24 | Melina
Melina
Instead of processing whatever happened back on the patio, I smoked a bit more of Cassie’s weed.
Taylor didn’t seem to mind my chattiness.
While I told him about all the ways I think AI is going to take over the world, he just sat there with his eyes closed, listening, being.
He only interrupted once to tell me how brown my eyes are.
Your irises remind me of the chocolate dusting on a tiramisu, he said.
We haven’t gotten the chance to be alone together again, and he hasn’t touched me since.
After we came back to earth, Cassie and Neil took us on their boat.
Except boat might be an understatement. The thing resembles a small pirate ship.
Taylor knows how to sail because most rich people in St. Claire do.
We had a sailing field trip in elementary school once, but I didn’t retain any information to be of any help.
Much to Cassie’s chagrin, the boys did most of the work.
She’s currently being tortured by Neil, who’s making her take it easy while pregnant.
That didn’t stop her from backseat-sailing, however.
I don’t think I thought about work or royal gossip the whole voyage.
Instead, I distracted myself by watching Taylor’s hair fluff in the wind.
I like the way he handles ropes and says nautical terms like starboard all seriously.
It’s impossible to hide anymore. I like his company, and now I know he likes mine.
In a perfect world, this would end in a date, but something about that doesn’t feel right.
I can’t date a prince. It’s too Telenovela.
What would be the point of exploring our feelings if the ending has already been spoiled?
Yes, thinking about marriage when we’ve only kissed sounds completely psychotic, but how can I not?
Marriage and kids are the two top bullet points in a prince’s job description.
Two things I know are true: I’m not going to be the Princess of St. Claire, and this is nothing more than an ephemeral crush.
“How good are you at pool, Melina?” Cassie asks, chalking up her cue.
Her face glows purple from the neon beer signs. Harry’s Tavern is dark and sticky. Some might call it gross, but I’ll call it local.
“I played some in university,” I tell her. “But not much since then. Don’t expect any skill.”
“I’ll be Taylor’s partner then. Neil’s the best shot out of all of us.
Her husband lifts the triangle rack off the table.
Neil’s very much the silent type. When he does speak, it’s always sailing-related conversation.
I can tell what Cassie sees in her gruff seaman with a sensitive vegan side.
For the past hour, I’ve been asking them questions about their business.
I love it when people talk about their passions, but it almost makes me a little sad.
I wish I were as passionate about my job.
I sip the last of my beer. “I’m going to get another. One of you should break. It’d be pathetic if it were me.”
“I’ll do it,” Taylor says.
Tonight’s black button-down is a more casual shirt than his usual pressed and tucked ones.
The three buttons undone render him a bit pornstary, but I guess he’s in party mode.
Who am I to complain about man cleavage?
He’s wearing glasses because his right contact got ruined by the pool’s chlorine, and he didn’t bring an extra pair.
I should feel bad about blinding him, but he protrudes this whole Clark Kent vibe that makes it very hard not to.
Taylor hands me his drink, takes a step back, then bends over the table.
Some hair falls over his forehead as he lines up with the white ball, biting his lip to concentrate.
Kill me now. After a swift motion, the balls shatter, and eventually the striped eleven sinks.
He leans back and bonks me on the head with his cue.
“Did you see that?” he asks like a toddler who just did a somersault. “There is truly nothing I can’t do.”
He sounds like a cat poster. I’m guessing he doesn’t go to bars very often. I thought it’d be nice to see him in this kind of setting, but Taylor amongst average people in an average bar makes me wish that he was just that, average. Maybe we could’ve worked something out if he were an accountant.
He runs a hand through his hair and takes the beer back.
Oh yeah, I said I was getting another one.
I got distracted by the pool porn. Speaking of pool porn, I’ve been thinking about him shirtless all day.
I wish the guy had a physical flaw. How can I let a man with a perfect face and a runner’s body grip my ass cheek like he owns it and get away scot-free?
