30 | Taylor
Taylor
The whirr of Melina’s hair dryer fills the room as I get dressed. I feel very clean, actually. I wasn’t sure how much showering I could get done in between fucking her up against the tile wall.
My phone buzzes against the wooden nightstand. Usually, I check my messages as soon as I wake up, but usually I’m not waking up next to a naked woman. The only warm-blooded animal that’s been in my bed the last couple of months has been Vinnie.
Tom: You didn’t tell me Melina was a model. Since when did you have that kind of game?
I text back a few question marks. “You’re a model?” I shout to Melina.
She looks over her shoulder and winks. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
I don’t think she knew that was a question. I read the text a few times before opening Twitter. It doesn’t take long to find it. What soon fills my feed is the same image of Melina lying on a bed.
She innocently passes me to pick up her clothes off the ground. She’s shown me photos like this before, except they were all of other people. I must be a masochist because I don’t stop my thumb from swiping down.
They’re really going to make this slag a princess??? Ninety-two likes.
I still think he’s gay. Two-hundred and nine likes.
Tous les hommes veulent la même chose mdr. #princessofstclaire. Seventy-three likes.
Wow, vaguely attractive rich guy likes leggy women. Why are we all giving a shit when our coastline is eroding by the minute? #ActOnClimate #Vote. Two likes now three because I liked it with my burner account.
As I scroll down, the vulgarity of the comments increase, and my post-sex, waking-up-next-to-a-beautiful-woman high fades.
I feel like an idiot. Why would Melina ever think I’m worth this?
What could I possibly give in return to justify her putting up with St. Claire’s bullshit?
My whole life, I’ve been avoiding scandal, minimizing scandal, giving out statements to prevent scandal.
I’ve become desensitized to the lifestyle because it’s all I’ve ever known.
I didn’t even consider whether she wanted to deal with it.
“What’s going on?” Melina asks, adjusting the towel wrapped around her.
She can read me like a book. When I show her the post, she becomes completely still.
“Were you hacked?”
She shakes her head slightly. “It’s been on Rachel’s website for ages, I completely forgot.” Her tone of voice is dull and unreadable.
I let out a small breath, knowing this wasn’t a personal photo. Still, I’m livid that anybody could write something so horrible about her.
She scrolls through my phone, her eyes quickly scanning from left to right. “How did people find this? My name isn’t connected with the business at all. I’ve made sure of it.”
“They must’ve found out you and Rachel are friends.”
Maybe some journalists figured out we danced at her wedding together.
Rachel could’ve captioned an Instagram post with Melina’s name, or someone did some old-fashioned research and asked around.
Anything can be found on anyone these days, even if they’re not on social media.
Somewhere in a royal watcher’s dungeon, there’s a bulletin board full of red string and printouts of any piece of media that’s ever mentioned the name Melina Ramirez.
“Why is everyone freaking out?” she asks. “I’m fully clothed. Kind of.”
I turn my head to the phone in Melina’s hand. Yeah, I would say kind of. Her large white T-shirt covers everything, but she’s in a pose that’s a little suggestive. Suggesting that she’s not wearing pants or a bra, that is.
“Anytime my family is involved with something that doesn’t represent the height of traditionalism people freak out.”
St. Claire so desperately wants an heir from their prince, yet becomes hysterical when I’m associated with sex, or in this case, something that vaguely resembles it. Do you know how babies are made? I should yell at all of them.
“I’m so stupid,” Melina says, grabbing her own phone off the nightstand. “Of course they found it.”
“You’re not stupid, and reading that garbage isn’t a good idea.”
But she ignores me. “My family’s going to see this now, right?
And business associates? Everyone I know and the fucking queen.
” How can I answer her? “Look,” she says, half-laughing and gesturing to her phone.
“This one reads, ‘I’ve got new respect for Prince Taylor’.
You get praised for doing nothing and I get called a slut. ”
Her voice is calm, but the room becomes tepid with her anger. I knew I shouldn’t have brought her to the fundraiser. Anonymity is a blessing, and I took it away from her.
“I can’t be surprised,” she says. “If I didn’t want people to see the picture, I shouldn’t have put it online.”
“That’s bullshit. You have a right to live your life without things being taken out of context.”
Melina shouldn’t know what it feels like to meet someone who already knows your personal details and entire life story. That’s my sacrifice for being born the luckiest man alive. Not hers.
Finally, she turns off her phone and tosses it on the bed. “Whatever,” she says, taking my hands. “Fuck them, right?”
My grip goes limp. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t...what?” she asks, letting go.
I fall silent. My hands get clammy. I like to forget how the press treats women involved with my family.
It would destroy me hearing the tabloids talk about my mother, nitpicking everything she did or said or wore, in a way that was way more vicious than what they said of my father.
They tried to hide the press from us as kids, of course.
But only so many stories can be written about your mom’s ‘so-called’ promiscuous past life before they seep through the walls of overbearing parents, stories a son should never be reading about his mother.
It didn’t matter if they were false. The only upside about her cancer diagnosis is that the press finally laid off.
The victim of their degradation became their martyr. It’s almost funny. Almost.
I like Melina more than anyone I’ve liked before. It’s hard to describe the feeling in most other words besides, familiar. How could I be so selfish in ignoring the future?
“Taylor, we don’t have to tell the press we’re fucking,” she whispers as if they can hear us.
“I thought you didn’t want to be interim fun .”
I barely make out the words, because what I want is so much more. Everyone I’ve had sex with has been so mediocre. My whole life I’ve been fucking out of necessity and lust. Melina’s not even close to being in the same category as any of them.
She looks at her phone like it’s burning a hole in the duvet, and no one can do anything about it. “I don’t think they want us to be anything else,” she says.
I admire her dewy skin, dark eyes, and full lips for what could be one of the last times. “I’m just not sure I can do that with you.” What am I saying? Since when do I not want to have sex? This doesn’t have to be difficult, right? Why am I making things so difficult?
Her brows furrow. “Taylor—”
“You should put some clothes on. I have to get back soon.” It comes out colder than intended.
She cocks her head like a confused puppy.
Instinctively, I reach up to touch her cheek, but I clench my fist instead.
It’s easier to think I’ve been procrastinating love and children instead of being terrified I’ll ruin the lives of the people closest to me.
It’s more socially acceptable to tell people, ‘I’ve just been busy’, or ‘I like being alone’.
Not that those things aren’t true, but I have to be more than honest with myself now.
I can’t take a chance on ruining her life.