Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

  Against Fate

  A Prince Castle Novel

  Damian Bloom

  Copyright © 2020 Damian Bloom

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Cate Ashwood

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Letter From the Author

  About the Author

  There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.

  - Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever

  1

  Luis

  Fate’s the finest thief of all. That’s what Grandma says, anyway. There’s no lock it can’t pick, no unbolted window or back door it misses. Like a whisper, it creeps into your life and turns it upside down in the blink of an eye.

  So, I suppose there wasn’t anything that could have prepared me for my twenty-third birthday, which begins ordinarily enough, as life-changing days are wont to do. Lying in bed, under a fleece blanket as soft as a dozen snuggly kittens, I’ve got my nose buried in a book.

  If a stranger were to enter, they’d have a hard time deciding whether they’ve walked into someone’s bedroom or a quirky indie bookstore. Along three walls, books huddle together on overcrowded shelves, and there's still not enough space for all the novels I own. So I've crammed some of them into the integrated drawers and compartments of my bed frame and headboard, while others I've stacked along the side of the bed in ever-growing piles, currently tall enough to reach the mattress. Every few months, a new shelf seems to pop up. I’ve already begun pestering my brother for a few more.

  This morning, I’m reading a hardcover so old and dusty that it threatens to disintegrate in my hands. I’ve plucked it from the treasure box—a large wooden coffer, darkened by time, home to dozens of timeless love stories. Like the book collection it houses, the chest once belonged to Grandma Hattie. In addition to novels, it holds a childhood-worth of memories.

  Ever since I can remember, every day, once she’d finish her chores, Grandma would kneel before the chest and riffle through it with expert fingers, like a secretary leafing through folders. If I was around at the time of her reading—eight o’clock sharp—and asked her sweetly enough, she would read out loud, skipping anything not suitable for a seven-year-old.

  The fictional men and women she introduced me to were fascinating. Unlike any of the grownups I knew, they had, it seemed to me, an insatiable thirst for love which would push them to do crazy things, sacrifice all they held dear, and face the greatest dangers. Later, I would begin to suspect that most adults have the same gaping hole inside their chest, begging to be filled with the right person’s presence. They’re just better at hiding it.

  Grandma would read loudly and clearly, like the people on the radio. She would even change up her voice for the characters. And she would always keep me on the edge of my seat.

  One summer evening, out on the porch, I sat on her lap, and she held the book open in front of both of us. By this time, I’d learned how to read but was not yet very good at it. It helped to track the words on the page as she read them into my ear.

  We’d been reading this particular book for weeks, and it seemed our fictional friends were still far from their happy ending. But I knew that stories were sometimes too big to fit in a single book, so the author had to split them up and sell the parts separately. Usually, I found those stories boring and dragged out, but I liked this one and didn’t mind a sequel.

  After reading the last page, I heard Grandma sniffle, and I turned to see her wipe away a tear.

  “Are you sad?” she asked. I couldn’t make sense of her concerned expression. Sad? I was excited for what was to come.

  Laying my small hand over her much larger one, I shook my head. “Why are you crying?” I asked. Sure, life had forced Elise and Bruce apart, but that never lasted. And it would be fun to see how they’d find their way back to each other.

  Grandma gave a bashful laugh and shook her head. “These stories always get to me.” Plucking an old-fashioned handkerchief from her dress pocket, she dabbed at her eyes.

  I still didn’t understand. “Can we start part two?”

  Grandma Hattie blinked in surprise and wrapped me tightly in her arms. “Oh, honey,” she said. “This was it. The end of the story.”

  Frowning in confusion, I picked the book off her lap, turned it over a few times, like the rest of the story might fall out from between the pages. “But they didn’t get married.”

  “They don’t always get married.” With an uneasy grimace stuck to her face, Grandma looked like she’d slipped into a conversation she would have given anything not to have.

  What she was saying made no sense. “But they’re still sad.”

  Grandma nodded, touched the handkerchief to her face again, and then said something I would never forget: “Not all stories have a happy ending.”

  Her words registered gradually—there would be no part two, no reunion, no tear-jerking scene in which Elise and Bruce would run into each other’s arms and promise never to let go. And then, I understood why Grandma felt like crying.

  When Dad came to pick me up that day, my eyes were puffy. I could only stop crying for a few minutes at a time.

  I remember his red face, brows creased in a scary scowl. “You shouldn’t read him these stories.” I’d never heard him raise his voice at Grandma before. “A kid his age should be read fairy tales, not this romantic drivel.”