I mull over this conundrum as I squeeze between the Harry’s Tavern regulars.
The woman behind the bar counter holds up a finger. “It’ll be a minute,” she mouths, so I take a seat.
My sulking is interrupted when a man, maybe in his mid-forties, shuffles up next to me.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he states in a thick Bostonian accent.
Not in the mood, dude.
“I’m not from here,” I say without making eye contact. Hopefully, he’ll get the message.
“Tourist?”
“Yep.”
“You probably don’t know who I am, then.”
I don’t attempt to hide my eye roll. “And who might you be?”
He leans in far too close for comfort, his smell of alcohol and cheap cologne making me wince. “Harry,” he brags.
“I don’t understand,” I lie to piss him off. The untruth slips right out of my mouth. Who have I become?
He frowns, then points at the huge Harry’s Tavern sign above the bar.
“Oh. You’re Harry.” My statement drips with unenthusiasm.
“What’s your story then, missy? Where ya from?”
I cringe at the pet name. They’re so demeaning when coming from a person you’ve just met. I know this guy’s type. He assumes everyone should be impressed by him. Come on, bartender.
“St. Claire,” I feel the need to answer.
“St. Claire, eh ?”
I ignore his attempt at mockery . Our population has a habit of putting eh at the end of sentences, a vocal tick that’s been used for fodder since the dawn of time. The joke is old by now.
Harry taps his lips. “Is that a country or an island? I always forget. I’m bad with geography.”
Yeah, I can tell.
“Both,” I humor him. Just when I think the woman is going to ask me what I want to drink, she takes the order of the person next to me. Dammit.
“You’re too beautiful to be from St. Claire.”
My hopes of him taking the hint burst into flames. I don’t care about politeness now.
“Are we all supposed to be ugly?”
At first, he’s taken aback by my tone, but then Harry taps me on the arm with the back of his hand. “Come on, I’m just trying to make you laugh, babe.”
This conversation keeps getting better and better.
I stroke my bicep to make his touch go away. “Right. I’m just trying to get a beer right now, so—” I cut myself off when I feel flesh on my upper thigh.
“Why don’t I get you a dri—”
“Please take your hand off me,” I say, finally looking him in the eyes.
As soon as he does, Taylor appears in my peripheral vision. Weaving between patrons, he goes from the pool table to the bar in a matter of seconds.
“What’s going on?” he asks me.
“Sorry, man,” Harry slurs. “Didn’t know.”
Of course, he apologizes to Taylor and not to me.
“Did you touch her?” he asks softly. Taylor sounds less pissed and more heartbroken, like he knows the answer but doesn’t want it to be true.
“It’s fine, Tay—”
“I didn’t touch no one,” Harry mumbles.
“I’ll get the drinks,” Taylor tells me, doing a head movement towards the pool table.
Be my guest.
When I arrive back at the table, Cassie hands me the cue. “Your turn,” she informs me.
After deleting the last two minutes from my mind, I scan the playing field and notice the black eight-ball sitting right in front of the middle-left pocket.
I bend over the table and take my shot very slowly.
The white ball rolls at a snail’s pace, but it smacks the eight at just the right force to make it roll in.
“Oh my God, I did it!”
Neil laughs for the first time today. “Uh, actually—”
The whole room gasps.
Did I do something wrong?
When I’m upright, I realize the guy shouting from across the room sounds eerily familiar.
Harry.
I nudge myself through the crowd to find Taylor leaning up against the front door. A few feet away is Harry being held back by two bigger guys. I take the hand of Taylor’s that isn’t clutching his jaw. He’s been hurt.
“The fuck is going on?” I ask him.
Before he can answer, Harry breaks out of their grasp.
His face is that of a bull’s as he marches toward us.
Taylor puts his arm around my shoulders and pushes me first out the door.
He grabs my hand and we run along the side of the brick building towards Cassie’s white jeep.
After looking behind me to check if we’re followed, I lean up against it to catch my breath.
“He punched me,” Taylor declares to himself.
