Chapter 38 “Clean” - Taylor Swift
“Clean” - Taylor Swift
Saylor
Food service jobs should come with a warning label.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.
The sofa calls my name as I stumble into my flat after a ten-hour shift at Donnie P’s, but—much as I’d like nothing better than to rot on it right now—I have actual adult responsibilities calling my name. Or meowing my name, if you will.
Leo jumps down from his spot on the windowsill, knocking one of my spider plants to the floor as he does.
I groan and set my bag down as he scampers over with that three-legged gait I adore.
I’m happy for the company, but having a cat does mean I have less money to spend on frivolous things like food and less time to spend doing frivolous things like sleeping.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, bending down to scratch his ears.
He purrs and presses his head into my hand, eager for my attention after being alone all day. In addition to cleaning up the plant he knocked over, I also need to scoop his litter box and get him dinner. I won’t be getting to bed for at least an hour.
Sixty-nine minutes later (I checked), I finally fall into bed. Leo decides he got enough rest during the day and walks across me, begging me to get up and play with him. “Not tonight, buddy,” I say.
I settle into the pillows, but sleep won’t come. I’m so exhausted my body thinks it would be better to see how far we can push that, I guess.
With a groan, I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. I open social media, hoping a bit of mindless scrolling will convince my brain to give up the fight. Instead, Rhett’s face fills my screen. On instinct, I swipe up before more than a second or two can play.
I can’t even process what the next video is about. Finally, I lock my phone and lay it on my chest, panting. My heart is running circles around my chest for no explainable reason.
Why does he still have this effect on me? It’s been weeks since the tour, weeks since I’ve seen him, weeks since I’ve allowed myself to remember the touch of his hands on me, the scent of his cologne, the electricity that surged along my spine every time he whispered in my ear.
It has not, unfortunately, been weeks since I’ve heard his voice.
He wasn’t whispering in my ear, but it had nearly the same effect.
I’m no longer following him on socials, but that doesn’t prevent his videos from occasionally popping up in my feed.
The last one I watched sent me into a spiral for days.
He finally did it. He finally told the truth about his addiction. And considering how often I have to skip his songs on Spotify, it hasn’t done a thing to hurt his reputation. If anything, he’s only become more popular.
I’m proud of him, in spite of the fact that I have no reason to be. I have no claim on him. He did the right thing, and the most I can do is mentally applaud him for finding the courage to speak up. The rest of that video, though . . .
It was dangerous to watch, and I cut myself off after the fifth time. It took me days to be able to go an hour without thinking about him. Now, he’s back, filling my feed again with his beautiful face and his raspy voice and the magnetism neither I nor the rest of the world can resist.
I unlock my phone and swipe down, dragging the video back onto my screen. My heart bursts wide open at the sight of him, as though it doesn’t realize he’s not actually right here in front of me.
He’s sitting on a chair in what is probably his flat, given the lack of personality and the excess of sharp corners.
An acoustic guitar is on his lap, one he never plays onstage, but which he told me once is his favorite.
A gift from his dad when he was young. Most of his guitars are, but that one is special.
It’s hard to tell in the video, but he looks like he’s been managing just fine since our breakup. No dark circles under his eyes, no weight loss that I can see. I tell myself I’m glad. He deserves to move on, to be happy. I want him to be happy, even if that means him being with someone else.
Is he with someone else? I haven’t seen any photos of him with other women, but then again, I’ve been studiously avoiding the tabloids at the supermarket.
Pain courses through my veins at the thought, but I remind myself it’s for the best. We’re never going to be together anyway.
The best thing is for us both to move on.
If he’s able to do that years before I am, that’s a me problem, not a him problem.
He finally stopped texting me, probably because I never replied. I considered blocking him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. After several days went by without a new message, I realized he must have given up. That thought hurt more than all the others. Our coffin has finally been nailed shut.
On screen, his eyes flick up to the camera. He’s lightly strumming the guitar, and the melody is haunting. “I have a new song to play for you,” he says, and my heart careens over the side of a mountain. His voice has that hushed quality I love, like it’s just the two of us here.
He’s in a goddamn video, I tell my stupid, racing heart.
“I wrote it about a girl.” That slow, lazy smile takes over his face, the same one that used to make my pulse pick up speed, the one that could turn me to jelly in the blink of an eye. “She changed me, so this one’s for her.”
He strums a few chords, and my brain is whirling. He never wrote a song for me. Is he already so deeply in love with someone else that he’s writing her songs? Tears sting my eyes, but he starts singing before I can click out of the app.
“She’s tough as nails / in her black combat boots / She never fails / to hide what’s inside / Her battle wounds / a tidepool of pain.”
Rhett’s voice is a masterpiece. His fame has been well earned. He’s an expert guitar player, to say nothing of the way he can captivate a crowd onstage or on video. His songs have brought me to the brink of every emotion known to mankind.
But this one? This one undoes me completely.
I’m sobbing so hard, I don’t even hear all the lyrics.
I have to rewatch it, but it keeps wrecking me every time.
I cry for what we had, for the way he made me feel, for the hope he gave me for the future.
I cry for what we could have been, for what we should have been.
I cry for the mistakes we made that can’t be undone, the things we said that can’t be erased.
But mostly I cry because my heart is still firmly in the grasp of the man singing a song about me, and the worst part is knowing I’ll never get it back, because how could I when he looks like that and he sounds like that and he writes songs about girls in combat boots who could only ever be me, yet I’ll never be his and he’ll never be mine.
How am I ever supposed to recover from that?
