27 | Melina
Melina
Years ago, I went on a date with this guy who insisted he take me to a sushi place.
I guess he wanted to impress me with something exotic and expensive.
The conversation had been going great until the fish came out.
This man who had been studying for his master’s in finance never used chopsticks before in his life.
Even after he dumped the eel sauce on his pants, Jared refused to put me out of my misery by asking the waitress for a fork. It’s fine, he said.
It wasn’t fine. That night while we were, uh, frying our egg rolls, all I could think about was him fumbling around with those fucking chopsticks. He came. I faked. We never saw each other again.
Ever since then, I’ve given my men the chopstick test. I’ve put all my friends on to it as well. Somewhere in St. Claire, there’s a little sushi restaurant chock-full of awkward first dates.
Anyway, Taylor and I are eating Chinese.
Earlier today I mentioned I love East Asian food but can’t have a lot of it due to its relationship with sesame oil.
That’s a travesty , Taylor lamented before calling ten restaurants to find a swanky Chinese place willing to cater to my allergy.
I know it’s swanky because of its dim lighting and lack of prices on the menu.
Unfortunately for my little crush problem, Taylor eats noodles like the princess he is.
Who was I kidding about the chopsticks? I bet he’s had etiquette lessons since he was four years old.
Amongst all better judgment, I have officially given in.
What’s going to happen when we get back to St. Claire?
I haven’t got a clue. I, Melina Ramirez, am winging it.
It’s usually not my style. I’m the type of girl who gets homework done as soon as it’s assigned with enough time to do other students’ homework for money.
(What can I say, I’ve always tended toward self-employed.) I’m putting off my thinking for now because Taylor’s not ‘the prince’ here.
There is no royalty in America. They had a whole war and Declaration of Independence about that.
In America, we’re just two normal people going on a date. And that’s all I want to worry about.
Taylor didn’t do a whole lot of speaking at the Dartmouth panel because the woman next to me was literally curing cancer.
I don’t think people care about my philanthropic ventures.
Though when it came time for the Q&A section, he was more than willing to get into details.
He seemed passionate about finding charities that provide long-term solutions, treating his money like an investment for local communities.
I’ve always conceded that Taylor is at least self-aware about his bluntness and audacity, but now I don’t think he’s self-aware enough.
He talks about St. Claire less like a politician and more like a citizen, like the little island deserves conversation that’s just as nuanced and significant as a country a hundred times its size. It’s admirable. And very attractive.
Tonight, our conversation has been easy and pleasant.
He’s very funny, sometimes unintentionally, but that’s okay.
He doesn’t mind when I ask him all my burning questions about his upbringing.
He says his parents tried to give him and his brother normalcy by telling them to not ask the staff for anything unless they couldn’t do it themselves.
He tells a story about how as a first year in boarding school he had to drink a raw egg out of a senior classmate’s shoe to satisfy a centennial-long hazing ritual.
We talk about growing up in a bilingual home and having inside jokes about the idioms our parents would get wrong.
Taylor asks me about my work, my mom’s salon, and my extended family in Argentina.
He avoids my dad because he rightly assumes I’m cagey about the topic.
I explain how Mateo and I would spend summers in Córdoba with our abuela and how sad I was getting back to rainy St. Claire.
I tell him how all the beaches in Buenos Aires are made of sand instead of rocks and I think that’s why everyone is in a better mood.
He makes my life feel interesting and noteworthy even though his thirty years on earth have probably been much more exciting than mine. It’s appreciated, nonetheless.
Taylor asks our waitress to leave the wine bottle at the table. I guess he’s sick of her bothering us.
“Snakes?” he asks, pouring the red liquid into my glass.
Not this again. He’s been trying to figure out my biggest fear all day.
“No.”
“Heights?”
“Not really.”
“Small spaces, spiders, blood?”
“Nope,” I say, emphasizing the P. “Even if you get it right, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll use it to torture me.”
Taylor gives a sick, sadistic smile. “I would never do that.”
Sure. I bet if I said I’m scared of clowns, which I’m not, he’d give my apartment keys to someone with a big red nose and tell him to hide in a closet.
