34 | Melina
Melina
“Do you want to drive?” Taylor asked after I’d professed my undying love for his car.
Obviously, I had to adjust the seat. When I sat down, I was a mile away from the dash. The man has long legs. They’re for going fast, he told me.
I haven’t done much thinking about our arrangement since this morning, for I am being spontaneous. And spontaneous Melina doesn’t flinch, she never thinks twice, she’s always ready for action. I think I’m turning a new leaf. Or a whole goddamn tree.
Taylor directs me to his grandmother’s house, which is about a half hour away. We fill the time with conversation and music, and before I know it, I’m stopped in front of some spooky old gates. Obscured behind the wrought iron sits Grandma’s mansion. Not the Queen’s. The other one.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “Kept her between the ditches for you.”
“Who?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Your car, Tay—never mind.”
He points out my window to a brick wall. “You have to press the thing.”
I lean out and hit a button right below the little camera. Nothing happens. I look to Taylor, who looks confused as well. Some static comes over the buzzer.
“Excuse me, ma’am, this is a private estate.”
“Groundskeeper,” Taylor clarifies. He leans over the console, “Martin, could you let us in, please?”
“Uh, yes, Your Highness,” Martin stumbles. “Sorry about that.”
The gates immediately slide open.
“Your Highness ,” I grumble. “Do you make people call you that during sex, too?”
I wait for a snarky comeback, but Taylor remains silent. He’s always in the mood for snark.
“No, don’t tell me,” I say. “Have you been called—”
“Shut up,” he says, looking away from me.
I cackle as we pull in.
The red Porsche I park next to looks straight out of the seventies.
I’m assuming it’s Thomas’ car. Taylor says he’s obsessed with it.
When I throw him his keys, I finally get a good look at the house.
It’s a cream-stone two-story mansion with some vines growing up its east side.
It has forest green shutters and a matching front door.
There’s a balcony on the second floor where I imagine someone could let down her long flaxen hair or pine over a Montague.
It’s big, but definitely not the manor monstrosity that Taylor lives in.
I could probably walk around the perimeter without passing out.
“It’s pretty in the sunset,” I say. “Your place is great and all, but it looks like people actually live here.”
Or have lived here. It’s been two years since his grandmother died, and Taylor says it’s been sitting empty since. Although Charlotte was an only child, I wonder if anyone is sad about selling it.
Taylor comes around the car and takes my hand. “Can I show you something?”
“Sure?”
He looks behind me for a split second, then says, “Close your eyes.”
I do what he tells me. “Is it another fridge magnet?”
I hear him open the car door, close it, and take a solid bite of something hard. “You’ll need this,” he says with his mouth full. He places something round in my palm. It’s an apple.
“Do I eat it?”
“No.” He takes my hand and waist to lead me in a direction away from the house. Gravel crunches under our feet.
“Where are we—”
“Shhh. You’ll startle them.”
“Them?” I whisper.
When a gate creaks, I open my eyes. I make out I’m in a field before his giant hand turns into my blindfold.
“Just a few more steps,” he says.
The gravel turns to grass. “Are you going to murder me?”
“Worse,” he mutters against my neck.
I love that part of a relationship where every touch feels exciting and new. The arm snaked around my torso constricts as his lips move up to my ear.
“I’m going to torture you.”
I pull off his forearm to find a stumpy four-legged creature standing ten feet away from me. Taylor grunts when I jump back into his chest.
“The hell is that?” I rasp.
“A horse.”
“No,” I say, gesturing to it. “This isn’t a horse. This is some fun-sized equine abomination.”
“Her name is Truffle.”
Truffle swats its dusty blond tail, then stares directly at me. Directly at my soul.
“What does it...do?” I ask.
“She’s a mini horse, Melina, what more in life could you possibly need her to do?”
I turn and face him. “Taylor, I appreciate you sharing your hobbies, but I’m actually really— ”
“Terrified of horses?” he finishes. “Yeah, you told me.”
I always seem to value honesty when drunk.
Taylor moves my hair to one side of my shoulder. “There are full-sized horses here too, but I thought you might like one.”
As the majestic Truffle sniffs the ground, I’m reminded of when I got bucked off a bigger pony at a carnival.
I remember how hard I hit the dirt and how close its hoof was to my head.
I remember my mom screaming and a carny coming to pull the horse away.
I remember the pediatricians, the x-rays, Mateo drawing our favorite cartoon characters on my cast. But this one’s so tiny.
