Page 41 of Prince Charmless
“You know,” he starts. “When we were kids, the lights used to just go out at random times.”
“Really?” I ask as he draws closer to me.
“We hired, like, three different electricians and none of them could figure out what was going on.” He checks something on his phone.
“That’s very bizaa—”
The kitchen goes dark. On instinct, I fist the waist of Taylor’s shirt and pull closer to him.
“Oh my God,” I say, my voice quivering. I’m near enough to feel his breathing calm and steady, the opposite pace of mine.
Taylor looks up at the ceiling, his face lit by the phone in his hand.
Wait a minute.
I look down at the screen that reads: kitchen lights toggle: OFF.
My fist turns into a slap to his chest. “I don’t like you,” I say through my teeth.
“I very much doubt that.” His hand meanders to my lower back. I don’t remember it being on my back to begin with.
You shouldn’t be enjoying this, Melina.
The lights turn on as I storm out of the kitchen. Taylor doesn’t need to be touching me in the dark. It doesn’t matter if it feels nice.
I head towards the living room and stand in front of the windows, surveying the massive back lawn surrounded by pine trees. The stars are a lot clearer away from the city. The built-in bookshelf in the corner is full of classic literature and French titles. I run my hand across their spines until I come across a blank one. I pull it out all dramatically to see if it opens a secret room. Sadly, it doesn’t. Out of curiosity, I open the front cover. It’s a photo album. He said I could snoop, right?
The first picture is a selfie taken by Princess Charlotte with her arm around her two sons and the head of a horse beside them. She’s a stunning woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and dark eyes to match her sons. Taylor looks about ten andThomas around four. I laugh because while Thomas seems like he doesn’t want to be there, Taylor is holding up a half-hearted peace sign and smiling, braces and all. I hope for Taylor’s sake he had a somewhat normal childhood, although he was probably never asked ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ like the rest of us.
The picture underneath it is of Thomas on a skateboard. He looks around seven. I’m assuming the lankier boy holding onto his arm is Taylor, but he has his back toward the camera. He has that shaggy skater-boy haircut that all boys at my high school had. My heart aches to see the captions underneath, written by a mother taken too soon from her children. I put the album back. I shouldn’t be looking behind the curtain.
The sound of scampering echoes down the hallway. I turn around, but no one’s there. Is this another one of Taylor’s tricks? I take a step toward the noise. Then another. Then one more. When a dog comes barreling towards me, I backpedal to the bookshelf and put out my arms to block the beast. Just when I think it’s going to pounce, the basset hound screeches to a halt and sniffs me up and down. It barks, but not in an aggressive way, more in an excited-to-see-me way. I kneel to scratch him or her under their chin. This is Taylor’s dog? This droopy-looking animal that could trip over its own ears?
It follows me to the kitchen.
“I’ve made a friend!” I exclaim. The dog sneezes in excitement as if to say the same thing. “I don’t know why, but I thought you were lying about the dog.”
Taylor opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and goes back to mixing batter.
“What’s the name?” I ask.
“Vinnie.”
“When did you get him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember when you got your dog?”
Taylor sighs. “All right, he’s not my dog. He’s Tom’s.”
“Hey, I was right!” I clap my hands. “I’ve spent so much time with you, I can tell when you’re lying now.”
He cocks his head. “You think so, eh?”
I don’t answer because he’s being cryptic and weird. Instead, I lean over the counter and watch him cook. Every once in a while, his arm brushes up against mine. I don’t think either of us minds.
“I’m sorry if I ruined your plans of getting laid tonight,” he says casually.
