Taylor
TAYLOR
A yla isn’t at her desk when I stride through our office doors.
I check my watch, then check it again to be sure. Half past eight.
At eight sharp she’s usually sitting in her chair. Idly swiveling it around and around as she checks her emails.
Emails. Calendar. News. Deadline.
She visits the same websites in the same order every morning. Watching her flick back and forth between her browser windows used to drive me mad. I’d stare at her out of the corner of my eye until I thought she was about to notice, and then I’d have to contrive something to pick apart. Her mismatched socks or a typo in her last email. I’d say whatever I could to make her nose wrinkle in the middle.
But she’s not here.
And she isn’t in the kitchen when I pretend to search for a sparkling water.
Not in the backyard, or finding parking on the street. I make a new excuse every time I stand up to check another room. But I can’t find her.
Ayla is nothing but predictable. And I have come to rely on her never-changing schedule. She is the constant in each of my days. Her habits and groans and especially her smiles are what I arrange my entire agenda around.
She isn’t here. And I can hear the Havens coming down their rickety, ridiculous staircase. I want to throw up my hands when they enter the room, taking their places in the middle of the office like they’re stepping on cues. Ayla isn’t here, I want to scream. She isn’t here, and that means something is wrong. But I bite my tongue and dip my chin to acknowledge their arrival. Because it’s already awful that Ayla isn’t here; I’m not sure I could stomach watching the Havens pretend to care.
“Good morning.” My voice is cold. Aloof, even. That’s the mask my employers want me to wear. In their presence, it isn’t difficult to erect.
“Good morning,” Adoria clips. Something in her tone is crisper than usual. I narrow my eyes as she glances at Ayla’s empty seat. She doesn’t acknowledge her assistant’s absence before she turns back to me.
“We have decided who will be accompanying us to Italy,” Adoria intones, exchanging a look with Victor. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear—”
“Shouldn’t you wait for Ayla to get here before you announce it?” Despite myself, I’m sure my confusion is apparent on my face. But this isn’t right—the winner of their little competition isn’t even here to collect her spoils.
“Yes. Well.” Adoria’s lips pucker. “Miss Montes would be here if she wanted to be. It’s no matter anyway—, you’ve earned the trip.”
I’m shaking my head. “Just because she’s late doesn’t mean her spot should be replaced. I’m sure she’ll be here soon, let me just call her—”
“It would be you regardless,” Victor butts in. “Your screenplay was inspired. Our decision was unanimous—it’s you, .”
Inspired? Sure, inspired by Ayla . She helped me find the words, she gave me the courage to put them on paper. “She’s the one who deserves this,” I hear myself whisper.
Before Adoria can interject, I hold up a hand. Her eyes widen, but I don’t particularly care. “Ayla is the better writer, and if you had bothered to read her work, you would know it.”
“What work?” Adoria shakes her head and the smile she flashes me is razor-sharp. “She didn’t submit any work. But our decision wouldn’t change if she had. Ayla is an exceptional writer—I need no convincing of that. But you’re the better screen writer. There is a difference. And you’re the one our workshop will benefit the most. It really was a simple decision, .”
I grit my teeth, trying not to lose my balance. It feels like the ground is swaying beneath my feet—upsetting everything I know to be real and true and right.
“We had a deal. She won fair and square. It should be her—” I’m vaguely aware my thoughts have made it off my tongue, that I’m spilling my guts to the last two people I can trust. But I can’t help it. It’s all true. “She deserves to go.”
Adoria wets her lips and something passes across her face. The hint of an emotion I wasn’t aware she possessed. For nearly a full year, I have watched this woman and her husband don the worst kind of frivolous, empty affectations. But right now, she almost looks human.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she says, and her voice possesses an unsteady quality. “Ayla quit.”
I’m out the door before they can object. I would leave even if they did, even if it meant I couldn’t come back. Nothing else matters more than finding my girl.
Ayla might not need me.
But right now, I need her.