Eleven
ELEVEN
TAYLOR
S amara’s dusty, pink bookshelf is stuffed full of glittering, golden spines. Every title is a thin, cardboard movie tie-in that has Disney dust sprinkled all over it.
Taylor rolls off his knees and plops onto his butt, defeated. He was hoping if he moved some of these out of the way he might find a fairy tale picture book with a little more grounding, a little less polish. No luck.
He lies supine on the plush, tan carpet. Stares up at the ceiling, which has its own mural. He hadn’t noticed this on his first night while snooping, but the second night he spent there, he accidentally fell asleep with the lights on. When he woke up, somewhere around 2:00 a.m., he was faced with this detailed starry sky overhead.
It’s just as mesmerizing now in the afternoon daylight that yawns through the gauzy pink curtains in streaky waves. Squinting one eye and lifting his arm, he uses his finger to play connect the dots. He’s attempting to summon some of his childish wonder to help him recall which stories lit him up most as a kid.
The obvious answer trots into his head as he’s repeatedly outlining what he believes to be Cassiopeia.
Well, he needs to go into Calico anyway.
First stop, a mom-and-pop craft store in a standalone redbrick building with a hand-painted sign swaying over its door called DIWhy Not? It’s a cute name, and the store itself is even cuter. The place smells of potpourri. At the checkout counter, a white woman with a dark pixie cut wearing big glasses and a shockingly green smock works on a fake flower arrangement in a painted mason jar. “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
“Could you point me in the direction of beads?” Taylor asks.
He doesn’t have to go far before he’s in front of an entire wall of beads. They stock every size and color of the rainbow. Overwhelmed with choice, he makes his best guesses. Nothing too frilly or girly. Samara hates that. She prefers the deep purples of Olivia Rodrigo’s album covers and the electric greens of Billie Eilish’s early career hair. She’s got an edge to her, and she and Taylor have bonded over that angsty--lite music.
Out of the corner of his eye, Taylor spots a set of beads for the different astrological star signs. The most prominent one in the bag is for Sagittarius, the archer. His body responds in kind. He’s reminded of the competence porn that is Ethan Golding instructing him how to shoot an arrow. After one lesson, Taylor understood completely why someone would practice this sport long-term. It’s like standing by the bass speaker at a high-octane concert; that full-body reverberation could become addictive.
He tugs the set of beads down off its hook, adds it to his basket and brings his treasures to the register where Pixie Cut has completed a beautiful arrangement worthy of Instagram. “That’s stunning. Do you sell those?” Taylor asks as she scans the stretch cord, then the washi tape.
“Not really,” she says with a shrug. “I took a class on floral arrangements and started making them for my sister’s baby shower a few years back. Now I mostly do it for fun. When we’re not busy, it’s a good distraction and always brightens up my day.”
“My boss’s daughter’s sweet sixteen is next weekend and we never landed on table centerpieces. If I sent you the color scheme, would you be able to make six or seven of these as decorations? I would pay you, of course.”
Pixie Cut whose name tag reads Lola fiddles with her arrangement. “Wow, um, yeah, sure, why not? Sounds fun.”
Taylor swipes Amy’s business credit card for the cost of both the bracelet supplies and the new arrangements he’ll pick up in a few days.
Instead of going right back to the car, he retraces his steps from the other day until he stands in front of Word Play, the town’s independent bookstore. The window displays are awash with primary colors and oversize blocks. When he enters, he realizes it’s a children-centric store fully stocked with a wide array of genres. Perfection.
Inside, he easily finds an illustrated edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales that includes the exact story he wants to read for tonight’s Sugar Cookies and Story Time.
* * *
Knights and Knaves, the recreation room in the back of The Castle, has a story time nook in the far corner. A round, dark purple rug leaves ample space for little ones to sit and snack on the sugary confections made by the local bakers. Crumbs dribble down their chinny-chin-chins. Taylor recognizes a few faces in the group from the archery lesson earlier today. Parents hover on the periphery to listen, holding steaming cups of tea or decaf coffee, which give the air notes of berry and a hint of richness.
Ethan stands by the foosball table and gives Taylor a thumbs-up when they’re ready to begin.
“Hey, kids. Welcome to Sugar Cookies and Story Time. My name is Taylor,” he says, relishing all the attention on him for a change. He’s so used to standing beside or behind someone else and blending in. It’s nice to have center stage to himself for a moment.
“I remember you!” Gus from the archery lesson shouts from the back. He’s double-fisting sugar cookies.
