5 | Melina
Melina
Popcorn hops up on my keyboard and spams llplp;;;l;l;llll into my code.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” I say, deleting the nonsense and setting my cat back down on the floor. I watch her jump up on my windowsill to chew on my curtain strings. She’s a menace.
The last thing I need right now is interruptions. I knew I’d be hungover today, yet I still left work for me to do on a Sunday. Procrastination is an evil game, so I’m determined to stay focused this morning.
Being a freelance web developer hasn’t been the worst job in the world, except for when I was operating on that pure I-have-to-be-able-to-pay-my-rent adrenaline right after I quit my office job.
That was the worst. Now, I’m financially comfortable enough to take two or three days off a week and be a lot more selective in the contracts that come my way.
Being my own boss is a pain in my ass, however.
I have to be my own head of sales, accountant, and coffee girl.
Though it feels like I’m always hustling, working from home has some perks.
Like the part about how I get to work...
but at home. I like my home. It has a thermostat I get to control, bagels with cream cheese, Popcorn (both noun and proper).
The dark brick walls render it a little manly, but I’ve filled the place with colorful rugs, soft lighting, and plants.
My brother tells me he’s jealous of my situation, but I’m more jealous of him.
Mateo is a tattoo artist and painter who gets to be creative and work with his passion all day.
Not that debugging isn’t what I signed up for, but it’s definitely not my passion.
The triple knock on my door has me jumping out of my chair. Part of the ancient locking mechanism on my street door fell off, and I have yet to call the guy. My own door upstairs has a working lock, so I haven’t been worried about it. Though whichever Jehovah’s Witness is here could’ve buzzed.
I freeze as soon as I open the door. Of all places, Prince Taylor is standing outside my apartment. Nope, not here to tell me about my Lord and Savior. There must be some rule about offending royalty, and he’s come here to behead me.
“Do you have a makeup wipe?” he asks.
That’s a weird way to say hello. I squint at his face. He is wearing makeup. Not that guys aren’t allowed to wear foundation, but why is this one asking to take it off at my apartment?
“Um, washroom. Top drawer on the left.” I gesture over my shoulder, inviting him in for some reason. Usually, they warn you about letting strange men you’ve barely met enter your home, but this might be a special circumstance.
With my mouth slightly agape, I watch him stroll through my apartment. His perfectly pressed suit and perfectly flowy hair make me feel a little schlubby in my sweatpants, but I shouldn’t care. My sweatpants are the best part about working from home.
“Your door is broken,” his voice echoes from my washroom.
“I know.”
“You should get it fixed.”
“Not to be a bad host, but why are you in my apartment?”
“I need to talk to you.” He emerges into my living room. “Is anyone here?” His face looks less perfect now, more gruff and tired-looking.
“No. I live alone.” I close the door behind me after realizing it’s been open this whole time. “And you’re scaring me,” I add to indicate how weird it is for him to show up here unannounced.
“We have to talk to you about the photo.”
“What photo?”
He pulls out his phone. “Have you not seen?”
The tweet he shows me has thousands of likes and comments. It’s Taylor and I dancing underneath the caption ‘who is #purpledresswoman???’ The picture is blurry, and I’m facing away from the camera, but it’s definitely us.
“Do people know that’s me?” I ask, stealing his phone. “Wait, what are they saying about the back of my head?”
Just as I scroll down, he steals it back. When I lunge to grab my own phone from the end table behind him, he puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me.
“Don’t do that,” he says, letting go.
“Why?”
“You should stay away from reading comments about yourself for the next couple of days.” Taylor turns around and does a once-over of my living situation. I wonder if he’s ever been in a one-bedroom before. “Or for forever, actually.”
I lean back against the cool bricks. “Is it bad?”
“It’s the internet. People are trying to figure out who you are, but if anyone asks, you should deny that it’s you, for your own sake.”
For my own sake. Weirdly thoughtful for someone who blew up on me the night before.
“I’m bad at lying,” I say. According to everyone I know, I get all shifty-eyed and itchy-looking. I’m usually a dead giveaway.
