Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
TAYLOR
O n a Tuesday near the middle of April, Taylor’s at the tiny desk in his bedroom, working on a job application, when there’s a knock on his door. One of his roommates—Thad, an older man with thick eyebrows yet a plucked slender mustache—pokes his head inside. “Package for ya,” he says, tossing a padded envelope into Taylor’s waiting hands.
Ethan’s address is postmarked on the front.
Immediately, he tears it open.
Inside is the copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales he bought from the indie bookstore in Calico. He turns the envelope upside down. Not even a card.
Confused and upset, he flings the book onto his dresser and goes to make himself lunch.
* * *
After his third archery class, a text is waiting for Taylor with an unexpected invitation from Amy.
Hi, Taylor. I apologize for bothering you so late. Would you be available to meet me at Coffee-cita tomorrow around eleven? I’d love to speak with you. Thanks in advance.
At ten-fifty, dressed in the slacks and polo Amy preferred him in when he was her assistant, Taylor enters the establishment. He’s welcomed by the scent of a bold roast and freshly baked scones. The walls are painted white brick with murals by community members laid over top. A metallic sign above the counter says DRINK. EAT. BE. The letters are made up of marquee lights.
A skyscraper of a man, not much older than Taylor, with dark skin and twist high top hair juts his chin out in greeting toward Taylor as he tries to get out the door. Taylor might be mistaken, but he thinks he’s seen that man before at some reception or other he accompanied Amy to.
Taylor wanted to be early so he could choose his drink and table before Amy showed up, not needing to play the awkward dance of who pays for what and floating around to find a place to sit. Turns out, his ten-minute buffer didn’t allot him enough time. Amy is already there, stuffed into the two-top in the corner, computer and tablet fired up. A medium whole milk latte in a large black mug sits on a saucer in front of her, growing colder the longer it remains untouched.
Taylor takes a breath before approaching. There’s a chance she’s going to reprimand him again. There’s a chance he’ll need to stick up for himself—do a better job of it this time. But when she glances up and catches sight of him through the rims of her scarlet-colored reading glasses, she flashes a smile with apology sketched across it.
As he sits opposite her, he gets a good look at the résumé open on the tablet he returned to her outside the Snow White cottage. Rodney Carmichael is the name typed across the top. He matches the name with the face of the man who just left. Rodney was working then as a second assistant to an even bigger name in hospitality than Amy.
A pang of fear should be dancing through Taylor’s stomach right now, yet it never steps out from behind the curtain.
Amy thanks Taylor for meeting her there and asks what she can get him. “Oh, don’t bother. I’ll go get in line.”
“Nonsense. You’re here on invitation. Is it still the same matcha latte with oat?” she asks.
He’s surprised she paid any attention to his drink order. “Yeah, thanks.”
She’s back ten minutes later with the latte and a plate with two almond croissants on it. “They were the last two. They looked too good to leave there in the case.”
He takes the closer one, breaking off a tiny bit of the edge and stuffing it in his mouth, waiting to find out why exactly he’s here when she’s clearly been holding interviews for his replacement. But he swallows and, unable to stand the silence between them any longer, says, “I’m sorry for not telling you about what was going on with Ethan sooner. It went against my better nature. I’m not sorry it happened, but I am sorry it hurt you.”
Amy purses her ruby red lips together and taps the tips of her fingers. “I’m sorry, too. I said some things I wish I hadn’t and made a rash decision. I wish I hadn’t done that, either. I was imaginably unprepared to run my daughter’s birthday party, which… I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m sure it’s not anything I’d put in a bio.”
Taylor opens his mouth to defend her, but she shakes her head resolvedly. “You’re no longer on my payroll. No need to give out undeserved compliments.”
Taylor doesn’t know what stings more, the fact that she had to remind him of his unemployment or that she thought he’d been such a yes-man all these years. “I can promise I never did that,” he says.
She smiles kindly. “I think I meant under deserved. You were a superstar at your job. If there was something higher than above-and-beyond, that’s how far you went to make sure my life—and most definitely Samara’s life—was easier. So easy, in fact, that I don’t think I ever stopped to consider just how much you were doing on any given day, proven now by how impossible it is to replace you.”
Taylor hikes his thumb back toward the door. “Rodney seemed lovely when we met him last year at that expo. I’m sure he’d be a great choice.”
Recognition dawns faintly over Amy’s face. “I knew he looked familiar. I’m surprised he didn’t say anything during the interview.”
Taylor’s not. Sure, he wasn’t carrying around a binder full of acquaintances like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada (one of Samara’s comfort movies they would watch together), but he did at times feel like an external hard drive where Amy kept her digital date book. Faces and names came easily to him. Regardless, he shrugs at her.
