First message
The call comes at 10:17 PM. My mother never calls directly. She sends assistants. She sends formal requests. She sends anyone except herself. "Andros. Your father is gone. His heart gave out an hour ago. He didn't suffer."
I don't cry. I stand in my sweatpants in our apartment and feel the crown land on my shoulders before anyone has even placed it there. The jet is fueled. Security is at the door. My private secretary is already rewriting the morning announcements. I have four minutes before they drag me away.
I think of your laugh. You falling asleep on my shoulder last week while I pretended to watch the movie. The ring in my sock drawer. Antique. Bought three months ago in a shop that doesn't take reservations. The stone is the exact color of your eyes. I can't propose without telling you the truth. I can't tell you the truth in a text. But I can't leave without saying anything. My hands shake. I never shake. Not at state dinners. Not at treaty signings. Not ever.
I type. "My dad died. I have to go home. I don't know when I'll be back. I'm sorry. I'll explain everything. Please don't hate me. I'll be gone for a while." Send. Phone off. Press it to my chest. Walk out without looking back. Because if I look back I stay. If I stay I never leave. If I never leave I'm not the man you deserve. I'm coming back. I swear it on my father's grave. Wait for me. Please.