  After this incident, our reading material changed to something more age-appropriate. Grandma would now read her novels when I wasn’t around. While I enjoyed the children's books I’d been relegated to, I yearned for those dramatic love stories with the same burning passion the heroes had for each other.

  It was the start of a lifelong addiction to romance.

  Once I could read by myself, it wasn’t long until I began to steal from her coffer. She always knew which books were missing, and she had no doubts about their whereabouts, but, an incurable romantic herself, she never stood in my way. Eventually, I stopped hiding. Every day, after school, I would rush to Grandma’s, do my homework while she cared for the household, then join her, either on the porch or on her canary-yellow loveseat in the living room, as we read side by side.

  For the first part of my life, Grandma Hattie was my best friend. She understood me like no one else. We both lived in two worlds at once—the real, everyday world, which was rather dull, and another, fictional one, where feelings reigned over logic, men were charming and good with words, they swept you off your feet, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, and made you the happiest person alive.

&
nbsp; Grandma had seen her wishes come true in the form of Grandpa Archie, who died when I was still too young to form a memory of him, but who, I knew from her stories, had been a dream of a man. She remembered him fondly and often but rarely shed a tear. To Grandma, I suspect, mourning Grandpa Archie would have been the highest form of ingratitude. “I’ve been thoroughly blessed,” she often says. “Most people only dream of what Archie and I had.”

  Grandma Hattie’s got an unshakable conviction that not even death can put an end to true love, which has helped her sail the loneliness of widowhood. She knows—the way one doesn’t need to question that spring follows winter and morning follows night—that somewhere, sometime, in the beyond, they will be together again. So she doesn’t mind waiting.

  “Never settle for less than what you deserve, Luis,” she’s often told me. “And never lose hope. If he’s not your Prince Charming, don’t waste your time.” I believe Grandma figured out and accepted my sexuality long before I did. “Time is precious, and chances at true love are rare. Make sure you don’t miss out on a diamond while chasing glitter.”

  Like all of Grandma’s advice, I took those words to heart.

  Two years ago, Grandma decided she wanted me to have her book chest. “I’ve read them so many times that I could probably recite them from memory. I don’t need them anymore.”

  Keeping Grandma’s collection in a chest makes sense since it’s my most valuable treasure. Unlike her, I remember very little of what we’ve read together, but rereading the books is always cozy and sweetly familiar—like having a cup of coffee with a long-lost friend. A part of me has never outgrown those times. A slice of my soul is still in her lap, being read to, falling in love with love itself.

  Even nowadays, I visit Grandma at least twice a week, when my schedule allows it. She makes sweet tea, we chat for a few minutes, then read like back in the day, side by side, on the same worn two-seat couch. On those nights, my reading material comes exclusively from her chest, as if anything else would constitute a betrayal.

  I still haven’t read all of them, but I like to take my time and savor them like a glass of rare wine.

  However, today, as pages flutter in my hands under the crisp morning breeze that slides in through the windows, rustling the flimsy white curtains, I struggle to stay with the story. I’m having one of those days where I can’t see the forest for the trees. Distracted by the writing, I catch my mind dissecting the story and inspecting it to its smallest details, the way one would take a watch apart to learn how it works.

  The words. The rhythm. The plot. At one point, all these things were just ideas in someone’s head until, somehow, the authors translated them into this physical thing I’m now holding. I’m awed by the amount of work and skill that must have gone into it, and I wonder how anyone can do it. Could I?

  Harold pulled her close, squeezed her in his arms, and claimed her lips into a savage kiss. The sun bled overhead, crimson rivulets swirling in the sky. It would soon be dark.

  Like a spell, I read the words out loud to myself, enjoying the way they feel on my tongue. How’s a writer made? The question’s been haunting me more consistently lately, although it first nested at the back of my mind many years ago. Do they just have it in them? Are some people—the lucky, chosen ones—born with the gift of giving birth to these amazing things I’ve filled my room and life with?

  I tuck a finger between the pages to serve as a bookmark, then rest the hardcover against my chin and stare up at the snow-covered peaks Keith painted on my wall a few years back. At the base of the mountains, turbulent waters ripple in hues of blue, minimally masked by the headboard of my bed. At the side of the mural, where one wall meets another, there’s a hopeful sliver of shore—earth-brown and leafy-green. This beauty still floors me sometimes. Are some people simply more talented than others?

  How does a writer know they’re a writer?

  Could I ever be one? Could I give life to characters and make them fall in love? Do I even know how and why people fall in love? Does anyone?

  “Do you think I could write a book like this?” I once asked Grandma Hattie. We were sitting on a bench in her flower garden.

  She peered over her book, pushing her ever-sliding glasses up her nose. “I know you could, dear. And that you will.”