“Nevertheless, I think I’ve found fault in everyone I’ve interviewed across the last several days because none of them are you. Over the last three years, as Samara pointed out very astutely and not at all sassily—” she rolls her eyes “—you have become like family. I believe that’s why I reacted so poorly when I saw Ethan coming out of the cottage. It felt like the call was coming from inside the house, so to speak. I was terrified I’d lost you as not only my assistant, but as a nephew of sorts. I realize now that I didn’t pay you nearly enough to play all the roles I demanded of you.”
Taylor quirks a brow, slides his hands away from his mug. “I played them happily.”
“I know, but when you started this position, I promised you advancement,” she says, eyes flicking away from their table. Possibly out of guilt.
“It’s okay. People forget. Things fall through the cracks.” He’s attempting to make sure she knows he still sees the best in her because she did take a chance on him. She was good to him.
She lets out a lengthy sigh that nearly harmonizes with the hiss of the nearby coffee machine and the flush of the toilet behind them. A whistling, unsettling symphony. “The truth is, Taylor, I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to have to do this.” She gestures down toward the tablet. “That was selfish of me. Your skills are honed and perfect for hospitality. Judging by Samara’s party alone, not even to touch on your three years of solid work, you have leadership and vision. I think you could have your own chain or an award-winning B and B someday. All of this is to say that I won’t be offering you your job back.”
There’s a mixture of relief and disappointment churning low in Taylor’s gut alongside that croissant he decimated. Unemployed isn’t his favorite job title, yet still, he can’t see himself returning to his old post and his old ways. His time with Ethan cemented the fact that he’d outgrown both. “Okay, I understand.”
“I’d like you to consider applying for activities coordinator for the Lake Tahoe location,” she says. “You wouldn’t be reporting to me directly. There is a hiring committee currently interviewing internally, and I want to put your name into the mix.”
“Wow, thank you.”
“You’re destined for greater even, but it’s a good place to start I think,” she says with an air that suggests the job is as good as his if he wants it. However, he’s thrilled he’ll have to go through the whole process to earn it.
Now that she’s not his boss and won’t be directly in the future, he’s compelled to ask, “Is everything okay with Ethan?” That name on his tongue again tastes as delicious and earthy as his matcha latte.
“It is,” she says after sipping her drink. “He and I have talked, but I know that’s not what you’re getting at. I’d say he’s taking some time for himself to work out what he wants and needs from life right now.”
“That makes sense.”
Amy’s gaze lasers past him toward the door before flashing down to her watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I do have an eleven-thirty. I think I see her waiting by the sugar bar over there.”
Taylor can’t help himself. He looks back to catch a slightly younger tan-skinned woman with dark hair and light eye makeup, wearing a dressy casual blouse and black pants. She carries an attaché. Even from across the room, he can tell by her energy that she really wants this job.
Taylor stands and offers up his hand to shake, but Amy, ignoring the gesture, pulls him in for a hug. It’s not a heart-melting hug, the kind you could settle into for minutes and never want to leave. There’s still a sheet of professionalism plastered between them, but it’s sweet all the same. “Thanks.”
“And I know it might not mean much or anything at all even,” Amy says, still holding on, “but you have my blessing with whatever you may choose next. Both professionally and otherwise.”
Taylor levels up their hug, leaning into it. He squeezes his eyes shut, thankful.
* * *
With Amy’s quasi approval buzzing in his ear, Taylor can’t sleep.
Even before his coffee meeting with Amy, he’s been itching to reach out to Ethan, rescind his statement about not having room enough in his life. He’s certain Ethan would be excited by his new pursuit of archery. But there’s the matter of the book, returned with no fanfare, no note.
If Ethan’s made peace with them going their separate ways, then maybe he has to, as well.
Though, didn’t Amy say she’d talked to Ethan?
No matter how many sheep he counts, he tosses and turns, until the restlessness is overwhelming. He sits up and turns on the light. The book on his dresser catches his eye. In childhood, he’d read aloud from a similar volume to his siblings to get them to doze off. Maybe he can trick himself into the same.
The trouble is, when he opens the book, the inscription on the cover page shocks him fully awake.
Every time I open this book, I hear your voice reading the stories as if we’re in the same room. I hope we will be again someday.
All my care,
Ethan
Before he can second guess himself, he pops in his earbuds, opens his voice memos app, and turns to the first story in the collection. Using the character voices and a calm whisper, he reads the story aloud, pausing for effect in many places. His heart settles into a much slower rhythm.
When he’s finished, he adds the story title to the file name, plops the audio note into his mired text thread with Ethan and sends it off.