had gotten tight with Nick, polite nods and interest in the American newcomer gave way to under-the-breath jokes about my nationality, or snickers about the origin of my family’s money. Assumptions about my motivations had been made, and I was being assessed and found wanting.
“All hail the Sofa Queen,” one guy said at a pub.
“Cheers, BHS!” said another, at breakfast, referencing a British furniture store.
“Are you getting the next round, Bex?” Lady Bollocks said one night in the JCR. “Don’t forget, here at Oxford we keep the drinks all the way up at the bar rather than under our bums.”
Most of the teasing was casual, except possibly Bea’s—although even that I could handle; I wasn’t ashamed of my dad actually working for his wealth. But my friends never succumbed to nor stood for those jokes, nor made any of their own, and my gratitude for that loyalty colored and heightened my appreciation of everything. Which therefore kept me from acknowledging the raging case of Clivus interruptus that was developing every time Nick and I settled in for a Devour marathon, and I wasn’t doing anything to stop it.
What nobody knew, and neither he nor I said aloud, was that my room had become a safe haven for Nick. Although he trusted his friends with his life, he wasn’t as liberal with his self, yet something about those uncinematic, quotidian hangouts in my room relaxed his grip on the real Nick. He grew comfortable shuffling in wearing the old Snoopy pajama pants that had been Freddie’s Christmas gag gift; bringing in coffee and crosswords when it was too cold to take them outside; tasting and rating the relative wretchedness of the microwaved meals we bought at the market. Certain columnists claim Nick liked me in spite of my being an American, but—not to discount my sweatshirts and ripped jeans, nor the alluring way I stopped bothering to brush my hair when he came by—I think it was because of it. Imagine knowing everyone in your life would one day have to stop calling you by your name and honor you as their sovereign. It’s impossible for that not to erect walls, even subconsciously. But with me that wasn’t an issue, and I enjoyed letting Nick be, for perhaps the first time in his life, unremarkable.
Meanwhile, Devour—never exactly a critical favorite—was pulling out all the stops to get ratings in its sixth season, like trapping the shape-shifter in the body of a ninety-three-year-old nun, and delivering a cliffhanger that involved an actual cliff and, unexpectedly, an actual hanger. Night Nick and Night Bex had been fiending, so when a disc arrived in late October with a Post-it in Lacey’s perfect script reading simply, Minotaur alert, I stuck it under Nick’s door and returned to my room to wait him out.
Nick burst in two hours later. “Sorry, I was out with India. We need a bat signal so I can come home as soon as these get here.”
He stopped short when he realized I was on the phone.
“Everything’s fine, Dad, that’s just my horribly impatient hallmate Nick,” I said into the receiver.
“He’s pretty loud,” Dad said.
“He was raised in a barn.”
Dad chortled. “I’m going to tell the Queen you said that.”
“I’m going to tell Gran you said that,” Nick was whispering at the same time.
“Put him on the phone, honey,” Dad said. “Prince or no prince, if this Nick fellow is going to run around your dorm room I should at least get the chance to scare him a little.”
“Dad, we’re just friends. And he probably isn’t allowed to talk to you.”
“Oh, I most certainly am,” Nick said, snatching the receiver from me. “Hello, sir,” he said in an absurdly proper-sounding voice. “This is Nicholas Wales speaking.”
This is one of my favorite memories. The put your man-friend on the phone gambit was the greatest gift my dad gave Nick, because it said from the get-go that he didn’t view him any differently than any other guy who hung out in my bedroom.
“What studies, sir?” Nick said into the phone. “Are you quite sure she’s doing any?”
I kicked at his leg.
“Oh, indeed, loads of trouble,” he said. “I expect she’ll get kicked out of the country fairly soon. Sharing humiliating stories might help—you know, really good blackmail material, to keep her on the straight and narrow.”
I lunged at the phone but Nick stiff-armed me away from him.
“That is shocking, sir,” he said.
“You are dead to me,” I called out in the general direction of