Chapter 22
The kettle hissed on the gas burner, a thin curl of steam rising into the dimly lit kitchen.
Taylor leaned against the counter, wearing in a hoody she’d stolen from Charlotte’s closet, the soft worn cotton bunched at her wrists.
Underneath, she wore a faded t-shirt and flannel pajama pants.
The house smelled like cedar, old paper, and the sweet herbal tang of chamomile steeping in two stoneware mugs.
She loved Charlotte’s kitchen. She loved the way the wooden floorboards held the day’s heat long after the sun went down, and the way they’d been cooking so many meals here together lately.
She’d been here for a week now. The bar was closed through the New Year, her gig schedule was empty, and Taylor was trying so hard not to get used to this.
They hadn’t stepped foot in public together—not once. They couldn’t walk down Main Street holding hands, couldn’t grab a morning coffee at the place near campus, couldn’t tell a single soul why Taylor was rarely free on weekends anymore.
She was completely, hopelessly in love, and for once in her life, she didn’t feel the need to guard against it.
Christmas had been three days ago, and Taylor still couldn’t quite convince herself it had really happened.
Holidays were usually something she just had to get through.
Her mother had been gone four years now, and she’d never known her father, so most years she spent December twenty-fifth on her couch with a normal meal, or sitting on the edge of a friend’s crowded living room feeling like an extra piece of furniture.
Charlotte’s Christmases had always been precise, elegant affairs with Diane’s family, so this was a change for her too.
They hadn’t made a big deal out of it. They exchanged tiny, deliberate gifts—Taylor had given Charlotte a rare first edition of an essay collection she’d spent three weeks tracking down online, and Charlotte had given Taylor a brass slide for her acoustic guitar, hand-polished and engraved with Taylor’s initials on the inside rim.
Then they’d spent a few hours in this exact kitchen prepping for dinner and roasting a chicken.
The kettle gave a sharp, high whistle. Taylor turned off the flame, the sudden drop in noise letting the quiet roll back over the room.
She poured the boiling water over the tea bags, watching the clear liquid cloud into a soft golden amber.
She grabbed both mugs by their thick handles, letting the heat sink into her palms.
She walked out of the kitchen, her socks sliding softly over the hardwood floor into the living room.
Charlotte was already tucked into the corner of the sofa, wrapped in a dark green throw, her reading glasses pushed up into her loose blonde hair, her book left on the table beside her. The television screen cast a low blue glow across the room.
She set Charlotte’s mug down on the wooden coaster next to the lamp, then set her own beside it. Without asking, she unpinned the blanket from Charlotte’s shoulder and slipped into the warm space beside her, sliding her legs up onto the cushions so her back pressed flush against Charlotte’s chest.
Charlotte’s arms immediately wound around Taylor’s waist, her chin resting right in the notch of Taylor’s neck. Charlotte breathed in deep, her warm breath fanning across Taylor’s skin.
So this was what it felt like to be truly happy.