“What are you scared of?” I ask instead.
“I’m not scared of anything,” he says. “Needles, if that counts as a fear, but who enjoys needles?”
“What about that Jamie guy, you turned white when you saw him?”
Taylor recoils at the name. “I’m not scared of that crumpet-eating leech,” he grumbles.
“Okay, what the hell is going on there.” I’ve been dying to know.
“He’s my enemy, blackmailer, and an all-around awful person.”
“Blackmail?”
I can’t hide the concern in my voice. I remember the conversation between them being odd, but I didn’t sense that much animosity.
What the hell could Taylor be blackmailed over?
The worst-case scenarios run through my head, scenarios involving drugs and royal crime syndicates.
I’ve always felt like there’s something he hasn’t told me.
“Yeah,” he answers. “We had this friends-with-benefits type relationship. Well, maybe less friends and more just benefits.”
“What type of benefits?”
Taylor rubs his eyes. “Oh my God, Melina.”
Is he? “Are you—”
“I refuse to do this with you.”
“You’re gay?”
Wait, that doesn’t make sense.
“Ah yes. Us gay men. We really love sucking girls’ faces on balconies and in planes and in empty Dartmouth classrooms.” He pauses. “Surprisingly there’s one area of my life where I’ve never been that picky.”
I squint, trying to reassess some of our previous conversations.
“You know, like, David Bowie and that one dolphin at the St. Claire national zoo,” he says, mistaking my expression for confusion. “I’m not sure how this hasn’t come up yet.”
“It has come up. At the wedding. When you walked away from me.” At the moment, my comment seemed so off-hand. I just assumed he was straight after all the lower back touching. “I’m sorry. The B in LGBT isn’t a silent letter.”
He takes my hand across the table. “Thank you for that, Melina. I can feel the world healing.”
I retract and go for my wine. He’s making fun of me.
“I may have thought you were trying to steer the conversation on purpose,” Taylor says, scratching his eyebrow. “I soon learned you’re not that type of person.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, leaning forward.
He takes a short breath before speaking again.
“Everyone is obsessed with getting me to spill about my personal life. Do you know how many times a random person I don’t even know has come up and asked if the rumors are true?
How often it’s been shouted at me by paparazzi?
I can’t tell the truth because I don’t want the whole country, hell, planet to destroy itself in a royal bisexual explosion, but I also can’t lie because I don’t want to live in a world where I feel like I have to.
Usually, I end up either changing the subject or walking away like a douche.
I think you got the latter because up until then I liked talking to Julien’s hot bridesmaid.
And I’m not a fan of talking to new people. Even if they’re hot.”
I figured he was cool with rumors after that joke he wrote about his mother’s missing necklace.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You don’t have to apologize for flirting with me, Melina. At the time, I couldn’t believe it was your intention. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I thought you didn’t like me at first. Now I know you’ve liked me from the start.”
I roll my eyes. “How does this fit in with the blackmail?”
“How do you think it fits in with the blackmail?”
I swallow. “He threatened to out you.”
Taylor nods. “Four years ago, I met Jamie at this fundraiser event we were both attending. He accused me of sneaking glances at him the whole night, which I denied, even though it might have been a bit true. Anyways, I got home and found his number in my back pocket like the magic trick of some freaky sex wizard. Like, who even does that!” He takes his last sip of wine and gestures to himself while holding the empty cup. “And to me of all people?”
“Did you call the number, Taylor?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. I know he did.
He puts the glass down in defeat. “Yeah, I called the number,” he mutters.
“Long story short, we ended up having benefits on multiple occasions. One day, he asked if he could borrow some money, and I told him I didn’t want to see him anymore.
I still don’t know how he ran out of cash.
He’s a successful actor, but I guess he was being hounded by the government for not paying property tax on one of the homes he couldn’t afford.
He said if I didn’t give him a certain amount, he would leak some videos of me to Twitter goblins and confirm our relationship. ”
Videos? Like a sex tape? Is he that kinky? “What, um, what type of videos?”
“Oh, please.” He squints. “Security footage of me walking out of his house at night. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“So what did you do?”