it. “Can we not be civil for one fucking meal? It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Aren’t y’all supposed to be running the country? Get your shit together.”
Aw baby :(
“Jesus Christ, are you kidding me?” Alex hears himself shout before he even consciously decides to say it. “Can we not be civil for one fucking meal? It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake. Aren’t y’all supposed to be running the country? Get your shit together.”
Oh honey :(
“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve and everything. You probably have, like, family stuff, I’m just realizing. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Wow, this is why I don’t have friends. I’m a dick. Sorry, man. I’ll, uh, I’ll just—”
What if I start crying
