Page 95 of Prince Charmless
“I’m so stupid,” Melina says, grabbing her own phone off the nightstand. “Of course they found it.”
“You’re not stupid, and reading that garbage isn’t a good idea.”
But she ignores me. “My family’s going to see this now, right? And business associates? Everyone I know and the fucking queen.” How can I answer her? “Look,” she says, half-laughing and gesturing to her phone. “This one reads, ‘I’ve got new respect for Prince Taylor’. You get praised for doing nothing and I get called a slut.”
Her voice is calm, but the room becomes tepid with her anger. I knew I shouldn’t have brought her to the fundraiser. Anonymity is a blessing, and I took it away from her.
“I can’t be surprised,” she says. “If I didn’t want people to see the picture, I shouldn’t have put it online.”
“That’s bullshit. You have a right to live your life without things being taken out of context.”
Melina shouldn’t know what it feels like to meet someone who already knows your personal details and entire life story. That’smysacrifice for being born the luckiest man alive. Not hers.
Finally, she turns off her phone and tosses it on the bed. “Whatever,” she says, taking my hands. “Fuck them, right?”
My grip goes limp. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t...what?” she asks, letting go.
I fall silent. My hands get clammy. I like to forget how the press treats women involved with my family. It would destroy me hearing the tabloids talk about my mother, nitpicking everything she did or said or wore, in a way that was way more vicious than what they said of my father. They tried to hide the press from us as kids, of course. But only so many stories can be written about your mom’s ‘so-called’ promiscuous past life before they seep through the walls of overbearing parents, stories a son should never be reading about his mother. It didn’t matter if they were false. The only upside about her cancer diagnosis is that the press finally laid off. The victim of their degradation became their martyr. It’s almost funny. Almost.
I like Melina more than anyone I’ve liked before. It’s hard to describe the feeling in most other words besides, familiar. How could I be so selfish in ignoring the future?
“Taylor, we don’t have to tell the press we’re fucking,” she whispers as if they can hear us.
“I thought you didn’t want to beinterim fun.”
I barely make out the words, because what I want is so much more. Everyone I’ve had sex with has been so mediocre. My whole life I’ve been fucking out of necessity and lust. Melina’s not even close to being in the same category as any of them.
She looks at her phone like it’s burning a hole in the duvet, and no one can do anything about it. “I don’t think they want us to be anything else,” she says.
I admire her dewy skin, dark eyes, and full lips for what could be one of the last times. “I’m just not sure I can do that with you.”What am I saying? Since when do I not want to have sex?This doesn’t have to be difficult, right? Why am I making things so difficult?
Her brows furrow. “Taylor—”
“You should put some clothes on. I have to get back soon.” It comes out colder than intended.
She cocks her head like a confused puppy. Instinctively, I reach up to touch her cheek, but I clench my fist instead. It’s easier to think I’ve been procrastinating love and children instead of being terrified I’ll ruin the lives of the people closest to me. It’s more socially acceptable to tell people, ‘I’ve just been busy’, or ‘I like being alone’. Not that those things aren’t true, but I have to be more than honest with myself now. I can’t take a chance on ruining her life.
31
Melina
“He sounds like a douche,” Mateo concludes after I finish telling him my life story.
“You’ve said that about all of my relationships.”
He throws out his hands. “And when have I been wrong?”
“Well, you can stop asking me about it now, okay?”
I wasn’t eager to recount the story of my vacation because its ending makes me sad. And not all the guys I’ve dated have been douches, but there’s a reason I’m not with them.
I’ve been hanging out a lot with Mateo. I don’t like running errands alone because I feel like everyone is watching me. Worse, if they’re not watching me, they’re not-so-discreetly taking pictures or even having the audacity to come up and ask me questions about my love life. Mateo’s muscly enough that they’ll leave when he tells them to.
These past few days have been the most embarrassing of my life. I’m the hot topic on every social media platform you can think of: Instagram, Twitter, eBay, probably. Even the real news is doing op-eds on my quarter-naked body. I’m not the spicy sex-positive girlfriend everyone thinks Taylor is dating. My love life is quite flavorless, definitely no ice cubes. Rachel, on the other hand, is a very spicy photographer. Almost five years ago, she got a new lens and wanted to test it out. I thought the pictures turned out pretty nice, so I put one on the website. I didn’t think anything of it. How was I supposed to predict she would marry a rich guy and I would meet one of his groomsmen who happened to be the Prince of St. Claire and we would become friends andmake up some batshit crazy plan to have the press assume we’re dating?
It’s not like I’m ashamed of the photo. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rachel is a wizard with Adobe Lightroom and could make a kitchen sponge look enticing. But I guess I’m not chaste enough for Prince Taylor, according to royalists. They think I’m a floozy, a harlot, and other less savory words. They don’t even know me. They don’t even know Taylor. He’s just as unchaste as the rest of us. After having sex with him, I can tell he’s been around the block. Why should they care so much about something that’s none of their business?
