Page 124 of Prince Charmless
“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
“I didn’t think you were,” she assures me.
Melina watches me take out the set of keys from my pocket and slip off a duplicate. It’s about time we do a fair exchange. The gesture isn’t symbolic this time, as I don’t care much for symbols. Rings, tattoos, crowns—they’re all meaningless until someone puts in the work. I enjoy practical objects, like the toothbrush that’s next to mine, the scrunchie left in my car, or the spare key to her apartment.Usefulthings that one keeps, treasures, and trades. Our collections can only grow so large before living together becomes a necessity. I can only hope she succumbs to her senses. I certainly have.
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 havebeen 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 watchedBridgerton.”
“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. Andsheis 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.