“I remember you, too,” Taylor says, taking a page from Ethan’s book from earlier. “Our friend Gus back there reminds me to tell you that stories are shared experiences. It’s okay to laugh or to cover your eyes or shout out with our inside voices. Feel free to react in any way that feels natural to you. Deal?”
“Deal,” the listeners chime in unison.
Taylor cracks open the book, a nervousness weaseling through his stomach. How long has it been since he’s done this? He rolls out his shoulders and clears the discomfort from his throat.
As he starts reading Snow White , the shadowy, erudite illustrations paired with the simplistic, eerie language remind him how truly grim the Grimm brothers were with their tales. Bloody red speckles the charcoal landscapes, giving credence to a new swelling unease.
The light mood presiding over the room progressively grows heavy and cloudy, and the children grow quieter and quieter.
When Taylor turns the page to reveal a new picture, a child in the front row’s face sours—from the story or from finishing his cookie? Taylor’s stomach is thrust into a state of free fall as he recalls his younger brother Finn hiding under a blanket during one of their thunderstorm sleepovers. During this specific story.
Too late to veer off course now, though. Maybe these kids are particularly mature? Hope is a fleeting feeling as the thought of disappointing Ethan enters the mix.
When he reaches the end of the story, he reads the line about how the Evil Queen wears the enchanted shoes, and they make her dance until she… dies ? He gulps loudly. That can’t be right.
A choir of wails rings out almost instantly. A frenzy of sticky hands stretch skyward. Kids beg to be held and consoled over the frightening story Taylor chose to share. He slams the book shut, keeps his eyes downcast. If he could disappear into this corner, he would.
So much for wanting the spotlight. Now he’s practically burning under the illumination.
Ethan claps his hands to gather everyone’s attention, says things Taylor only half hears over the buh-bum-buh-bum driving away in his eardrums. The din of the room calms, but only slightly. Taylor doesn’t need to glance up to feel the heat of detesting glares slashed in his direction. He’s properly whipped by his misjudgment.
Once the room is cleared and cleaned, to Ethan, Taylor offers a mousy, “I’m sorry.”
Ethan remains silent.
Taylor supposes he deserves that.
On the walk back to Ethan’s place, Taylor mentally flogs himself for not having read the story again in advance. If he had, he would’ve remembered and picked out one of those Little Golden Books instead. Offered up the fairy tales this generation is used to. Ones with “I Want” songs and lessons learned and smiles all around.
Taylor’s father’s voice rings with surprising clarity through his brain: “These ones are more authentic. These ones will prepare you kids for the real world.”
From his pocket, Taylor retrieves his phone. In town today, he saw that small boutique inn. Hopefully, they have a vacancy until Amy and Samara arrive and the roof on the Snow White ( Jesus, he can’t escape it! ) cottage is fixed. He obviously can’t stay at Ethan’s after the chaos he caused.
Sheepishly, he follows Ethan into the house, hangs up his coat and takes off his shoes. He shuffles straight for the hallway to begin packing before he’s stopped by laughter that starts small but grows gradually louder. At its crescendo, Ethan is practically guffawing. His booming laughter infects his entire body, doubling him over. The resonant sound bounces off the walls and zips back to Taylor.
“What’s so funny?” Taylor asks. Had he missed something?
Ethan collects himself enough to say, “That. Back there. That was funny.”
Taylor’s computation skills have gone offline. How did that horrendous situation turn this brick house of a man into a bouncy castle? His shoulders and belly and legs go up and down, up and down with the erratic cadence of his laugh. “I’m… Huh? Aren’t you mad at me?”
“Mad? Why would I be mad? I told you that you had free rein to pick whatever story you chose.” His laughter fades marginally.
Taylor loosens the fists he has buried in his pockets. “But what about the kids?”
“What about them? Nobody was hurt.”
“Physically not, but mentally? I’m not so sure. Scarred, at least!” Taylor’s jaw tightens. His brain is saying, Shut up already! Don’t test his forgiveness .
Ethan splays a palm on one of the living room walls while the other plants itself on his hip. He must need the support otherwise another laughing fit might knock him entirely off his feet. “Look, was it ideal? Not in the slightest. Was it refreshing? Absolutely.” His misty blue eyes produce a faint outline of tears that sparkles in the lamplight.
For a second, Taylor is so taken by the beauty of those eyes—so pale near the pupils that they’re almost gray—that he forgets what they were even discussing. “I can’t tell if I should apologize again or not.”
“Taylor, kids are far more resilient than you think. Most of them have probably already forgotten about it,” Ethan says in a surefire vote of reassurance.
