Page 116 of Prince Charmless
I watch a rabbit on the lawn hop from under one tree to another. This is the first time I’ve mentioned the future. We’ve been ignoring the royal elephant in the room. Maybe now’s the time to spit it out.
“It’s your destiny to get married, which now makes it mine. It’s not like I’m opposed to the concept, but with everyone waiting around for it to happen, it’s a lot of pressure, like we’re Barbie and Ken dolls and the rest of the world is the five-year-old smashing our heads together. I wish we could date like normal people without all this stuff hanging over us.”
I let out a deep breath like that’s been pent up in my chest for a while. My rationality can’t be suppressed any longer.
He puts a hand on my back. “I can’t be normal for you, Melina. But I’d never want you feeling obligated to do something that isn’t in your heart.”
Of course, he wouldn’t. He isn’t telling me something I don’t already know.
Maybe if I change the subject, my brain will stop tormenting itself.
“You seemed passionate tonight.”
He doesn’t answer for a bit, opting to look out over the lawn with me. Eventually, he sweeps my hair to one shoulder like he always does. I lean my back into his chest like I always do. Back and forth, he rubs his thumb against my shoulder.
“I don’t hate it, you know.”
“But you don’t have a choice either.”
“I do have a choice,” he says. “And you should know it’s not because of some deep-seated patriotism or authority complex or God forbid divine right.”
“So why are you choosing to be king?” Wouldn’t he rather be, I don’t know, sailing the ocean like Cassie, with only the fish to keep up appearances for?
“Because my brother doesn’t want to.” He shrugs. “Sometimes things just aren’t that deep, even if all the castles make it feel like it is.”
Taylor’s gaze is indiscernible. Is it a blank stare or a knowing look? He’s becoming king because he loves his brother. So, what should I become when I love him?
When,I thought. Not if.
I swallow and pick at the skin of my thumbnail. “I think I want to be alone tonight. I think I have to go back to...thinking.”
We were supposed to spend the night, but I need some time to mourn the death of spontaneous Melina.
His eyes dart around my face. I can tell he wants to say something, but is afraid of making any noise that will startle me. Instead of gambling, he draws a hand across my back before walking away without a kiss.
37
Taylor
Melina hasn’t texted me back in two days. She told me she had to think. I was given no timeline on how long said thinking is going to take. If Melina wants me to give her space, then space is what I’ll give. I’m just not sure how patient I can be. I’m very close to doing something insane like barging into her apartment or worse, quadruple-texting her. It’s hard for me to focus on anything productive while our relationship is in limbo. Maybe yelling at Dad would be a more worthwhile activity than smoking weed and reading articles about myself. I was ready to explode at the dinner party, but I didn’t, for fear of causing a scene. I was unaware of what she’d overheard until she told me over text that night. I understand why she’s pissed. Like other government organizations, the royal security service is authorized to conduct basic background checks. How often a person visits someone in prison is definitelynotinformation one can get through their employment history or criminal record. You have to know someone and flash anI work for the royal familyfor those kinds of details. The Crown Prince asks for an in-depth summary, his people will give it to him.
The livable part of the palace might be smaller than what people expect it to be. My dad has taken up refuge on the upper floor. I understand this is all part of ‘the transition’ (the delightful phrase we’ve been using for my grandmother’s impending death), but I don’t know how he can stand living in this fishbowl disguised as a tourist trap. The white upholstered furniture and glass tables help update the sitting room, although it’s hard to make a palace feel modern between the stone-carved fireplaces and seventeenth-century paintings. Amongst the scenery, it’s hard to tell where the future king stops and my dad begins.
He tamps out a cigarette upon seeing me.
“Don’t hide it,” I say without passion.
It’s just pathetic at this point. Every time I see him, my lost hope reinforces itself. I’ve made it adamantly clear to his staff multiple times to not encourage his addiction. Am I the only person who cares?
“Who’s still giving you them?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“You’re my father. I don’t need to schedule an appointment. Who’s still giving you them?”
“Antoine,” he says, not looking at me, almost a hint of self-pity in his voice.
“Please fire him,” I beg.