“You should get better at it. It solves many of life’s problems.” Taylor cocks his head at the abstract painting I did in university of my grandmother’s home in Argentina.
“Listen, I came over to apologize,” he says.
“I didn’t mean for your likeness to be number one trending in St. Claire.
” He sounds genuine, but this can’t be the only reason why he’s here.
“Ah, you came over to apologize for that. ” I can’t help but smile.
He shifts his gaze to the bottom corner of the painting, my signature. “What else would I be apologizing for?”
Oh, I don’t know, maybe for storming off on me last night, leaving me alone on the dance floor for the whole reception to see.
“So you found my address and came all the way over here just to save me from getting my feelings hurt? No ulterior motive?” I stop my pacing to pin him with my best detective look.
The corner of his lip ticks upwards like he’s pleased I’ve figured out he’s not just here for shits and giggles.
“I would also like to make sure you’re not going to come forward,” he says.
“The sooner people get bored trying to find you, the sooner this all blows over for me. But I do mean the apology. You don’t want your information getting out there just as much as I don’t. ”
I frown. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“I don’t know. Would I have to?”
Yes. Definitely trying to intimidate me.
“Why would I want to talk to the press?” I ask.
He crosses his arms. “Clout, fame, money. Maybe you’re a very shallow person. I’m not sure.”
How could he think that of me? Better yet, how did I almost find him charming last night?
“Are you one of those people who has to say everything that’s on their mind?” My assumption comes out sharper than I meant it to.
“Quite the opposite, actually. I’m highly trained in not saying what’s on my mind.”
“Why am I different then?” And how come our conversations always end in bickering?
He raises a shoulder. “Why would I put in the effort to please you when I can just pay you off?”
“You don’t think being generally dickish to people has its consequences?” I try to sound confident in my choice of calling the Prince of St. Claire a dick to his face. Deep down, I’m terrified.
Taylor’s brow twitches, not in an angry way but more out of delight. I don’t know. I’m confused.
“Well, I don’t think being generally dickish to you has its consequences,” he says. “I’ve already given you my sincere apology. Why would I care about your feelings beyond that?”
The derisive words roll off his tongue like he genuinely believes there’s no reason to be a decent human being to me. If this were a cartoon, there’d be flames coming out of my ears. I feel terrible financial decision is a’brewing.
“What if I quit?”
He looks off to the side and then back to me. “Quit what?”
“The website. You’re looking for a consequence. There it is.”
Taylor rolls his eyes. “You’re not quitting, Melina,” he dismisses. He must not be used to people saying no. For some reason, this makes me want to quit even more.
“Says who? I can do whatever I want. It’s not like you’ve paid me yet. Also, I’d like it if you were to get out of my apartment. This has been an insulting experience, and it was a displeasure meeting you, Taylor...whatever your last name is, if you have one.”
He blinks. “Do you want, like, more money or something?”
“You waving money in my face isn’t going to work. I have money.” I mean, my salary isn’t in the six figures, but we get closer every year. I certainly have more than when I was growing up.
“You’d rather not take a paying job than lose in a meaningless argument?”
Yes. Yes, I would. And this might be the only smidgen of power I’ll have over him. It feels too goddamn good not to use it. I think I’m finally getting this whole ‘being spontaneous’ thing.
We stare at each other for a few baffling seconds until I realize I hate looking at his face.
“I’m serious. I’m throwing you out. That is what this is.”
Taylor ‘okays’ quietly and leaves with all the grace a man could have while being kicked out of an apartment.
I lean back against the door and determine if what just happened is real.
I conclude that it is. I feel a little bad about ditching their project, but I need him out of my life.
Although that’s not possible. They’re going to crown this guy king, and his face is going to be on my stamps. I can never escape.
I check my phone to see Rachel texted a couple of hours ago. She sent me a link to a gossipy article titled ‘Prince’s Mystery Date.’
Rachel: WTF IS GOING ON!!!!
Honestly Rach, I have no clue.
I immediately call her.