33 | Melina
Melina
After an unproductive thirty-minute shower of anguish, dread, and regret, I put on my grossest sweatshirt because it’s what I deserve.
Halloween is a stupid holiday. I thought I could use it as an excuse to go crazy without being recognized.
It worked in the worst way possible. I feel like a slug.
A slug that died, then came back to life, then died again.
Terrible memories flood in from last night. Well, maybe less of a flood and more of seepage. My brain is damp with memories. I remember lights, heavy bass, and obsessively apologizing to Where’s Waldo after knocking my drink onto his stripes.
When I trudge to the living room, the first thing I spy is a man on my couch.
What happened last night?
After blinking a few times and adjusting to the light, I realize it’s Taylor.
The reason I drink. With his mouth slightly agape, he sprawls on my cushions.
Taylor makes the couch look like doll furniture as his limbs spill over the sides.
The phone in his hand buzzes, and the screen lights up with multiple messages.
He’s probably supposed to be somewhere instead of on my futon.
I remember being mad at him. Or was he mad at me?
Or were we both mad at each other? All I know is I did something humiliating in Julien’s office.
Maybe I discussed my erotica preferences, took a shit on the desk.
I can feel my subconscious wanting to go back in time and run as far away from the place as possible, but I can’t remember why.
I pluck the sleeping tuxedo cat off Taylor’s chest. After setting her down, Popcorn slinks into my bedroom. Usually, she hides when he comes by. My little feminist is untrusting of men.
I poke his shoulder and say his name, but Taylor doesn’t stir. Maybe he hasn’t been getting enough sleep. I take my fingers and pry his left eyelid open. The second after his pupil rolls into view, he sucks in air and jerks awake. The word he hisses is a mix between ‘shit’ and ‘fuck.’ A shfuck.
He stands like something possesses him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—I was only going to stay until—I must’ve fallen asleep.”
He took me home. He wanted to make sure I was okay.
“It’s fine,” I sort of whisper. I take in his messy hair and wrinkled dress shirt during the confusing silence. “Thank you for, uh, taking me home,” I say to break the tension. “And I’m sorry for any embarrassing nonsense that came out of my mouth last night. I was probably a hot mess express.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there.”
“ You’ve been there?”
“No.”
I let out a sigh of a laugh. I miss his dry sense of humor.
Taylor’s eyes dart between mine. Left right left right left right . I wonder what he’s thinking. Or if he’s still in REM sleep.
“I should go,” he says.
“Wait.”
I take a beat to collect my thoughts. I’ll regret it if I let him walk out that door. The plan was to send him a long and rambly text message, the contents of which were to be determined, but stream-of-consciousness could work too.
“Back in New York, I didn’t mean for you to think I only see you as a sex object.
It’s just, you wanting something more scared me.
” I look into the irritated eyes of the man who brought me home under no reward.
He must’ve slept with his contacts in. I keep trying to blind him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t just not do things only because I’m scared,” I add.
“What are you saying?” he asks, fairly. I’m usually not one for double negatives.
I take a longer pause this time. Basic English grammar now, Melina. You’ve got this.
“I’m saying I’d rather see this through to an end than torture myself for the rest of my life wondering what could’ve been.”
I sound a bit more passionate than intended, but hell, I am passionate. God’s given me a second chance by spawning Taylor in my living room. This has to be a sign, right?
“I’d like that too,” he says.
I expect him to go on, but he doesn’t.
I raise my shoulders to my ears. “So what are we doing then?”
“I haven’t had a relationship that’s more than sex and on good days mutual respect. I have a hunch this could be more than that, and if it is.” He sighs. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“You know what would’ve made last week easier? If you were there by my side. The one person in my life who’s used to being a public figure. I do like you, Taylor, more than sexually.”
“I’m sorry.”
Again, I expect him to do more than apologize, but the room fills with silence.
“Whatever,” I say. “If you have to be somewhere, don’t let me stop you.” Who was I to think we could figure something out? I walk past him toward the kitchen.
“You know there’s no world I can see myself getting sick of you.”
I freeze.
“I catch myself counting down the days, hours until I see you again.”
“And what happens if you don’t get sick of me?” I ask blandly. “Ballgowns? Tiaras?” Cassie was right. This is an awkward conversation.
When I turn around, he takes my hands and quiets his voice.
“Reading what was said about you brought back all the memories of how the press talked about my mother. Having this be something real would be a complicated shitstorm even if everything works out, actually, especially if everything works out. Would you be okay with that?”
