10 | Taylor
Taylor
Something is licking my face.
When I open my eyes, a bead of drool slowly drips onto my forehead.
I’m not sure how the four-legged beast got into my bedroom. I must have left my door open last night. Sometimes, if I don’t close it all the way, Vinnie will paw it open and watch me sleep. At any rate, it means Tom is back. He takes the dog everywhere he can.
Thomas and I live on opposite ends of Clément Manor.
It’s easier to walk outside to get to his wing.
Our places are virtually the same on the inside, full of hallways and rooms that only exist to be dusted.
The scent-hound follows a foot behind me from one end of the courtyard to the other.
When I let him into the house, he sits down and stares at me as if he’s waiting for some sort of direction.
“Where is he? I know, you know.”
Vinnie takes off beside me to the end of the hallway.
Though he first leads me to the kitchen (I gave him a piece of cheese, I’m not a monster), I remain patient and follow him to the living room.
Sure enough, Tom’s on the couch watching Attack on Titan at full volume.
My brother’s decor choice is very much bachelor’s pad meets Marie Antoinette’s salon.
I don’t think sleek black furniture and leather upholstery goes well with lavender walls and flowery crown molding, but who am I to judge?
“Where did you disappear to?” I ask. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.” He hasn’t been answering my texts or even been home for me to bother.
Tom doesn’t turn to acknowledge me. Instead, he takes the slobbery tennis ball Vinnie has fetched for him and tosses it across the room.
“The silent treatment, are you five?”
Still nothing. I storm over to steal the remote off his stomach and turn off the TV.
He whips his head around to me. “What the hell is wrong with you, man!”
“Listen, I know you’re frustrated because I didn’t know about your poker thing, and I’m sorry, all right? Go to Vegas. I think I have something figured out.”
He stands up. “Really? You’re not going to try to convince me to stay?”
“No, but you need to find yourself a replacement. A woman, preferably, and one that doesn’t expect me to talk with them the whole night. Just pick the least problematic one from your list.”
Tom keeps a database of the women he meets in his notes app and tends to it like a misogynistic Pokédex.
“You’re looking for a date,” he realizes after a while.
“I can’t think of anything else that will make the press more hysterical. They’ll forget all about you if I bring someone to the fundraiser.”
“But you hate when everyone circlejerks about your love life...or lack thereof.”
“Then it’s a pretty good apology, right?”
Tom’s smile is blinding. He understands the personal hell I’ll be putting myself through for him. “That is an abnormal amount of nice for you. Is there a full moon tonight or something?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “Hell froze over, I get it.”
“Why can’t you take your Melina? Is she still texting you about cake?”
My Melina. Melina is anything but mine. Nothing I do persuades her. She is the most stubborn woman on earth.
Though it did sound nice for a second.
“No, I’m not doing that. The press would eat her alive. That photo has already caused enough trouble.”
I care about Melina enough to not want to ruin the woman’s life.
Although bickering with her would’ve been ten times better than the mind-numbing conversations I will be having at the fundraiser.
I like talking to Melina. She’s one of those people you’d spill all your secrets to if all they did was ask.
I’d much rather spend my night making her dinner.
“Ah, so she’s the purple dress woman?” Tom taps a finger on his sly smirk. “The plot thicks.”
“Thick- ens . And we’re not together. She hates me, in fact.”
“Have you tried putting in effort?” he asks as slowly as one would speak to a child.
I could tell him that I’ve cooked for her twice, but that would just confuse him. It honestly confuses me.
“No, I haven’t. She’s not important.”
Tom snaps his fingers. “Giana Amato!”
“Who?”
“She was Miss Italy a while back and lives here now. Nice to look at, but doesn’t speak a lot of English.
You shouldn’t be able to scare her with your—” Tom splays his hand and gestures in a vague circle.
“Taylorness.” He pulls out his phone and shows me an Instagram post of a blonde woman wearing a sash and silver tiara.
“Look, she’s royalty. You already have something in common. ”
“How do you communicate with this woman if she only speaks Italian?”
“ Parlado italiano ,” he says like it’s obvious.
How many languages does Tom know? I’ve heard him speak both Spanish and Korean with foreign leaders.
“Don’t worry, we haven’t done anything,” he says, then quickly looks up from his phone. “Wait, there might have been that time in Malta.” Tom pauses in intense thought. “Never mind, that was a different Italian. You’re good.”
“Whatever, just give me her number. And I need you to do something else for me.”
Tom groans and flops back down on the coach. “You treat me like a slave.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll like this one. Dad and I are going to be away next week during National Small Business Day. Alex wants you to find someplace brick-and-mortar and be your usual attention-craving, smarmy self around the owners and customers. Let some journalists know you’re there.”
“Does a restaurant work?”
The questions he asks me.
“Yes, Thomas. A restaurant is a business.”
He switches back on the TV. “Sounds easy enough.”
Good. Tom’s personality is more suited for that task than mine, anyway. I don’t think this is something he can mess up.
––––––––
All royals are insufferable. We’re by no means an exception, but if there was a competition of insufferableness, the British monarchy would win in a landslide.
Talking with them feels like talking to aliens from another planet.
They act like they’re the first family to ever have drama or a dead mom, infecting everybody else’s press with their issues.
