by Masen, Kat
Edward Carmichael III, otherwise known as my father, controls everything about our family. This included my engagement to Sebastian King, a modern-day arranged marriage to further enhance his political position.
“Prince Charming,” I repeat, lost in my own thoughts.
Back home, my parents referred to Sebastian as the son they never had. Kind of a slap-in-the-face toward my brothers-in-law, James and Ryan.
Sebastian knew my father felt this way too, played all his cards right, and did everything my father asked of him.
Prince Charming, a cocky nickname he gave himself upon hijacking my phone one day, is his so-called alter ego. We had dated, or as my parents preferred the term ‘courted,’ for the last six months. It’s not serious, at least, I didn’t think it was considering most of the time he was traveling on some political trail.
He comes from a very wealthy family, plays golf like a pro, and has shares in his father’s business. Despite us only dating for a few months, we have known each other since middle school, though never romantically linked.
Sebastian has always been extremely handsome—dark brown hair, borderline black, always perfectly combed to the side, never a hair out of place. He’s not a playboy like his brothers. Sebastian’s more interested in work than women, even though they throw themselves at him, desperate to be the next Mrs. King.
My father took it upon himself to arrange our marriage, and despite my love for Sebastian, finding out that Sebastian’s over-the-top proposal had my father written all over it was enough for me to finally put my foot down.
I placed everything on hiatus, packed my bag, and told everyone I needed time to think.
My father, surprisingly, allowed it.
But it was not without the threat of ruining everything he and my mother had worked so hard to build for me. He reminded me, just before I left for the airport, in his overpowering tone, “Disobey my instructions again, and you’re out of this family.”
He gave me one month of freedom while he made some lie up about me staying with a rich associate of his in Bel-Air to assist with a charity ball being held there.
That’s it.
I was already the black sheep of the family.
The only daughter who’s willing to question his decisions.
The real question is what will life look like being Gabriella Carmichael, ex-Carmichael heiress, and homeless bum on the streets, since I have nothing to my name?
Oh, I take it back, I have a college degree majoring in English. The only decision my parents approved of, me attending college at Yale University. I found out after graduating that my father only allowed me to attend to make our family’s image appear more prominent in our over-privileged society. As soon as I arrived back home, the realization of my so-called family responsibilities became apparent. My college degree meant nothing if I couldn’t use it to get an actual job.
My mother was quick to point out at the time that my social life, once I became the new Mrs. King, would be my only focus, and a career would simply be unnecessary.
Decisions, all of which were thrown at me and which were never mine to make. The path had supposedly been paved, and whether I liked it or not, I would be walking down it with Sebastian King as my husband.
Inside the pocket of my white linen shorts, my phone vibrates. Pulling it out, I quickly glance at the screen to see the name Prince Charming in a text message.
“Speak of the devil,” I mutter.
Aubrey waits in anticipation. She admitted over brunch one day that as of late, life had all been about Chance and CJ, so girl talk was refreshing. She lived vicariously through my complicated love life.
Prince Charming: Did you get the gift I sent?
I sigh, raising the phone so Aubrey can read it. She purses her lips, pulling her hair out of its ponytail only to tie it back up into a messy bun.
“What are you going to respond with?”
Aubrey was out front yesterday when the cute UPS driver arrived with a very large package. I signed for it, made small talk with him, then opened the box. It was a stuffed pet pig. Since I was a small child, I’ve had this fascination with pigs. My mother said it was extremely unladylike to have a fascination with such a filthy animal. I remember pointing out to her that if she thought it was so filthy, why did she eat ham on her fancy sandwiches. I was banished to my room and punished by not being allowed to eat at the dinner table. The joke was on them—I hated dining with my parents anyway, and the maid brought extra ice cream to my room.
“I don’t know. The whole point of a break and me moving out here for the summer is to find myself. How can I find myself when Prince Charming is sending me a dozen texts a day, not to mention gifts?”
“Do you know what you need?” Aubrey questions, tapping her index finger against her lips. “You need to completely forget that the world back home exists. Do something wild tonight, something you’ve never done before. Once you get a taste of this so-called new life, chances are you probably won’t look back.”
Aubrey doesn’t understand my life back home. It’s nothing like this with fancy dinner party after dinner party, charity balls, political trails. The list of wealthy social events goes on.
But I have, in the two weeks of staying here, gotten somewhat of a taste of this new life. I’ve spent most of my time on the beach reading, practicing yoga, and lonesome dinners attempting to cook. Harder than you think considering I grew up in a privileged household, and our cook, Pierre, prepared every meal. I’ve mastered eggs—a small accomplishment making me prouder than I thought possible. “You’re right. I’m not tied down. Well, technically, Sebastian and I are on a break.”
“How very Ross and Rachel of you,” Aubrey giggles.
“You know what I mean.” I place my phone back into my pocket with newfound confidence “Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Is it to borrow Pixy to attract guys? I tell you, it’s not the first time I’ve been asked, and honestly, he doesn’t like the pressure of being a pawn in someone’s dating game.”
“No.” I laugh. “Everything I own is very… um… conservative. If I’m going to experience life, I need an outfit that screams ‘look at me, I’m in California.’”
