Epilogue | Melina
Epilogue
Melina
I look like my father, Taylor said after getting dressed for the evening.
Of course, the most beautiful man in the world still finds something to complain about.
As we wait on this gilded palace couch, I admire my prince, anything to keep my mind occupied.
Taylor’s sleeves are embroidered gold to match the buttons on his jacket and the cords draped over his shoulder.
A blue sash representing St. Claire peaks between his lapels. He looks straight out of a storybook.
“You’ve got a lot of merit badges,” I say as I examine his medals. I point to the Captain-Von-Trapp-esque medallion around his neck. “Is this one for canoeing?”
“Are you nervous, Lina?”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re distracting yourself by making fun of me.”
Inhale, exhale.
I run my fingers across the diamond-studded clip that holds back the left part of my hair.
“Should I have worn it up?” I ask because I’m neurotic.
“I read that royal women don’t wear their hair down at formal events.
” I sit on my hands to keep them from ruining my professionally hair-sprayed locks.
“Not that I’m royal or anything.” Yet, at least.
The other day Taylor made me French onion soup, and I blurted out, ‘This soup is so good I could marry it,’ to which Taylor replied, ‘Really?’ I said yes and gave him back his ring.
We’ve been taking one day at a time, and after two years, it’s all crept up on me.
A while ago, the seriousness of our relationship leaked, and I became a bit of a celebrity.
The paparazzi have been strange to deal with, but it’s been nice to not have to sneak around with each other.
These past two years have been the most difficult yet most fruitful years of my life.
I’ve been giving back, which I never thought I’d have the privilege to do.
Living with Taylor, I’m chock-full of supplemental income.
The after-school program that taught me how to code made me a benefactor and spokesperson.
I gave my mom’s porch a much-needed facelift.
Dad let me help him with the down payment on his condo.
(After doing some odd jobs at a car dealership, someone clocked his general smarminess and thought he could be good at selling new vehicles to people at high-interest rates.
He wears ties now. It’s very weird.) As of today, our engagement isn’t official.
There’s still a chance the Queen could disapprove and banish me into exile.
“I told you,” Taylor starts. “She asked for you specifically to be here. And you look hot.”
Hot is not what I’m going for. Though I do feel pretty.
I’m wearing a midnight blue gown held up by two dainty straps.
It has a drapy neckline and flows down from my waist asymmetrically.
I want my outfit to say ‘respectable’, ‘stately’, ‘royal adjacent’.
I can’t help but think how pathetic the clip will look in comparison to the other women’s actual tiaras.
God. I bought a hairpiece worth an iPhone, and now I think it’s pathetic.
While the rest of the country is using Queen Josephine’s fiftieth year on the throne anniversary as an excuse to get plastered before five o’clock, I’m here at an exclusively royal dinner.
Representatives of royal families from all over the world are in attendance.
The King of Jordan, the Crown Princess of Sweden, and the Brits.
Taylor’s been trying to downplay the Queen all week.
She’s just a cute old grandma, he said. A cute old grandma whom Tom calls The Battle Axe.
“Do you know how to curtsey?”
I look up from my knees. Taylor asks so casually. Earlier, he told me the Queen is a stickler for royal etiquette, but didn’t mention anything about a curtsey.
“I know it’s awkward,” he says. “It’s just best to do it the first time and get off on the right foot. Use your right foot by the way.”
“I think I know how. I mean, I’ve watched Bridgerton .”
“Show me.”
I stand, put my right foot behind the other, and do a little head bow.
Taylor nods. “Good. Just don’t do it too grand or else it seems sarcastic, and she’ll make fun of you to her friends over euchre.”
“You’re not going to make me lower myself in front of you when you’re the king, right?”
“Nah. I have you on your knees enough.” His dorky smile is met with my blank expression.
“Stop it. I’m meeting the Queen.”
As if on cue, the two giant doors behind me are pulled open by royal guards. And there, standing beside David, is she. And she is a lot shorter in person. Her son towers over her, and Taylor has to bend at a ninety-degree angle to kiss her on the cheek.
“Happy fiftieth,” says the loving grandson.
Her Majesty is wearing a pastel yellow dress with a grand pearl necklace.
Atop her coiffed white hair sits a crown, of course, because that’s what queens wear.
It’s pearl-encrusted to match the necklace.
The medals on her sash are similar to Taylor’s, but that’s where their similarities end.
She’s too old and wearing too much makeup for me to see any resemblance between them.
“Melina,” she says to me, then outstretches her tiny hand. I take it and do my awkward little curtsy thing. Behind her, David nods slightly to indicate that I did it right.
Thank Christ.
“You’re very pretty,” she says.
The Queen thinks I’m pretty!
“Thank you,” I say.
Taylor discreetly pinches the back of my elbow.
“Your Majesty,” I quickly add.
The Queen smiles at my stumble and says, “I have something for you both.” She gestures to a footman, and he brings Taylor a small velvet box.
