Page 86 of Prince Charmless
“I was planning on going back after Dartmouth, but there isn’t anything I need to do at home right away.”
Also, being in a foreign country and ignoring phone calls with my Melina is a new favorite hobby.
“What about seeing?” she asks. “You need to see, right?”
I lower my voice. “I’ve seen enough.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Whatever you want. I have a plane.” And two pilots, but they shouldn’t mind if I pay them.
“I’ve never had a guy offer to take me anywhere before.”
“Not anywhere. Preferably something on the East Coast.”
She snaps her fingers. “New York.”
I lean in and kiss her because she lets me do things like that now. “New York.”
27
Melina
Years ago, I went on a date with this guy who insisted he take me to a sushi place. I guess he wanted to impress me with something exotic and expensive. The conversation had been going great until the fish came out. This man who had been studying for his master’s in finance never used chopsticks before in his life. Even after he dumped the eel sauce on his pants, Jared refused to put me out of my misery by asking the waitress for a fork.It’s fine,he said.
It wasn’t fine. That night while we were, uh, frying our egg rolls, all I could think about was him fumbling around with those fucking chopsticks. He came. I faked. We never saw each other again.
Ever since then, I’ve given my men the chopstick test. I’ve put all my friends on to it as well. Somewhere in St. Claire, there’s a little sushi restaurant chock-full of awkward first dates.
Anyway, Taylor and I are eating Chinese. Earlier today I mentioned I love East Asian food but can’t have a lot of it due to its relationship with sesame oil.That’s a travesty, Taylor lamented before calling ten restaurants to find a swanky Chinese place willing to cater to my allergy. I know it’s swanky because of its dim lighting and lack of prices on the menu. Unfortunately for my little crush problem, Taylor eats noodles like the princess he is. Who was I kidding about the chopsticks? I bet he’s had etiquette lessons since he was four years old.
Amongst all better judgment, I have officially given in. What’s going to happen when we get back to St. Claire? I haven’t got a clue. I, Melina Ramirez, am winging it. It’s usually not mystyle. I’m the type of girl who gets homework done as soon as it’s assigned with enough time to do other students’ homework for money. (What can I say, I’ve always tended toward self-employed.) I’m putting off my thinking for now because Taylor’s not ‘the prince’ here. There is no royalty in America. They had a whole war and Declaration of Independence about that. In America, we’re just two normal people going on a date. And that’s all I want to worry about.
Taylor didn’t do a whole lot of speaking at the Dartmouth panel becausethe woman next to me was literally curing cancer. I don’t think people care about my philanthropic ventures.Though when it came time for the Q&A section, he was more than willing to get into details. He seemed passionate about finding charities that provide long-term solutions, treating his money like an investment for local communities. I’ve always conceded that Taylor is at least self-aware about his bluntness and audacity, but now I don’t think he’s self-aware enough. He talks about St. Claire less like a politician and more like a citizen, like the little island deserves conversation that’s just as nuanced and significant as a country a hundred times its size. It’s admirable. And very attractive.
Tonight, our conversation has been easy and pleasant. He’s very funny, sometimes unintentionally, but that’s okay. He doesn’t mind when I ask him all my burning questions about his upbringing. He says his parents tried to give him and his brother normalcy by telling them to not ask the staff for anything unless they couldn’t do it themselves. He tells a story about how as a first year in boarding school he had to drink a raw egg out of a senior classmate’s shoe to satisfy a centennial-long hazing ritual. We talk about growing up in a bilingual home and having inside jokes about the idioms our parents would get wrong. Taylor asks me about my work, my mom’s salon, and my extended family in Argentina. He avoids my dad because he rightly assumes I’mcagey about the topic. I explain how Mateo and I would spend summers in Córdoba with our abuela and how sad I was getting back to rainy St. Claire. I tell him how all the beaches in Buenos Aires are made of sand instead of rocks and I think that’s why everyone is in a better mood. He makes my life feel interesting and noteworthy even though his thirty years on earth have probably been much more exciting than mine. It’s appreciated, nonetheless.
Taylor asks our waitress to leave the wine bottle at the table. I guess he’s sick of her bothering us.
“Snakes?” he asks, pouring the red liquid into my glass.
Not this again. He’s been trying to figure out my biggest fear all day.
“No.”
“Heights?”
“Not really.”
“Small spaces, spiders, blood?”
“Nope,” I say, emphasizing the P. “Even if you get it right, I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why?”
“You’ll use it to torture me.”
Taylor gives a sick, sadistic smile. “I would never do that.”