I lose track of how many times I watch the video. It’s enough that I have the song memorized by the next morning, when my alarm blares and I wake to find it still playing. Fresh tears spring to my eyes as I rewatch it one final time.
“Barbed wire wrapped tightly around a heart riddled with holes / But underneath and deep inside and hiding out / a wildfire heart burning bright / a flame untamed / She cloaks it well / smoke and mirrors / a gilt facade / But when she chooses to love you, look out / You’re a brand-new man.”
The song ends, and something catches my eye. I missed it last night, but right before he gets up to turn off the camera, Rhett tilts his chin down to his chest, then back up again. Our signal on tour for when he needed me.
I didn’t know it was possible for my heart to shatter any more thoroughly, but that manages to do it.
I close the app and toss my phone aside, not able to take another second of staring at the face that still appears in every single dream I have.
I can’t afford to think about him. I need to get to work, and if Larry catches me daydreaming again, I might not have a job at the end of my shift.
* * *
By the time noon rolls around, I’m beginning to wish I didn’t have a job. Is being homeless really that bad? It can’t be worse than scrubbing vomit off the bathroom floor or dunking so many fry baskets into hot oil that your hair permanently absorbs the scent, right?
Larry assigns me to the front counter right before the lunch crowd comes in, and I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a reward or a punishment.
I can never tell with him. I do know that if he ever brushes those disgusting hairy-knuckled hands against me, I will gleefully be reporting him to the authorities.
Despite the fact that I smell like grease and my hair is frizzing around my face, I am glad to escape the kitchen, even if it means I’ll be standing behind the counter without a break for the next hour.
The line curves around the store as more and more people come in for Donnie P’s cheap-ass burgers and disgusting fries.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here ringing up orders, but it’s been long enough that faces are starting to blur together.
I no longer even lift my head when someone steps forward, just keep my eyes on the keypad of the register, ready to enter their order and take their money.
Larry prioritizes efficiency over friendliness, and for once, I’m happy to oblige.
The next person approaches the counter, and I wait, my fingers hovering over the keys.
It’s a man with his hands tucked into the front pocket of his gray hoodie.
He doesn’t say anything right away, so I look up to see if he has a question about the menu.
He’s tall, and it takes my eyes an eternity to reach his face.
When they finally do, I’m not sure how I’ll ever tear them away.
Now that he’s right in front of me, I can see all the things I couldn’t on video.
His cheeks are more gaunt than before, and there are shadows under his eyes the camera didn’t catch.
The biggest difference, though, is the dullness in his eyes, the lack of that spark that is so much a part of Rhett Cole that I hardly recognize him without it.
He looks . . . anguished.
Our gazes collide, and my heart gets caught in my throat.
How dare he still look at me like that? The corners of his eyes are pulled down, making him look like a puppy that got left outside in a storm.
I try to read what’s hiding there, what message he’s trying to relay, but I can’t make it out.
It’s been too long, even though my heart still marches to the beat of his.
The man standing behind Rhett rudely clears his throat, and it shocks both of us out of our stupor.
I glance over my shoulder, sure I’ll find Larry glaring at me, but he’s not there. I turn back to Rhett, and in my cheeriest voice, say, “Welcome to Donnie P’s. What can I get you?”
He looks at the menu board above my head and says in that voice I love, “Can I get the biggest order of forgiveness you have? And a little bit of your time?”
My heart stops beating.
He drops his gaze back to me, the question lingering there. I open my mouth, but no words come out. All I can think about is the fact that the first time he’s seeing me again, I’m wearing the world’s ugliest uniform.
The guy behind him says something, but I can’t hear anything except for the crazy thumping of my heart in my ears. It’s like I’m underwater, and Rhett’s the ray of sunshine I’m swimming toward.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Why not?” he whispers back, and it feels like summer camp all over again.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from him if I wanted to. His gaze is like sticky pavement on a hot day, and I could bake here forever. “Because I’m working.”
“Fuck work,” he says.
I’m aware that the tension level in the restaurant is rising, but it isn’t until Larry barks at me over my shoulder that I snap out of the trance Rhett has me in. I jump and look at my boss.
His face is turning the color of the ketchup bottle in his hand. “What is going on, Taylor?” he says. He’s never called me by my actual name, despite the fact that it’s on my name tag.
I shake my head, and it’s then that I notice the attention Rhett is attracting. Several people have their phones out and are snapping photos of him. Whispers are floating around the restaurant.
“That’s Rhett Cole!”
“OMG, Rhett Cole is here!”
Rhett is completely oblivious, his attention still focused on me.
Larry, on the other hand, sees it all and is fuming. “We have a reputation,” he snaps. “And you are holding up the line.”
“Actually, Larry,” I say with a hand on my stomach. “I’m not feeling so well. Do you mind if I take my break early?” It’s not exactly a lie. My insides have been knotted since watching Rhett’s video last night. Seeing him walk into the restaurant has scrambled my brain as well.
Larry looks at me like I just asked for a million dollars. “Absolutely not. Have you seen that line?” Using the ketchup bottle, he motions toward the people winding their way between the tables and chairs.
I don’t even spare them a glance. “I know, but I really don’t feel good. Can someone take my place?”
He shakes his head. “You can take your break in thirty minutes.”
I turn back to Rhett to ask if he’ll wait, but he isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on Larry. “That’s okay. She quits,” he says.
I suck in a sharp breath. He’s going to get me fired. “Rhett, I need this job,” I hiss.
The spark returns to his eyes as he looks at me. “Not anymore, baby.” He tugs my apron over my head and tosses it at Larry, who looks satisfyingly dumbfounded, then leads me out the door.