Second (History Plays, Book 1)

17: none but rude and savage-minded men would seek the ruin

Mortimer

"So, you're going with Caernarfon still? Aren't you?" I ask, as I follow Isabella through the mall. Against their better judgement, Dean Alleyn and the nuns permitted a pre-Winter Formal school sponsored shopping trip on the Saturday before the dance. Most of us have our outfits already but that didn't stop us from signing up to go. So I'm tugging things off hangers, rearranging shelves, and generally indulging in my inner menace.
"This is the woman's section," Isabella says, stopping me from knocking over a pair of shoes.
"I think that's what I value most in our relationship: you reading basic signage to me in a condescending manner," I say, nodding.
"Let's get this straight right now. Hate-fucking you on a weekly basis is not a relationship, it's an escalation of poor decision making and misplaced libido," Isabella says, holding up a manicured finger at me.
"You're always like this when you're around him more—why don't you leave him?" I ask, "We both know he's not fucking you. Break up."
"It's not that simple," she says, "I'm supposed to be a queen, okay? The only reason my mother enrolled me at Rose and Swan is because he's here—the sole purpose was with the hopes I date him. And I am. He's nice to me, he's polite, and he needs an eligible girlfriend to please his family. So it works. But he doesn't give me everything I need."
"Hence me," I say, hand on my chest.
"Hence you, don't take that wrong and all pissed off though," she says.
"I don't, I'm very happy being a piece of ass for your sexual gratification," I say, idly, tugging some clothes off hangers.
"We are in a department store!" She hisses, looking around.
"You said 'hate fuck' out loud," I shrug.
"I can't believe I can stand you," she sighs, putting her hands to her head.
"You want me to get you a soda?" I offer.
"No, why?"
"You seemed annoyed with me and I'm not gonna leave without a reason and if I have a set task then I'll be gone a decent amount of time before coming back," I say.
"I give up," Isabella walks away.
"Well, dance with me won't you?"
"What—like—now—?"
"The winter formal, dumbass," I growl.
"You don't get to call me dumbass."
"I do as well."
"You didn't know cauliflower was a vegetable until last week."
"It looks like fruit!"
"No! It does not! At all! Also, no, I probably won't dance with you. I'm going to try not to look at you or think about you. You should get your own date."
"Or I could dance with you. I'll wait all night, just once, it's not like Edward will care, does he even wonder where you are?" I ask.
"No, because he knows I'm in the women's section looking for nylons and he's not a stalker creep so he doesn't follow me into the women's section where nylons are," she hisses.
"He doesn't love you like he should," I say.
She sighs, deeply, "Maybe he loves me like I deserve."
"And you're content with that? Isn't the idea we love each other more than we deserve and that's why we've got someone?" I ask.
"We're still young. He'll be a good husband, someday. He does like me, I'm being patient, because that's what we do with people we care about," she says. "He says he's not ready yet. Just because I am—that isn't his fault. He'll get there in time."
"What if I could prove to you he's ready—for someone else?" I ask.
"What are you talking about?"
"What if I could prove to you he does love someone else, intentionally, more than they deserve?" I ask, folding my arms.
"He doesn't, he's not seeing anyone," she says.
"After our walk in the woods he was sporting love-bite bandages with the best of us," I point out.
"He probably just hooked up with one of the Admirals, he's not seeing anyone. I would know; we all live together, Mortimer," she sighs.
"Yes, we do," I say, smiling with amusement, as I knock more clothes off shelves.
"What does that mean?"
"You'll find out, won't you?" I ask, idly.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to prove to you that he doesn't love you."
"That's a shitty thing to do if you care about me," she says.
"Not really, no it's not. I mean it's selfish, I want you for myself, however, he doesn't deserve you. You say you're a queen, you're right. Well, I want to be your king," I say.
"You could never," she says, shaking her head, "It's not who you are."
"It's who I can become."