Hollywood Prince

By: Kim Karr



I’m listening to this song by the Spin Doctors called “Two Princes.”

The lyrics are similar to my story. Two princes. One princess. A choice to make. And perhaps even a happily ever after.

Unlike a fairy tale, though, my story doesn’t start with “Once upon a time.” Oh, how I wish it did. The thing is, a lot has happened in my life that made me who I am. And because of this, I have a lot of issues to resolve before I can get to the end. Yet, rest assured, in its true form—this will be a love story.

It has to be.

Like the song, it’s about me and . . .

This one.

And that one.

You’d think choosing between Mr. Right over Mr. Oh-So-Wrong would be easy, but it isn’t.

In the light of day, it all seems so clear, but now, in the dark of the night, Mr. Right doesn’t seem so right, and Mr. Oh-So-Wrong doesn’t seem that wrong.

I met one before the other. Spent more time with one than the other. Now one is ready for the next step, but I’m not sure about the other.

None of that matters.

What matters is in my heart, and I just have to dig deep enough inside to figure out what it is telling me. Move forward or go back. God, I wish I knew.

The doorbell rings.

Rushing over to the door, I swing it open wide, expecting my mother, my father, my best friend—anyone but him.

There he stands with a smile on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Before I can even take the flowers, I look at the cell clutched tight in my fingers. At the two words I don’t know what to do with. They’re from him. The other him. The other man, I guess you could say.

This isn’t a love triangle; it never was. It’s simply about choices.

This one.

Or that one.

Mr. Right, or Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

With the text still unanswered, I stare into this man’s face, and then at my screen.

Who should I choose?

I stand here, reeling, my mind wandering back to how it all began. How I went from searching for the right one to finding two men within twenty-four hours.

Two princes, but only one is meant to be mine.



A common misconception is that the just be me philosophy works in all situations.

Not true.

Yes, it’s wrong to project a false idea of who you are, but a blind date is not the time to let all the skeletons out of the closet. The goal is to present the best version of yourself.


With that in mind, I stand tall and stare at the golden doors to a club that was once like my oldest brother’s second home. Pushing away the memories of him, both good and bad, I suck in a breath and walk inside.

I can do this.

The Griffin is beyond filled to capacity. Wall-to-wall people. Anyone that is anyone in the city is here because this is the place to be. To party. Have fun. Who knows, maybe even hook up with an A-lister looking to have a good time—if that’s your thing.

Glass chandeliers sparkle as I make my way through the crowd.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

After my last debacle of a blind date with the creepy guy who wanted to suck my toes, I told myself never again.

And yet, here I am. My stomach a-flutter with nerves and my heart filled with a little more hope than I should have in a situation like this.

Mr. Right has to be out here somewhere.

After all, there is someone for everyone in this world, or that’s what I keep telling myself every time Mr. Right turns out to be Mr. Oh-So-Wrong.

It might sound like I’m always looking for a man, but I’m not. It’s just at twenty-five I don’t want to waste any more time with someone who doesn’t get me, or that I don’t get. I want to find, and yes I’m going to say it, the one who completes me.

Noisemakers and party hats poke me with each step I take. I glance around, over, and through the people. The velvet benches are occupied by couples shoving their tongues down each other’s throats, girls chatting animatedly while smoothing their hair into place, and men high-fiving each other as women walk past them with a suggestive sway to their hips.

I forgot how entertaining places like this can be, and I slow a little to pay more attention.

A woman pushes her breasts into a man’s hard chest and looks up at him with fluttering lashes. A guy squeezes a girl’s ass, and she whirls around and slaps him in the face. A couple bump and grind like porn stars in a booth.

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