Across the Pond (Prince Harry #2)

Chapter Sixty-Eight

When Meredith woke up in the heat of Nairobi, she felt sticky all over. Even while naked, the sweat soaked her skin. Harry repeatedly pushed Kenya on her, and Meredith obviously had agreed. She didn't like the heat, but she liked Harry. After months of working and more working, it hadn't even paid for half of her ticket. Harry had insisted.

In January, Meredith looked outside. The lights reflected from the far off city. Desert surrounded her. It was the furthest they got before night hit. Harry said he had plans in mind, something about a safari. Meredith stared out the window, wondering how deep they might get.

"Mere?" Harry asked into the dark, sitting up. A thin piece of cloth covered him, yet he felt the heat too. His blue eyes hit her in the dark. "Can't sleep?"

"My body hasn't fallen into the time zone," Meredith said, glancing back at the bed. "And you?"

"I just felt..." Harry tapered off, taking his eyes to the white sheet. Whatever he wanted to say made him embarrassed, shown by his cheeks that turned pink.

Meredith arched an eyebrow, waiting impatiently.

After a moment of silence only filled by the outside commotion of the animals and insects, Harry carried on, "I just felt like you weren't here."

"You rolled over and didn't feel me?"

"In my sleep," he whispered. "I just felt like you weren't beside me anymore."

Sadness seeped into Meredith. Harry feared she had gone, slunk into the night, never to be seen again. A fear that bred within him. It nagged him. Meredith fueled the flames, accidentally, which Harry allowed.

Climbing into bed, Meredith settled in beside him. "I'll warn you," she kissed him on the cheek, "I don't know if I can go back to sleep." Her body and mind didn't feel tired, but the night didn't allow her to feel fully awake. She rested in the middle, when nights meant staring up at the ceiling.

Harry sighed, hand on her leg. "Me too."

"Then, let's not waste the time." Rolling over, Meredith reached into her bag and pulled out a book. Harry turned on a light.

"Is that the poetry book?"

"Meet Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur, your first modern poetry lesson." Meredith explained, "It's feminist poetry with cultural differences. It's all about the truth, which makes it very direct."

"Easy?"

"It depends on how hard it hits you."

Meredith tried to hand the book off to him, but Harry didn't take it. "I'll read it, I promise, but read to me. It's peaceful. It's nice. You do it so much better."

Rolling her eyes, Meredith flipped to "The Loving" and began to read, "I do not want to have you/ to fill the empty parts of me/ I want to be full on my own/ I want to be so complete/ I could light a while city/ and then/ I want to love you/ cause the two of us combined/ could set it on fire." Looking up at Harry, he glanced away, staring off into the glowing city of Nairobi. Meredith hooked her fingers under his chin, bring his eyes back to her. "Do you like it?" 

Harry nodded. "What else does she have?" Reaching over, he plucked the book from her fingertips, which Meredith happily gave away. His eyes skimmed over the pages until he found a quick and easy poem called "The Perfect Date." "Nothing is safer/ than the sound of you/ reading out loud to me." His eyes fell to her.

Meredith blushed.

"Another?" he asked, handing the book back to her. "You know more than I do."

"I want you to read too, Harry."

"I will." He smirked. "But I love your voice." Harry planted his lips on her lips, tipping her chin toward the sky. His eyes settled on her. "Please," Harry begged, "read me another."

Meredith slipped her face from his hand and she twirled the pages of the book in her fingertips. Thankfully, usually the poems were short, allowing her to easily find one she thought belonged there. Harry skimmed across the bottom, reading the title, "The Type of Love I Need," as Meredith began to read, "I need someone/ who knows struggle/ as well as I do/ someone/ willing to hold my feet in their lap/ on days it is too difficult to stand/ the type of person who gives exactly what I need it/ the type of love who hears me/ even when I do not speak/ is the type of understand/ I demand."

Harry had closed his eyes, taking all of it in. Opening them again, he understood. There wasn't a day that went by where he gave up on her. There was something brash and creative hidden behind her features that demanded respect. While other girls he had in his life had been quiet, always quick to get their way, and more of his station, Meredith fell into place beside him. While princesses were meant to walk two feet behind, Harry dared to let her walk in front. Her loud, patience and alien past got her stares and him judgement. Yet, there wasn't a moment of fear about who she was.

"Your turn." Meredith handed the book back to him. "Choose wisely."

Just doing that, he went back to "The Loving" portion, finding a poem. "Love will come/ and when love comes/ love will hold you/ love will call your name/ and you will melt/ sometimes though/ love will hurt you but/ love will never mean to/ love will play no games/ cause love knows life/ has been hard enough already."

Her cheeks had turned a deep red, and her eyes were suddenly transfixed on the world of their feet, which dangled out from under the sheet. Harry watched her intently, carefully placing a hand near her face, removing hair strands from his perfect vision. If he admitted it aloud, Meredith denied, so he kept it carefully hidden away until she finally accepted it. He didn't know when, but he knew the day would come.

"Your turn." Harry handed the book back.

"It's not that large, and poetry is meant to be thought about, philosophized, romanticized," Meredith murmured. "Perhaps we have done enough for one night."

Harry groaned. "Please, Mere, one more." His eyes glistened dark blue, like night waves pushing against the white sand. "Choose your favorite."

He didn't have to ask twice.

Opening the book, Meredith read, "You tell me to quiet down cause/ my opinions make me less beautiful/ but I was not made with a fire in my belly/ so I could be put out/ I was not made with a lightness on my tongue/ so I could be easy to swallow/ I was made heavy/ half blade and half silk/ difficult to forget and not easy/ for the mind to follow."

Reaching over, Meredith turned off the light. The room went dark. On the horizon, Nairobi gleamed. The buzzing of insects picked up outside. Meredith broke in, "Good night, Harry." Turning over, her naked body pressed against his, but nothing else happened that night.

Harry stared at his girlfriend, whose eyes shut peacefully. Her breath turned even, falling into sleep, wherever that might take her. Harry wished to go with her, yet the rest of their life was together. She needed her own dreams, her own places, where she wasn't a prisoner to the schedule. Closing his eyes, Harry breathed, "Good night, Mere."