“I’m sure the parents haven’t.” Messing up always makes Taylor feel sick. Nobody was ever around to help him fix things if he did, so he learned early on to double- and triple-check himself, to prioritize perfection. Maybe that’s why Amy likes him so much. Maybe that’s why he’s so afraid to put his wants and needs first for a change.
“Fuck the parents!” Ethan yells through a laugh, then snaps up to attention. Posture becoming statuesque. “Excuse my language.” A blush paints itself above his beard line.
“No excusing necessary.” Taylor’s heart flings itself against his rib cage.
Hearing a curse word in Ethan’s low register—nearly a rumble—is a next-level auditory experience. Not to mention one lock of Ethan’s dirty blond hair has fallen from its perch. It swoops down across his forehead in an exasperatingly attractive way. Taylor’s hands emerge from the caves of his pockets as if ready to reach out and brush it back into place.
“Those Grimm’s stories are fucked up,” Ethan says before his riotous laughter returns. The sound makes Taylor feel like a pulsating jellyfish—all blobby and floaty.
Taylor bites his lip before saying softly, “I think they’re darkly beautiful if you listen close enough.”
Sure, he probably shouldn’t have read that version of Snow White to six- and seven-year-olds, but he’s glad he bought the book. There are so many tales in there that he wants to revisit now. Maybe he’ll do so tonight before bed. He’ll need something to distract him from thinking about what Ethan is doing just on the other side of the thin wall.
“Would you read me some?” Ethan asks, stroking at his throat to the left of his Adam’s apple. Born of his laughter comes a sudden boldness, peppered thick in the air.
Taylor’s stomach flutters at the unexpected request. “Only if we can trade off,” he says after a beat.
“Aw, I’m no good at the voices.” The laugh that follows is strangled. Not at all like the ones earlier. Apprehension appears in his eyes.
“Fair is fair,” says Taylor, unwilling to take no for an answer. Pushing the boundaries of what might be.
Probably sensing that Taylor’s resolution is strong, Ethan doesn’t argue.
They go to their respective rooms and then reconvene in the moonlight-swathed living room twenty minutes later. Taylor has changed into his thin sleep shorts and T-shirt, left behind his socks and perhaps his inhibitions, too. On the coffee table, Ethan set out two wineglasses and another bottle of the same red wine from that first night beside the fire pit.
“Is this your favorite?” Taylor asks while Ethan plates more mint Milanos for them. Once Taylor goes back to California, he won’t be able to see these cookies in the grocery store without thinking of Ethan. He’ll forever associate the taste of bitter dark chocolate and a shock of spearmint with this ruggedly handsome man.
“You could say that. I only drink socially and rarely wine, but this was gifted to me several years ago by a man I was dating at the time and I loved it, so I went out and bought a whole case of it to entertain with. It’s been languishing in the garage ever since,” he says.
Taylor’s attentive listening snags on the word man . From Amy, he’d gleaned that Ethan was bisexual.
“How long have you been out?” The shiny foil on top of the wine bottle is a struggle to skin, so Taylor sits picking, happy for the excuse to be looking down and not at Ethan.
“Ouh who womb ehaly?” There’s already a Milano—like a plump, unlit cigar—nestled between Ethan’s perfect teeth as he sets the plate down on the coffee table.
“Oh, just in general,” Taylor says, easily decoding Ethan’s speech.
The couch is an old maroon, blue and tan corduroy that’s seen better days, yet despite its gaunt appearance, it’s comfy. So comfy, in fact, that the cushions have distinct imbalances from the places where people have sat watching movies or reading books or drinking tea over the years. Because of this, it dips noticeably toward the middle, so when Ethan sits six inches away, it’s as if the cushions conspire to throw the two of them closer together. Their shoulders knock as Taylor pours the wine. Neither of them acknowledges it. If Taylor did, he’d have to confront the freshly lit sparkler that’s taken the place of his arm.
“I came out to Amy before we got engaged. To my family after the divorce. The people that needed to know knew when they needed to know,” he says. “With Amy, I wanted to be as honest as possible before we made any big life commitment. She knew me better than anyone, and once I figured out that piece of myself, it only felt right to share it. With my brothers and parents, we all live relatively close by. I didn’t want me out and about with a man at some point to pass around like some whispered scandal. I got ahead of it as best I knew how. How about you?”
“Practically my whole life,” Taylor says. “You can’t really keep secrets with a family as big as mine in a house as small as the one we grew up in. Everyone was chill about it.”
“That must’ve been nice, not having to hide,” he says.
“In a way. I was so consumed by school, work and my siblings that I never really had time to explore what it meant. I knew I liked guys, but I had no time to date them.”
Ethan nods contemplatively as silence wraps the room.
