Page 38 of Prince Charmless
“Sorry about ditching you, something came up. Have a nice rest of your life,”she reads monotonously. “Taylor! What if I wanted to see him again!”
I only shrug because I’m not sorry. In fact, she should be thanking me. I’m doing her a favor. Melina is not spending her night with some six-at-best named Cody. She’ll be spending it with me, Taylor, who is dark-haired, thirty, and hates the beach.
I reach inside and take her peacoat off the hook on the wall. I splay it out for her, and she puts her arms in. I do each individual button like she’s a fragile package. If she was really invested in this date, she would’ve told me she was back on the project. Finally, she’s starting to enjoy my company.
I follow her downstairs, then outside. She freezes when I open the passenger side of my car.
“You drive?”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Were you expecting a horse?”
She purses her lips instead of retorting. Maybe it’d be nice if we stopped fighting for two seconds. Before I resume the torture, of course.
She hops in the passenger side as I come around the front.
“This is a nice ride,” she says as I start it. “Audi R8.” Her gaze affixes to the roof. “But it’s the Coupe, not the Spyder?”
I have no idea what that question means. Dad gave this to me for one of my birthdays. I forget which. It’s got an engine. It has wheels. It does the job.
Melina must sense I know fuck-all about cars because she asks, “Does the top come off?” in a way that’s condescending.
“No,” I answer as I pull out of her street.
It’s not a long drive from the city to where I live, but hopefully, it’s long enough so I can think about what the hell I’m going to make this woman for dinner.
After a minute of driving, she pipes up. “I didn’t think you’d have a license. I know you have a driver.”
“I might’ve had one at some point, but it’s probably expired. I’m pretty confident I can talk myself out of a ticket.”
“What would it say on your license? Like, does it say Prince Taylor, or do you have a last name? Did you have to queue like the rest of us to get your license?”
I side-eye her.
“Sorry, I bet people ask you a lot of stupid questions.”
“No one’s ever asked me if I’ve had to queue to get my license before. That’s just you.”
I actually like the more interesting questions rather than my ‘What’s the Queen like’, ‘How much money do you have’, and ‘What happened to your mother’s missing necklace’ staples I usually get.Stoic, a lot, andI don’t knoware my usual answers.
“Well, have you?” she asks.
I’m not sure why she’s so interested in bureaucracy.
“Not in this country, but when I was living in America.”
“Must’ve been a humbling experience.”
“It was awful.”
Melina giggles, but it really wasn’t. I’m only exaggerating to make her laugh. The DMV was the least of my humbling experiences from when I moved out. But I’d like to believe most humbling experiences are ultimately good, the main reason why I wanted to attend college abroad. That and the whole ‘find myself’ bullshit.
“I like knowing that you were once a real boy,” she says.
“Like Pinocchio?”
“You do lie a lot.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “What have I lied about?”
