Page 99 of Prince Charmless
His gaze shifts to Vinnie lying at my feet, to the brownies on the counter, then to me in my glasses, sweatpants, and the T-shirt a Dartmouth student gave me, depicting our unofficial mascot, Keggy the Keg. I watch as his brain forms a rare, comprehensive thought.
“Did Melina break up with you?”
I can’t deal with him right now. I’m too exhausted.
“You can’t break something that never existed,” I say into my phone.
Tom blinks. “You’re wallowing.”
“No. Productive people don’t wallow.” I point to the pot brownies as evidence of my productivity. “I’m just, uh, brooding. They’re completely different.” I wave him off and resume my doomscrolling.
He points at me. “You are absolutely wallowing. Look at you, you look like a soggy paper straw standing there. Cooking my drugs like some sad Walter White. Wearing T-shirts ironically.”
I flip him off. My middle finger stands sad and flaccid. I’m not in the mood for digs relating to eco-friendly utensils. He always says I bottle my emotions, but bottling things is good. It’s how we get wine and extra virgin olive oil.
“Sorry,” he says while taking the tray of brownies. “These are mine.”
“Be careful with—”
He’s already left.
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Julien and I are preparing to announce the name of our charity soon. So far, the operation has been underground. Now we have enough employees and legal documents to legitimize the foundation. We’ve obtained a significant number of backers over the past couple of months. I’m told it’s because of Julien’s ability to schmooze and my inherent star power (his words, not mine).Iknow it’s because throughout her life, my mother had built a strong network of friends whom she cherished and showered with baked goods. She’s the one who did the work.
Julien slaps a hand on his desk. “So, what are we going to do for the launch?”
“I was thinking of keeping it low-key. Our entire philosophy has been to allocate as much money as possible to the actual do-gooding. Why stop now? We could invite a few of the top donors to dinner. I could host.”
“And you could cook.”
“Me...cook,” I say like a caveman. “Why?”
“I think we sell them on the scrappiness of how we’re running it.”
I scoff. “My cooking isn’t scrappy.”
“I guarantee they would all brag to their acquaintances about how Prince Taylor made them dinner.” He throws his arms out to emphasize my grandeur.
“You want people to pay to be friends with me,” I sum up.
“Yes,” he admits without shame. “So try not to be an asshat. For the kids.”
He may have a point, and Julien hasn’t steered me wrong so far.
“Fine. But you guys are helping. I’m not cooking for ten people by myself.”
Jules scratches his jaw. “I actually don’t know how to, uh, Rachel is usually the one who—”
“You’re useless.”
Two laughs from down the hallway interrupt our conversation. I haven’t heard her laugh since last week. Since I was happy.
“They went out for a friend’s birthday,” Julien explains. “I’m going to make sure they’re not throwing up into each other’s hair.”
And with that wonderful visual, I check my phone to see that it’s midnight. “I should go, anyway,” I mumble as he leaves.
As I close my laptop, the sound of heels echoes down the hallway at the pace of a ticking clock. For a split second, I thought she was Rachel, but after stepping into the light, I see it’s just a blonde wig. Melina is wearing an intoxicated smile along with a yellow plaid jacket and matching skirt, mini enough to show the lace at the top of her white thigh highs. She looks like a jaundiced schoolgirl.