“Oh,” Aubrey mouths. “I have just the dress.”
I follow Aubrey into her house quietly, careful not to wake CJ. Chance is sprawled on the couch wearing a beaten-up tank with this arm underneath his head, immersed in some soccer match while Aubrey motions for me to follow her to the bedroom.
Inside her wardrobe, she pulls each garment aside before removing a black dress from the back.
It’s simple, sits mid-thigh with thin straps over the shoulder. Better than anything I have sitting inside my wardrobe. I’m not fond of shopping, in fact, I despise it. Everything I own is my mother’s doing.
“I wore this dress on a night out with Chance in Vegas. Kind of the beginning of us but also the end.”
It didn’t make sense, and my confused expression must have relayed that.
Aubrey laughs. “I know, complicated. Anyway, it’s yours for tonight.”
I kindly accept the dress, placing it against me as I stare in the mirror.
Aubrey was right. Tonight, I need to let my hair down and enjoy life. This is what I came here for, and no one else controls what I do here but me.
If I am going to do this—live life to the fullest—I need to do it to the best of my ability.
I just need a little bit of help, perhaps, from a bottle of champagne.
My date for tonight.
Dom Pérignon.
Gabriella
I actually let my hair down.
It took me over an hour to tame my curls, not realizing how long they had grown. The longer they grow, the looser they become which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
My mother always hated my hair. It’s not the dead straight blonde like hers or my sisters. I was born with reddish-brown hair—a shock
to my parents—and it actually makes me look like the black sheep of the family. Over the years, the color shifted from darker to lighter, even blonde for my high school prom.
As a child, my mother would demand her expensive hairdressers to straighten the curls, to stop it looking like a mop as she often referred to it. Somehow, their style influenced my own over the past few years unbeknownst to me. I always wear it into a tight bun similar to my mother and sisters.
Having it out, drifting past my shoulders and against my back feels nice for a change. I also don’t mind the color—copper brown which complements my California tan.
I didn’t want to burden Aubrey with a complete wardrobe borrow, so I headed to the closest mall to purchase a black clutch and some strappy heels which tied around my calves. The shop assistant said they were very in, the latest trend, in fact.
What I do know is my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me dressed like this. And, to be honest, that means I’m on the right track.
There are a few bars at Hermosa Beach, local joints with a bustling nightlife. I settle for a bar not too far from home, that way, if the night is a bust, I won’t have to walk miles in these shoes, which I believe are spawns of the Devil. They began to pinch as soon as I left home, my poor baby toes in agony from the very few steps I’ve taken.
I settle for a Cuban bar and restaurant. The music blares across the speakers, something Latin but enjoyable and sets the mood. The noise of the patrons overpowers the Hispanic beats, and amongst the crowd, I began to feel nervous being here on my own.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
I can hear Aubrey yelling, ‘Put your big girl panties on.’
Just breathe.
Three.
Two.
One.
At the bar, I squeeze my way between two gentlemen to order a glass of champagne. Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks—that’s my mother’s drink.
If I want to be wild, I need to think wild.
Tequila, it is.
The bartender is busy, leaning forward while serving each customer. I try to catch his attention, waiting for what feels like forever only to have him serve me when a group of ladies push me forward.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, babe!”
The woman is wearing a sash which says Bride to Be and a crown on her head. It’s quite comical and very cliché. Sebastian would turn his nose up at women who partied singlehood, though God forbid if men didn’t have a bachelor party.
“It’s okay.” I smile, keeping the conversation amicable. “You have to celebrate your final days of freedom, right?”
“Right?” she squeals, embracing me into a huge hug.
There’s something to be said about being embraced by a stranger. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, and you don’t know when it’s too soon to pull away.
“Girls,” she hollers to the group of women behind her. “Meet our new recruit… sorry, what’s your name?”
“Gabriella.”
“Gabriella is partying with us!”
“I don’t think that’s such a good—”
She pulls me into that awkward embrace again, grabbing a shot from the tray her friend ordered, then passing it to me. “You have to celebrate with me… married life is going to be sooo boring.”
I contemplated asking why she would even consider getting married if she thought it will be boring but decide to leave well enough alone. She is drunk, and nothing good can come from the conversation. At least I’m no longer alone, and that, in itself, is rather comforting.
She motions for me to drink, raising my hand toward my mouth until I’m forced to chug the thing down—a Redheaded Slut shot. Instantly I taste the sweet cranberry followed by something else potent.
Oh, dear God, it tastes like hell on fire.
“Yeah, girl, you did it!” She throws her arms around my body, squeezing me tight, barely allowing me to breathe.
Her friend orders another round.
I shake my head, willing to stop, but Tiffany, as her friend calls her, demands we do another round before hitting the dance floor.
Time begins to feel like a blur. The music changes as requested by Tiffany. We dance away to some Mambo, then she begs the DJ to throw in some classic Abba, and somewhere during Tiffany’s request for Brittany Spears ‘Womanizer,’ the room begins to spin, and I can’t control my laughter.
“You okay, Gabbie?”
I hate that nickname, but when drunk on Redheaded Sluts, she can call me a crack whore, and I will oblige.
