17 | Melina #2
“Inappropriate questions?” I ask. “Aren’t these people supposed to be all well-mannered and poised?”
“Well-mannered, poised, and very entitled. You’d be surprised what information they think they deserve from public figures they barely know.”
“I’m not a public figure.”
“Not right now,” he says, picking a small piece of fuzz off the shoulder of my dress.
Ignoring his foreboding tone, I ask, “All right, what else?”
“Worst-case scenario, my father might speak to you again. Avoid all topics that involve his second-born, the navy, or the state of this country’s football team. Oh, and stay away from the PM’s son. His name’s Kelvin, if you can remember.”
“Like the standard unit of measurement for thermodynamic temperature? That’s easy. Why should I stay away from him?”
“He’s an ass.”
I shrug. “You’re kind of an ass.”
“Not like him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s handsy,” Alex interrupts from the passenger seat, honking imaginary boobs in front of him.
“Yes, thank you for the demonstration,” Taylor says, annoyed. “At least, I’ve heard through the grapevine,” he adds to comfort me.
It’s nice to know I’m being looked out for.
“How much small talk do you think I’ll have to do at this thing?” I ask. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it with this crowd.”
“I’m not sure, but people like talking about themselves, so if you ask questions about their own lives, you don’t have to do much of the speaking.”
Huh. That’s actually helpful advice.
“Is your living grandmother going to be here?” I hope not. I’ve met enough royals for one lifetime. I can’t even bring myself to say the word queen.
“No,” he says. “She’s getting too old for stuff like this.”
Understandable. The fact that she’s been alive for this long is medically impressive. I bet Taylor’s family is rich enough to afford the elixir of life along with an army of physical therapists.
“Is she scary like your dad is?”
Taylor scoffs. “She’s a ninety-three-year-old arthritic woman who’s half your height.”
I squint. That doesn’t answer my question.
“She’s terrifying,” he concedes.
“Where are we going by the way? I don’t think either of you boys remembered to tell me.”
“Toussaint Botanical Gardens,” they say at the same time while pulling out their respective phones.
They remind me of each other.
“Oh, I had my first kiss at the botanical gardens.”
Taylor ignores me, but I feel the need to continue.
“Field trip, grade seven. His name was Noah Grant.”
“How was it?” he asks dully.
“The field trip or the kiss?”
He shrugs. “Both, I guess.”
“Field trip informative. Kiss awful.”
Taylor doesn’t say anything. I don’t think he’s interested in my middle school escapades.
Instead of becoming a nervous rambly mess, I reach down to adjust the strap on my ankle.
My heel is already chafing, and the party hasn’t started yet.
When I put my foot over my knee to loosen the strap, a giant yet elegant hand rests on my calf.
Taylor pulls up my dress a bit to reveal the rest of my microscopic tattoo. I’m surprised he noticed it.
“It’s an anchor,” I clarify.
He tilts his head. “From which angle?”
He’s being dramatic. It’s not that hard to work out that it’s an anchor.
“It’s actually my brother’s first tattoo,” I say.
“He did it the way prisoners do when we were seventeen and before he had access to a tattoo gun. It’s a miracle it wasn’t infected.
” Mom was pissed, but it was worth the pain.
“Mateo hates it more than I do. He begs me to have him cover it up every time he sees the thing. He thinks I’m keeping it out of spite, but I like what it symbolizes more than how it looks. ”
“And what does it symbolize, the decision of a drunken pirate?”
“That anyone can be good at anything. Even if you’re really shit at first.”
Taylor looks back at his phone. “How profound,” he mutters.
As our car pulls up to the gardens, the sound of camera shutters crescendos like an orchestra. They pulse like a tachycardiac heart. What have I gotten myself into?
“I didn’t tell anyone you’re coming, so they might go a little crazy.” Taylor’s face strobes from the flashes penetrating the windows. “That’s the point, though, I suppose.”
“They’re not going crazy now?”
“It’ll get better once we’re inside,” Alex assures me. “There’s no photography allowed.”
“Is it too late for all of us to just blow this off and go to a bar instead?”
Taylor closes his eyes. “Don’t tempt me, Melina.”
I take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. You agreed to this.
Alex opens the backseat door for us. Taylor exits first, then Alex puts out his hand for me so I can climb out of the car with ease. The camera shutters intensify. Everyone seems to be confused about the whole me-not-being-Prince-Thomas thing.
The sight before me is surreal. The stairs to the botanical gardens are lined with photographers, people on the phones recording, and onlookers seeing what all the fuss is about.
Shit. Stairs.
These heels are now a definitive mistake. If I fall now, my embarrassment will live on in infamy. I’m entranced by my dress reflecting the camera flashes. It’s like the fabric is dancing.
I snap back to reality when Taylor leans toward me.
“You okay?”
The press must’ve liked that gesture as the sound of the shutters swells.
“Yeah, they seem to like you a lot.”
He buttons his suit jacket. “I don’t know why. I’m not that great of a person.”
“I feel like we’re penguins at the zoo,” I say through a smile.
“Why penguins?”
“I don’t know, penguins are popular. You’re more like a giraffe, though.”
“Is it because I’m tall and—”
“It’s because you’re tall and skinny.” We speak at the same time.
Alex starts up the stairs in front of us. When Taylor follows, I ball up the dress in my fist. I focus on each stair individually, like my life depends on it. Now is not the time to become disoriented. I will not fall in front of all of these people.
“Sorry about the stairs,” Taylor says. “I’d like to make it known that I’d take your hand if I could. I am very much a gentleman.”
“Sure,” I humor him. “Are you not allowed to take my hand?”
“I can’t, uh, touch women. Grandma’s rules for the unbetrothed.”
“You touch me all the time.”
Taylor smirks. “Do I?” he asks like he’s naive.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her.”
If I had a water bottle, I’d spray myself in the face. That stupid tie is making me all flirty.
Taylor gracefully ignores the questions launched at us by the paparazzi. Who are you with tonight? Is this a new girlfriend? I attempt to ignore them, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
“You don’t want to be a penguin,” Taylor says as soon as I peek to the left. He’s trying to distract me.
“Why?” I ask, refocusing on his tie. “What’s wrong with penguins? The males warm the eggs between their feet. What can you do that’s that adorable?”
“They’re notorious for being sexually depraved animals.”
I frown. “How so?”
“They’re necrophiliacs.”
Hopefully, none of these reporters can read lips.
“How do you know that?”
“I think I read it in a book once when I was a child.”
“You were reading about penguin sex as a kid?”
Taylor feigns being taken aback. “You weren’t?”
Before I can answer him, we arrive at the glass doors. I didn’t trip once.