“Where should we begin?” Taylor asks, unable to bear the stillness any longer. He drapes the fuzzy cream-colored blanket from the back of the couch over his lap. Angling his body, he sets his back against the armrest, figuring that if the closest body part to Ethan is his feet, he’s in the clear of any further accidental brushes that might break down his walls.
“Which one is your favorite?” Ethan asks. “That seems like a good place to start.”
Taylor runs a finger down the table of contents, trying hard not to imagine what it might be like to trace this very finger along the furry bit of chest peeking out over the loose collar of Ethan’s T-shirt. He settles on The Frog-King and begins to read aloud, though attraction cakes the inside of his throat.
The crunch of cookies mingles with the too-appropriate ribbits of outdoor frogs and the clinking of glasses set on coasters. Back and forth the book is passed, over and over. For an hour, maybe more. The couch becomes sinkier and lovelier beneath them.
“I like these,” Ethan says. “At least, unlike the Disney ones, they don’t all end in a massive marriage, as if that’s the only way to be happy.”
Taylor drains the last of his wine and asks a question he probably shouldn’t ask. “Would you ever marry again?” He passes the book to Ethan for him to pick the next story.
“Naw.”
It’s a weird answer. Nearly noncommittal. Taylor feigns a glance in his direction. His face is a mask of mismatched emotions. Eyes bright. Mouth tipped down. Eyebrows going off in their own directions. “Why’s that?” He has to wrestle the question out around a mysterious rock that’s lodged in his throat.
“I’m just not sure it’s the magic formula the stories suggest it is. Rings and paperwork don’t necessitate promises kept and steadfast happiness,” he says forlornly. Taylor’s heart goes out to him. He’s been broken up with, but divorce seems like a much messier affair.
Taylor’s at a loss for what to say to that, so he allows Ethan to read on.
Ethan tests out a falsetto to play Rapunzel. There’s not a note of self-consciousness in his portrayal. He wonders why Amy ever referred to Ethan as too dreamy or too romantic. Taylor doesn’t know how too much of either of those qualities could ever be bad.
Two glasses of wine deep, Taylor swears he’s only resting his weary eyes as Ethan goes on with the tale. He won’t go to sleep yet. He’s listening, envisioning. The illustrations from the book come alive on the insides of his eyelids until the projector of his mind blinks off and everything is black and quiet and peaceful.
Color doesn’t come back until he’s jostled. A newfound weightlessness overtakes his body.
Is this a dream where he’s soaring above the clouds?
No. He goes from limp to rigid. His body is alert, but his mind is…somewhere else. Another dimension, maybe.
When his eyes finally adjust, he’s met with a tired-looking Ethan glancing down at him from above. Oh, he’s being carried? That makes no sense. This is definitely a dream.
“Where are we going?” Taylor asks in a scraping whisper. His throat and mouth are dry from the wine. His head is a Weeble Wobble.
“Oh.” Ethan’s cheeks redden. So do the tips of his ears. “I was just going to get you to bed. That couch—it’s unforgiving. Trust me. I wouldn’t wish that kind of sleep on my worst enemy. Sorry. I can put you down.”
Taylor, relishing the cozy nearness and downright chivalry, shakes his head. “No, we’re almost there.” He nuzzles his head farther into Ethan’s broad, sexy chest. His pecs have a pleasing squish to them, and his big arms are like a gently swinging hammock that Taylor never wants to roll out of.
By dream logic, Ethan should be taking Taylor straight to the master bedroom and having his way with him, but they end up in the guest room. Jeez. Even Taylor’s subconscious is trying to do the right thing here. Boring.
Ethan sets dream-Taylor down in the guest bed and pulls the covers up around him so that they’re snug against his body. This kind of attentive care was unheard of in the Frost household. New kids came quickly, so if one was old enough to walk, one was old enough to put themselves to bed. There was no babying, no coddling. There was care, yes, but it was doled out in increments, in waves. Who needed it most and at which minute?
All muscle tension leaks out of Taylor and gets absorbed by the mattress. The air thuds with tenderness and warmth and fervid attraction. Taylor, sensing this dream scenario about to come to an end, slides up onto one elbow and brushes that one unruly, curled strand of blond, silken hair out of Ethan’s face. “Good night,” he says.
Then, because it’s a dream and in dreams the rules of society don’t matter, he pitches forward and kisses Ethan on the mouth. The scratch of his beard is a welcome sensation, and his lips are as soft as velvet.
The last thing Taylor sees are Ethan’s widened, blue-gray eyes before the scene in his mind vignettes at the edges, culminating in a curtain of black.