He can’t seem to believe it. Neither can I.
“Are you—”
“Are you okay?” he asks, putting his hands on my biceps and scanning me up and down.
“I’m fine.” I reach up to gently hold his jaw. It’s too dark out to examine the bruising. “It doesn’t feel broken. Does it hurt?”
He places a hand on my forearm. “Not really.”
Good. Now I can get angry.
“What did you do?” I scowl.
“We were just having a conversation.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And he called you something unsavory.”
“Like what?”
He sways his head from side to side. He doesn’t want to say it to me. “B word. Rhymes with witch . I told him to go fuck himself amongst, uh, other compliments. He didn’t seem to appreciate them.” He raises a shoulder. “Apparently, I’m banned from the establishment. Like he can do that.”
“He can, actually. That was Harry.”
He snorts. “ That was Harry. Like...of Tavern?”
Harry will go the rest of his life not knowing he punched a prince. Maybe one day he’ll catch Taylor’s coronation in the news and think ‘That dude wearing the crown looks familiar’.
“Well, he’s banned from St. Claire.”
“Can you do that?”
“No,” he admits.
I close my eyes. “You’re so stupid.”
He puts his hand on my waist. “I know.”
It’s only been a few hours, but it feels like he hasn’t touched me for years.
“What the hell was that!” Cassie yells from down the parking lot.
“A sloppy punch,” Taylor answers as he releases me.
“He punched you? That fucker!” She pivots toward the bar before Neil holds her back.
“Absolutely not,” he says, taking the keys from her and unlocking the jeep behind us.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Cassie asks when she approaches. She reaches her hand up to Taylor’s face, but he playfully pushes her shoulder before she can.
“Yes, Cass. Stop worrying about me. You’ve hit me much harder when we were kids.”
She lets out a breath. That seemed to put her at ease.
When we climb into their Jeep, the car lights allow me to get a better look at Taylor’s face. I cringe at the dark bruise just below his ear.
“Fuck,” Taylor whispers, then points to his eyes.
It takes me a second to notice. He’s been unclark-kentified.
“Your glasses,” I mouth. They’re probably lying broken on the dingy bar floor. “Can you see without them?”
“Nope,” Cassie answers from the passenger seat. “Terrible eyesight runs in the family. Consequences of medieval inbreeding.”
Taylor groans into the ceiling. “I’m a fucking idiot. How does it look?”
I examine the purple mark that’s been getting purpler. “A little rough. It’s sort of like a Florida-shaped hickey. You look badass, actually.” Except when I wished Taylor had a physical flaw, I didn’t mean this.
“Great. I look badass just in time for Dartmouth.”
Damn, I forgot about tomorrow. The second day bruise is always the worst-looking, too.
“I’d offer to work my magic, but I don’t think you’d want the concealer I brought.”
His brow furrows. “You think my masculinity is that fragile? I’m on TV all the time.”
I blink. “It’s just not the right match, Taylor. You’re a bit pale.” I put the back of my hand up to his face. My skin is more sun-kissed, while his is more sickly orphaned child.
“Oh.”
“Oh,” I mock in his low voice.
After a minute of us driving, I feel a hand on top of mine.
“I’m sorry,” Taylor says. “I shouldn’t have escalated that. I was asking for it.”
“Why are you saying ‘sorry’, you just got punched in the face?”
“No.” He stares at the headrest in front of him. “I don’t know why I think I deserve to talk to people like that. He was riled up only a meter away from you, I mean, what if he—” Taylor swallows his words and looks out the window.
“Taylor, that guy was just a garden-variety douche. One of thousands. I don’t think he would have lashed out at me.”
“I don’t either, but you shouldn’t even have to think about it.”
I look down at our hands interlocking casually, neither one of us having the urge to pull back. Taylor just took a blow to the jaw, and he’s concerned about how I’m feeling. I graze my thumb over his knuckles. I might have more than a little crush, that’s what I’m feeling.