They need to grow a pair and realize to the rest of the world, they just look like a bunch of rich kids whining about champagne problems. Maybe they would have less turmoil if they stopped living their lives like a period piece.
Thankfully, they see us as small fish, so we don’t get the privilege of visiting that often.
The Duke of Wales came to St. Claire once, and people lined the fucking streets for him.
It’s not like I’m jealous, but if you’re going to care about an unelected figurehead, at least care about the ones from our own goddamn country.
We go every couple of years to sustain the cordial relationship between our nations, but being myself, I can’t help but make our exchanges slightly passive-aggressive.
It would be an insult to my personal character if they actually wanted to be friends with us.
Also, the whole Commonwealth thing is weird.
Desperately clinging to formerly colonized countries and touring them like they’re their little pets is something that, for lack of better words, doesn’t sit right with me.
Anyway.
I find the perfect time to get work done is when I’m stuck in a private jet.
They’re terrible for the environment, but they sure are convenient.
It’s impossible for anyone to come in and bother me.
The only other people here are our staff and security.
And my father, of course, but he fell asleep as soon as we took off.
Alex makes an odd face at his laptop. “Your brother’s made an interesting choice for his small business.”
That’s not entirely surprising. My brother makes lots of interesting choices.
A particular viral video comes to mind of someone showing him how to drink a beer ‘the American way’ at an award show after-party in Los Angeles.
I guess Americans drink their beer by poking a hole in the can and chugging it all in one go.
Cleaning up Tom’s messes is a skill Alex has had to carefully hone.
Sometimes, I wonder if he bribes journalists to hold off on stories for a couple of hours until we can prepare a statement.
I don’t care, as long as he isn’t caught.
“What, is it some mom-and-pop sex shop?” I ask.
I am ninety-nine percent sure he wouldn’t do that, but there’s a concerning one percent of me that thinks he would.
He shakes his head. “It’s a nail salon. It actually might be good for press. It’s owned by a woman and has been in the city for over a decade.”
A nail salon? That is an interesting choice. I reach my arm out, and Alex hands me his laptop with the website pulled up. The first sentence under the ‘about us’ section reads I named the MelMat Nail Bar after my two children, Melina and Mateo.
Of fucking course.
I give Tom the most simple task, and he still finds a way to annoy me. There’s no doubt he googled Melina’s name and found this.
“Something wrong?”
Alex must’ve noticed my grip on his laptop growing tighter. I ignore him and immediately call Tom.
He answers within seconds. “Sweet brother of mine. To what do I owe the ples—”
“Why are you going to a nail salon?”
I hear him excuse himself from a group of people and go somewhere quieter. “I thought I’d do something unexpected, you know? Keep people on their freshly manicured toes.”
I can always tell when he’s lying. I don’t understand how he’s this glorious poker player.
“Oh, I think you’ve already proven you’re able to do the unexpected.”
“I’m serious,” he says through a laugh. “I need my cuticles...painted or fixed or trimmed or whatever people do with their cuticles.”
I stare hopelessly out the window of the emergency exit. “If you have to be deranged, could you do it in a way that doesn’t involve me?”
“I’m just curious, okay? You danced with this girl. That’s like third base for you.”
You know I’ve had sex before is what I would say if Alex wasn’t staring me down. Tom should use his perceptiveness for something more productive than this. I guess that’s what the poker’s for.
“I already told the owner I’m coming,” Tom says. “I’m not going to be rude and back out now. It’s Small Business Day Eve.”
“Thomas, listen to me,” I sneer. “There is nothing there. I promise. Why do you care so much?”
“Because you haven’t shown interest in someone since your last relationship, and that was years ago.”
I glance over to my father to make sure he’s still asleep. “That wasn’t a relationship,” I mutter.
I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those, at least a serious one.
The thought of going public with someone makes my stomach churn.
I’d probably call what we had a stint or a situation.
Maybe there was the occasional dinner, but I can count on my fingers the times we slept together.
I might have to use two hands, but it was definitely less than ten.
Last I heard, Jamie has a husband, and I’m pretty sure has moved back to England. Good riddance.
It’s not like I’ve been completely celibate since then.
One-night stands are just complicated when you’re me.
Sometimes, it’s easier not to have them.
It’s never ‘just sex’, it’s always ‘sex and then praying to God Almighty for the next week I won’t hear about it in a tabloid’.
But unlike Tom, I’m pretty good at determining if a person is the type to kiss and tell.
“Well, if she’s there,” I start. “Try not to be all you around her. She won’t fall for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind, just don’t mess this up.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything that would ruin your whole cryptic and mysterious schtick.”
“What are you talking ab—”
“Like how you like to sing Céline Dion when you’re drunk.”
“I don’t remember—”
“ Pour que tu m’aime encore,” he sings breathlessly. “ Pour que tu m’aime en—”
I hang up on him and hand back Alex’s laptop.
“Is there something I should know about?” he asks like a mother.
“No,” I answer as my phone buzzes.
Melina: why did my mom just text me that your brother is visiting her business?
Melina: does this have something to do with you?
Me: tom wants to meet you
Me: dont take anything he says seriously
All the progress I may have made on Melina could be completely ruined by my idiot little brother.