Page 146 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“Don’t think about it at all. It’s nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t have showed it to me.”

His nostrils flare, and I’m reminded that he’s a little smarter than I am.

I avert my gaze, busying myself with my own plate.

“You can be honest,” he says. “I thought that’s what we’re doing now.”

“About what?”

“How you feel about this shit.”

“Oh.” I pop a grape in my mouth, pondering the merits of honesty before I remember all this shit is a lie. “I mean, yeah. It hurt my feelings, but it is what it is.”

I can practically see the moment Superman is activated.

“I’ll handle it,” he says.

“Are you sure? I don’t want this to cause problems between y’all.”

He grabs his keys, picks up his bag, and gives me a nod. “If it’s a problem for you, it’s a problem for me.”

Hearing him say that makes up for the fact that I cooked all this food for nothing. I wave goodbye to him and finish my breakfast. I have to get on the road before I’m late to work. I have to stop by the post office on my way.

40

Raya

Dear Meghan,

I don’t know why I wrote “dear.” You’re not dear to me anymore, and you never will be again. You’re actually a disgrace.

I admired for you so long. I saw you as the blueprint for women like me who set our sights on what we want and make that shit happenby any means necessary.

In my eyes, you were the huntress. You scoped out your prey, armed yourself for battle in your best couture, and worked your Hollywood connections to get you closer and closer to the ultimate prize: The prince.

You made me believe that if a woman is smart enough, shrewd enough, and determined enough, she can pull any man into her orbit and keep him there. Even a man most would consider way out of her league. I loved that you knew you were worthy, and that while he was a prize, so the fuck wereyou.

I thought damn, she did that. That’s a bad bitch right there. That’s mother lol. I approached my romantic life with a new resolve, always thinking in the back of my mind, What Would Meghan Do?

Then I watched your Netflix special.

Girl.

I hope you can imagine my disappointment when I found out the truth. I put that moment up there with finding out Santa wasn’t real (although I got hip to that before most kids my age. I’m smart, too.) You didn’t hunt him, you didn’t plot, you didn’t maneuver. You just happened to catch his eye online.Online. Just like millions of other basic bitches. Ugh.

Kudos for being beautiful, I guess, but bitch, I wanted more!

So anyway, the spell is broken now. I guess I’ll just have to be my own hero. I’m out here bending my man to my will and striking down our enemies in pursuit of the ring. I’m the you I thought you were.

I’ll give you a little credit, though, and I do mean a little: Your prince is devoted to you. Gave up his whole family and title just to keep you safe. That’s boss shit, so well done to you for that. Had the whole British media complex on your ass, and y’all stood ten toes down. I love that.

But I still don’t fuck with you.

Anyway, I’ll end with this: I forgive you for what you did, and I do wish you well. I’m not heartless. I just think, when it comes time to write your memoirs, which I know you will, because a clout-chasing bitch knows a clout-chasing bitch when she sees one, you might want to go with my narrative. It’s way more interesting.

Sincerely and disrespectfully,

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