“You’re giving me this now?” he asks.
“You told me it was your intention to marry.”
“You told me I had to get your approval.”
“And I approve.”
“It’s been two seconds. She said four words.”
It almost sounds like he doesn’t want to marry me. Leave it to Taylor to bicker with the Queen.
“Taylor,” she scolds like an endearing grandmother. “It’s a miracle you want to spend the rest of your life with someone who isn’t yourself. I say she’s a gift from God.”
Aw. I could blush. I’m guessing David has done some advocacy for me. Just like he promised he would.
“This just feels suspiciously easy,” Taylor says.
He must’ve been daydreaming about fighting for my honor with a passionate speech.
She turns to David. “I would like to announce the engagement tonight if possible. Everyone is here. I thought it would be a good time. I’d also like the wedding to happen before I kick the bucket.”
“Wait, we’re engaged now?” Taylor holds up the box. “You just gave me the ring.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? I’m not getting any younger.”
Taylor leans into my ear. “I was going to plan a whole thing,” he whispers. “Rose petals, doves, white horses.”
I shudder at the H word. “That sounds horrible,” I whisper back.
I know he’s not serious, but I’m getting better with my four-legged friends. Sometimes I feed our neighbors apples. Tom is trying to take me riding, but that might take a while.
“You have to do what she says,” I say. “She’s the Queen.”
And I’d like to make this thing legitimate so I can finally tell everyone. I’ve been bursting at the seams.
“I like the way she thinks,” says the monarch.
She seems not to have lost any of her hearing in ninety-five years.
Taylor flips the lid of the box. The ring is huge, obviously. Attached to the gold band is an emerald-cut diamond with two slightly smaller gems surrounding it. As if one stone isn’t enough.
“It was Charlotte’s,” the Queen says. “Isn’t it nice?”
He looks me in the eyes as if to ask, Are you sure?
I nod. I’m more than sure.
Taylor takes my left hand, then freezes when the Queen scoffs.
She says, “Well, at least be a gentleman and get down on one knee.”
“Mother, maybe we should let them have a moment,” David suggests.
“Oh, all right,” she caves and takes her son’s arm.
A guard leads them away, leaving me, Taylor, and the ring alone together.
“We don’t have to do this right now,” he says. “If this is too fast, I understand. She can be—” He looks back at the door. “Insistent.”
“Are you kidding? Being in a palace with you looking like that and me wearing this is the most fairytale proposal I could’ve asked for.”
Taylor smiles and takes my left hand again. He kneels, and my tear ducts swell. “Ms. Ramirez,” he starts very seriously. “I’d like to negotiate something with you.”
I blink hard to keep the tears from falling. “Which is?”
“Spend the rest of your life with me and I’ll make you soupe à l’oignon whenever you want.”
“Deal. But you can’t make me wear any big silly hats.”
“Huh?”
“Royal women. They’re always wearing dumb hats.”
“This is your caveat?”
“I really don’t look good in hats.”
Taylor stares up at me for a long five seconds. His expression is vacant, like it always is right before he’s about to do something weird.
His arms wrap around my knees. “Too bad,” he grunts, then throws me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “I’m going to make you wear the biggest and silliest of all the hats.”
I kick my heels uselessly. “What are you doing?” I yell.
He spanks my ass. “Marrying you.”
I squeal when Taylor deposits me onto the cushions. He kneels over me, pinning my legs together. I let him snatch my left hand and slide on the ring.
“No take-backsies,” he says against my jaw, then blindly throws the velvet box over his shoulder.
He shouldn’t do things like this when the Queen of St. Claire is right outside the door.
“You know I don’t actually like you, right?” I ask. “I’m just doing this for the money. My plan is finally coming to fruition.”
I’m kidding.
It doesn’t look like he cares, rather preoccupied with trying to give me a hickey.
I push him off before he can. The ring sparkles on the hand that grips his shoulder. I look to Taylor. I look to the ring. Ring. Taylor. Taylor. Ring. “Oh God.”
He de-straddles my thighs. “Cold feet already?” he asks, wrapping an arm around me.
I lay my head on him, and he curls a piece of my hair around his fingertips. We both study the historical painting across from us, a bloody battle scene of St. Claire soldiers running the British off the island.
“The wedding. We’ll have to invite—” I count on my fingers. “My family, your family, all of St. Claire.”
I should ask Mateo to design the commemorative plate.
Taylor takes my hand to admire the ring. His smile looks like that of a child who’s just won a carnival prize. It puts me at ease.
“The planning will be a nightmare,” he concedes. “But I’ll make sure it’s the best day of your life. Wearing or not wearing whatever headwear you please.”
“It better be the best day of yours, too.”
He runs his thumb over the stones. “I don’t know how it could get better.” He kisses my knuckles and then my lips.
Who was I kidding? It was only ever going to be Taylor.