“You really think I could—” I can’t even say it aloud. “Taylor, I’m titleless, non-francophone, and live above a dry cleaner. I believe I’m just as much St. Claire as you are, but am I really the type of girl grandma wants in a—”
Nope. Still can’t do it.
“What they want is someone likable. And you do a whole lot better job of that than I do. Traditional royalists are dwindling. There’s no point in trying to cater to them. That said, they’re a loud and unappeasable bunch, I wouldn’t expect them to stay silent either.”
“I don’t feel very likable right now.”
He shakes his head. “My family has survived scandals much worse. It’ll pass, Melina. It always does. I’ve seen it every time.”
A famous black-and-white photo pops into my head. It’s of a young Charlotte at a party in the eighties. It’s blurry, but she’s clearly laughing in the back of a crowd. On a table in the foreground lies paraphilia for a certain substance the eighties are known for. Yeah. Maybe worse than my lewds.
I rock back and forth on my heels. “So it’s like...actually, really possible?” I can’t even imagine the perspective.
“Actually, really,” he parrots.
“You would hold the umbrella?”
He raises a brow.
“If there’s a shitstorm,” I clarify.
“I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
I try to remember the words my mother told me once. Something about never being able to find someone because I’m not willing to take risks. I look past Taylor out my window to cloudy weather and a misty street.
“I don’t want to care about logistics,” I mutter. Words a web developer should never say. My whole job is creating a means to an end.
“I think you should care about logistics,” he disagrees.
I groan. “For once in my life, can I just make a decision solely based on whether it will make me feel good momentarily?” I wave my arms like a crazy person. “I want to be brash, reckless, not think things through.”
Taylor looks me up and down. He thinks I’ve turned into a monster. And so what if I have?
“Your mom,” I start. “Was she happy?”
The corner of his lip twitches up. “Yeah. Yeah, she was. She should’ve had more life to be happy with.”
“Then I’m not going to let the prospect of a future or the press or those stupid royalists scare me from doing what I want. And since when do you let people tell you what to do?”
“Every day,” he says. “My whole life has been doing what people tell me to do.”
“We both like each other,” I say, like I’m trying to hypnotize him. “It’s unfair this has to be so complicated. Don’t think. Just do.”
He cocks his head. “It is unfair, isn’t it? I mean, I have all this money, what good is it if I don’t get to go trick-or-treating or ravish the woman I want to ravish.”
“Exactly...maybe. Not sure why you mentioned trick-or-treating.”
He rests a hand on my waist. “I want you to be something worthwhile, Melina. Is that what you want from me?”
“Yes, Taylor. I like you.” I go up on my tiptoes. “Do you want me to prove it?”
“No,” he says before I kiss him.
Are we not on the same page?
“I, uh, haven’t brushed my teeth.”
I point behind him. “Mouth rinse. Left cupboard. Go fast if you’re self-conscious.”
He makes a beeline for the washroom. “I’m trying to be polite,” he shouts.
As soon as I sit down, he’s already returned.
He plants his lips on me from behind the couch, never taking them off as he climbs over the back of it.
Don’t ask me about the logistics of the maneuver; my eyes are closed.
His mintiness is a hangover-curing shock that feeds nervous and excited energy through my veins.
I feel bubbly, carbonated, like I don’t need my morning tea.
When his hand moves to my lower waist, I melt under his touch like a fudgesicle in the Mojave desert, completely helpless. How could a bad decision feel so right?
He pushes back. “What are you doing tonight?” we ask simultaneously, both sounding a little desperate.
He gestures for me to answer first.
“I’ll probably be here, lying naked in my bed, just patiently waiting to be ravished.” I try not to smirk. “Why? What are you doing tonight?”
“Well, I was supposed to walk through my deceased grandmother’s house with Tom before we sell it, but suddenly I have the urge to cancel.” His arms slither around my waist again.
“Are you kidding?” I put my hands on his forearms. His sweet sweet forearms. Your girl needs to get laid. “Looking through a rich lady’s old stuff, that sounds like loads of fun.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
I’m...not? “What else are we going to do? Eat out and go mini-golfing? I’ll even let you kiss me again afterward.”
Taylor half-smiles. Because of his little problem involving him being the most famous man in the country, we can’t do normal things that normal people do on dates. We’ll just have to figure out a workaround.
“Only kissing?” he asks. “What are we, teenagers?”
“Any more and you’d have to beg for it.”
“Begging’s not my strong suit.”
“I know,” I lament. “I have so much to teach you.”