  I was thirteen.

  Avoiding her eyes, I scraped at the old red paint, revealing more of the original dark brown of the bench underneath. “How do you know?”

  “Writing, just like love, only requires a bit of magic.” She leaned toward me and whispered as if sharing a secret: “You, Luis, have got the most important quality of a writer.”

  I gulped. It felt weird to be associated with a title that, for me, had come to express something almost holy: writer. “What’s that?”

  Grandma Hattie pressed a bony finger to the middle of my chest. “You, my dear, believe in magic.”

  Sighing, I open the scratched old covers of the novel again.

  Harold carried Jane inside, where he stripped her of her clothing. He pushed her onto the bed, which squeaked in protest at the wildness of his lust. Exposing inch after inch of bruised, scarred, and battered muscle, his clothes followed hers to the floor. He climbed her with the unceremoniousness of things that were always meant to be. Large, manly hands explored the softness of her skin, marking her as his own. The union of their bodies felt warm and cozy, like coming home after a long day. Jane had finally found who she belonged to.

  I wrap the blanket tightly around myself, but the gesture has nothing to do with the cool air of the early fall morning. As I breathe in the spicy-sweet scent of the cinnamon-pumpkin candle flickering on the nightstand, I wonder what that must be like—to feel like you belong to someone.

  He melted, utterly losing himself inside of her.

  My body tingles with arousal and frustration. I wish I knew what that feels like—to blur the lines between me and another—and not just live it through a fictional person’s skin.

  Rolling onto my stomach, I bunch a pillow up under my cheek and press my erection into the mattress. Maybe it will happen this year. Perhaps the right man will finally come along. I’ve been telling myself this every year since I turned eighteen.

  While others have waited far longer, few have waited more faithfully. I’ve stayed true to the promise I’ve made my grandmother—that I wouldn’t accept anything less than true love. But as I wait for my Prince Charming, sometimes it’s easy to get discouraged. What if I’m waiting in vain? Could the days of true love be long gone?

  Although I’ve received my fair share of attention from men over the years, there was always something. Some weren’t serious enough, while others bored me. And even when I couldn’t point out a specific reason they weren’t right for me, something inside of me told me that none of them was The One.

  According to the books I’ve grown up with, I will instinctively recognize my soulmate when we meet—I’ll feel like I’m floating, like I’m walking on sunshine, like fireworks have been lit up inside of my chest, and my stomach will lurch as if full with hundreds of trapped butterflies. And although I’ve met many handsome and charming men, my stomach has never fluttered with so much as a fruit fly.

  Sure, I could have dated them anyway. I could have even hooked up with any of these guys had I not been afraid that this would somehow break the spell and chase my luck away. What if I missed out on the right guy because I’d trapped myself in the wrong relationship?

  So, whenever anyone made a move, I turned them down. Now, I’m twenty-three, and although I wouldn’t readily admit this to anyone other than my brother and my close friends, not only am I a virgin, but I haven’t even had my first kiss.

  Peter stomps out of his room and around the house. It almost makes my walls shake. I’ve never met anyone with a more aggressive walk.

  There’s no point being so negative, I tell myself. As Grandma said, I should never lose hope. My Prince Charming could be right around the corner, and as so
on as I meet him, all the waiting will have been worth it.

  Back in the book, toward dawn, after a crazy night of steamy love-making, Jane falls asleep in Harold’s brawny arms.

  The next morning, Jane woke up with a smile on her face. That was a first. But maybe, in a world where she would wake up every morning next to Harold Cowan, it could turn into a regular occurrence. His forearm crossed his face, sheltered his eyes from the prying morning light. She planned to let him sleep a little longer and, head on his chest, to doze off as well. But she didn’t.

  Jane sat up as if electricity shot through her. Something was wrong. When she lay her hand on his chest, she found it still.

  As a lump lodges in my throat, I rub the bridge of my nose and let out an overdue breath. You’ve got to be kidding me. You can’t pull this shit now, with only ten pages to go. I clench the book so tightly that the tips of my fingers turn white.

  She shook him. “Harold!” When no reaction came, the first tears flowed. Panic bubbled up inside of Jane, stopped her from fully registering the reality of the situation. Suddenly, she was painfully aware of little, irrelevant things. A bird sang outside, high-pitched. The old closet creaked as if heaving a sigh. She hung on to these small pieces of everyday life in an attempt to block out the realization.

  Harold was dead.

  This has got to be a trick, right? Like, haha, make us shed a tear with a death scare right before the finale, and then—ta-da!—he wasn’t dead, guys. He was just…just…