To Be Loved By A Mikaelson Hayle

I'm so baked. No, I'm not referring to literal baking like they bake bread and cake. I'm referring to me, a female who's in the process of getting an unwanted natural tan. I mean, there's all those fake tanning sprays I can use, why will I go through the hassle of getting a natural tan? Well, see it through my lens: Hot summer, fresh out of college, ready to take the world by complete storm.

It is only right that I lounge under the sun on my balcony simply because I can. My plan for life after college simmers in my head: Simply take the world by storm. After all, they name those nasty, mass destructive hurricanes people names, why wouldn't they name a storm after me? There's this thing they say about pretty blondes. They say we're dumb. I should know better. I should say better. I should defend myself and act all smart and cool, but I don't have the strength for all that.

Everything is soft where I come from. My bed is soft. The cash is soft. Even my family is soft. Call me a dumb blonde but I've got the money to get away with being dumb and you get nothing but your bitter self to live with forever. I want to jump off my balcony and scream,

"I'm outta college, bitches."

Maybe I should jump off with my birthday suit. No. It's not that hot. I mean, I'm hot. The weather's just not that hot to resort to such extravaganza. Soon, I'll be back home with them parents and my elder brother. Don't need no headline to ruin my return.

I intend to surprise the whole lot of them by entering in incognito. Well, except my brother who I told about my return weeks ago. I cannot keep a secret from him, Lord knows. Then I remember the fucking appointment. Then I scream. And stand.

And go all high and fly and confused. My apartment is empty. I had a constant roommate once, but she went packing soon as I started the wild parties. Now, I have an on and off model who rents the room when she has a shoot holding close by.

She's not around today. She hasn't been around all through summer. She's going to miss me, I bet. I planned to do all these wild things. I planned so many things, especially today. But, as usual, they all formed and ended in my head. I can still salvage today. It's still early in the afternoon. Except, I'm supposed to be somewhere else right now and that might take up by whole day.

The rings!

I'm supposed to go pick up the rings in town. I pick up my keys, spritz my edges with water, spray my expensive perfume and run out. When I'm halfway to my car, I do a 360 and pause as I look at my feet.

Shoes.

I didn't wear shoes. I face palm and head back to the elevator. It's held up. I move towards the stairs and make a run for it. Back in my apartment, back in my room. Then down back those spiraling stairs because, somehow, I forgot to take the elevator.

This is where I pull out my phone, take a selfie, caption it: fuck my life and post on my Snapchat story. This where I do it, and get numerous comments that read: aww, you're so real. aww, you look damn pretty sweaty and all. aww, I love those dark roots. You got then highlighted again? I refrain from doing it.

Not in the mood. I need to get those rings or I'll spend my day and the next sulking that I didn't get it. The rings are more beautiful as I hold them in my hand. They fit perfectly. I just hope it fits him. I know, I know.

Who are the rings for? Pretty serious question. Pretty serious answer should be given in return. But, no, I'll go down a lane I want to go down. I own this story. I bought this ring to propose to my childhood sweetheart. Unconventional, yes.

But, I'm a woman now. I can make my own decisions, unconventional or not. And I choose to go down on one knee, or two if it's required and ask the beautiful man I have loved since I could define love to marry me. There's a lot I want to say. And there's a lot I want to do also, but I have to restrain myself.

Tomorrow, I'll be going back home. And instead of going to my family's house, I'll go to his office first. Facebook is a very effective tool. I don't know why nobody talks about it s much anymore. Instagram is more techy, more modelly.

But, Facebook is the original tracker. If you want to know what a person was like in high school, you will find a truckload of pictures to show you their life and how they navigated through drugs, not to talk of all the embarrassing pictures they took while they were small.

I make a stop at Starbucks. I have this barrister who works there. A pretty brunette guy I've talked to ever since my freshman year. He's right where he always is as I walk in and thank the heavens or the sun or the moon or even astrology, he sees me as I enter. I'm just in time for his lunch break.

He winks at me and comes over and I fine myself thinking, My God, I'll miss this guy. I'll miss his wink. I'll miss this city. I'll miss the coffee and the exams and the parties and that stupid period in freshman year when I wanted to join a girl's sorority so bad.

"Hey, my Rella."

He makes to ruffle my hair and I dodged. He tries one more time when I don't see him coming and he gets me. I pout and stare at him.

"What the heck, you douchebag."

"I'm pretty sure you've forgotten my name already. That insult cannot have come from your heart."

"My heart?" I fake gasp.

"But, I do not have a heart." I touch my chest for emphasis.

He bends over laughing. The coffee he drops in the table is instantly in my hands as I nurse the hot, addictive liquid. Another thing to miss: His coffee.

"What are you going to do without me and my coffee when you go back home?" A wry smile forms on my lips.

"I'll ask you to mail some once in two weeks." He fake gasps.

"Just once in two weeks?"

"No shitting." He clicks his tongue.

"No kidding. What's this shitting that has left that pretty mouth of yours?"

I sit still, not talking. Not replying him, just soaking in the people, the sun as it wafts in through the glass door and the window. We're silent for so long I can hear too many other things: like the discreet spraying of perfume by the lady at the booth right at the edge.

Like the sipping of her coffee right till the last drop by the other lady beside us. Like the striking of a MacBook by the man in the beanie and the glasses. And everything combusts and suddenly I want to look at Kiley appear before me.