“Yeah, is it just me, or is the room spinning?”
Tiffany giggles, hiccupping loudly as well. “Me, too! So, get this… there’s a guy at the bar, he kinda asked about you.”
I turn to face the bar. A cute guy dressed in chino slacks and a button-up white shirt grins. He resembles Chris Pratt. Definitely handsome, especially when he smiles from a distance.
“Oh, well, I’m kind of taken.”
“Really? Boyfriend?”
“Um… fiancé. But we’re kind of on a break.”
Tiffany stops dancing immediately. Without warning, she grabs my hand, weaving in and out of the crowd until we’re inside the bathroom. Thankfully, there is no line.
“Spill the beans. All of it.”
“What beans?” I ask, confused, trying my best to ignore the unsavory sensation swirling in the pit of my stomach.
“The engaged but on a break situation.”
“Not much to spill,” I tell her, leaning against the wall for support. The tiles on the wall are mosaics. They appear to be spinning around and around, making it hard to think. “I’ve known Sebastian forever since our families are close. Basically, my father arranged our marriage.”
“Arranged marriage? Okay, so why the break?”
I can feel the tears coming on, the Redheaded Sluts turning into my worst enemy. I’m not usually an emotionally unstable human being, but German liquor has its way of unleashing a beast within me.
“I just… I just… it doesn’t feel right.” The lonesome tear escapes, trickling down my cheek. I can’t remember the last time I cried. I am not a crier. My mother says it’s improper to cry and unladylike. You move on from whatever is upsetting you. Rich girls don’t cry, they go spend money on something extravagant and unnecessary.
Two girls attempt to enter the bathroom until Tiffany tells them to back the hell off.
“If it doesn’t feel right, then why not break up for good? You’re sexy. That guy at the bar was eating you up.”
“It’s so complicated. My father is…” I close my eyes trying to think of the words. “He has always controlled our family.” I cry softly as I lean against the wall looking into Tiffany’s concerned eyes. “I was bred to be Sebastian’s wife, that’s what Father told me. He gave me a month to go do whatever the hell I want, but come September first, I need to be walking down the aisle as the new Mrs. King.”
Tiffany rests her hand on my arm, then brings me in for that uncomfortable stranger hug. I welcome it this time, resting my head on her shoulder, wondering why life is so unfair. With her large boobs squashed against my chest, she pulls away minutes later and hands me a tissue.
“And Sebastian? What did he say when you wanted to leave? If my fiancé, Derek, heard me say that, he’d think I was cheating on him or something stupid.”
“I think he understood,” I say with honesty. “He feels the pressure, too. I mean, I love him, but it’s like he’s my brother.”
Tiffany scrunches up her face. On closer inspection, she has rather full lips. Collagen fillers, no doubt, considering her boobs felt rock hard against my chest.
“Ew… so you’re like screwing your brother?”
“What? No… I just mean we’re comfortable, but there’s no spark. No fireworks.”
Tiffany places her hands on my shoulders, staring me down. “You’ve got this, girl. I believe in you. Don’t let any man tell you what to d
o. You’re a strong, independent woman.”
There’s something to be said about an empowering speech inside a dingy bathroom while incredibly drunk. Tiffany made me feel like I’m worth a million dollars. With my newfound confidence, I straighten my posture, check the mirror to make sure I don’t have panda eyes, then give her the nod to continue partying the night away.
Tiffany cries boredom not long after, suggesting we find another bar. The thought of walking anywhere makes me want to cry again. My feet are throbbing in my new heels, but thankfully, we stumble into an Irish pub only a few establishments down the road.
This place has a different vibe. For one, it’s less crowded than the other bar, but the people here are much rowdier. There’s a lot of yelling, cheering from random crowds of people, and nineties music playing over the speakers.
I turn around to find Tiffany has disappeared, and her friend, Michelle, is already at the bar chatting to some guy.
So much for partying the night away.
It’s only just hit eleven, not even midnight. I’m not ready to completely call it a night, so I head straight to the not-so-crowded bar to order myself another drink.
“Hit me up,” I slur, slapping my hand against the woodgrain countertop. It’s sticky, and the area has a stale stench of beer.
“What would you like me to hit you up with?”
I have no idea. The thought of drinking another Redheaded Slut makes me want to hurl again. I scan the bar unable to focus on the names on the glass bottles. There are a lot of them standing side by side in a range of different colors and shapes. The green one looks pretty. Just ask for the pretty one.
Beside me, a guy snickers, and I notice his tall glass of beer. There’s a lot of froth making it appear barely touched.
I gesture to the glass. “What he’s having.”
The bartender raises his brow. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I reply with an enthusiastic grin. Clearing my throat, I attempt to pull out my best Irish accent. “Just to top off the evening, thanks, sir!”
The guy beside me hides his smirk behind the giant glass. I turn to face him, making it obvious his smirk is annoying me. Ignoring me, he keeps his eyes focused on the wall-mounted television. From the side you can see his sharp jawline covered with a slight stubble. His hair, a darkish blond, is slightly longer giving him a casual look. It’s always the hot ones who are assholes.