It couldn’t hurt me, right? The chocolate brown animal is admittedly cute. I just don’t want to get any closer.
Taylor approaches Truffle and smooths her fur/coat/hair or whatever it’s called. She bows respectfully to receive more pets from him.
“They’re all used to being socialized with,” he assures me.
Truffle huffs and does a little head shake.
Yuck.
Taylor actually smiles at the gesture. It’s a smile that reminds me how bad of an actor he is. It’s ten times better than the one he flashes for the cameras. Truffle should feel lucky. Does she know how hard it is to get him to do that? And all she has to do is be a mini horse.
Taylor looks to me, then to the fruit I’m holding.
He thinks I’m going to give this...to Truffle?
“Just hold it out flat in your hand,” he says like it’s easy.
Spontaneous Melina doesn’t flinch, she never thinks twice, she’s always ready for action.
Truffle’s ears flicker when I take my first step. She seems docile and calm, staring off into the sunset, of which she’ll never understand the beauty. I can do this, right? It’s not like I’m riding the thing. I don’t think I could ride Truffle without her buckling.
I bend down and present my peace offering.
Though a chunk is bitten out of the apple, Truffle doesn’t seem to care as she gobbles it down whole.
Wet and fleshy are the words I could use to describe the feeling.
I try not to be freaked out by her teeth as they’re uncannily human-like and bigger than I thought they would be.
I run my hand along the white stripe on her snout.
“Not so bad, eh?” Taylor asks.
I’m doing it. I’m petting a horse. Fifty percent of a horse, but a horse nonetheless.
Expect Truffle is less soft and more wiry.
I’m not sure what overcoming this fear will do for me in the future.
This doesn’t feel that nice. I wipe my hand on my jeans when I decide my allotted minute of horse time is over.
“Should I ask Tom to tack one up for you?”
I turn to Taylor and smile. “Absolutely not.”
––––––––
A grand, Titanic-like staircase is the centerpiece of Grandma’s mansion.
The one percent really know how to do it when it comes to architecture.
The foyer also has open arches that lead to different parts of the house.
To the left is a living room where the floor is covered with boxes and the antique furniture with plastic.
A chandelier lights its bare blue walls and white crown-molded ceiling.
It’s like I’m on set for an Agatha Christie novel adaptation.
“We’re in the middle of getting rid of all her shit,” Taylor explains.
“Taylor?” Thomas’ voice calls from upstairs. When I turn around, he’s standing at the top of the landing, looking between us with a Cheshire cat grin. “I didn’t know it was bring-a-friend night.”
“Hi, Thomas,” I say.
“Melina Ramirez.” He draws out my name like he hasn’t seen me in a decade. “You look absolutely radiant tonight,” he says in Spanish.
I look down at my outfit consisting of a jean jacket, gray tank top, and pants. “Uh, thanks.”
“What’s going on, Tom?” Taylor asks while scanning the boxes in the living room.
He hurries down the stairs. “The appraisers came by today, and besides the furniture, they said most of the stuff that’s worth anything is either in the wine cellar or her wardrobe upstairs. I don’t think any of Mom’s stuff is still here, but if we want to keep anything, now’s the time to take it.”
“I don’t want anything,” Taylor says. “Maybe the wine,” he realizes.
“Not even anything from her creepy porcelain doll collection?”
“No, those should be buried.” Taylor turns to me. “She was a bit unorthodox. Believed in crystals or whatever.”
“Bit of a klepto, too,” Tom adds. “The woman stole my sapphire cufflinks once. Who steals cufflinks?”
So everyone has a kooky family member, even royals.
After rummaging around in a cramped, cobwebbed cellar with our phone flashlights, the boys deemed a dusty bottle of ‘49 Bordeaux the only thing worth taking. Tom’s the one who came across it and shouted, ‘Finders keepers’.
As any good brother should, Taylor respected the decree.
The wardrobe in the master bedroom sounds more interesting to me since I know nothing about wine. And I think I saw a mouse down there.
“This isn’t a wardrobe,” I say when we enter the walk-in closet the size of a small bedroom.
Its dark mahogany shelves are filled with boxes as well.
In the center, there’s an island for jewelry and accessories.
There’s even a vanity with a mirror in the back.
I’d sell my left foot for this closet and my soul for the whole house.
There’s been lots of quirks and character I’ve been noticing as we walk through the place.
It has pocket doors, little flower moldings on the fireplaces, and a beautiful stained-glass window in the dining room.
It’s the stuff you see on Pinterest and save into your ‘dream home’ folder.