Chapter 14
"I can't make it work, Tiff," Taylor huffs, "maybe I should pick another song and stop wasting time on this," she says, letting the notebook drop onto the kitchen table.
Tiffany, who is washing the dinner dishes, dries her hands and comes over to her.
"What you need to do is go out for a walk and clear your head. You spend the mornings at rehearsals and the afternoons holed up here working on the song; if you don't unplug, your head's going to explode," her sister says.
Taylor sighs. Tiffany is right; she’s barely taken a breath since they started. She hasn’t even stopped by her parents’ bar these days, but she doesn’t want to let Abigail down. She told her she’d write a new song and she wants to do it, she wants to do it for her.
"Fine, I’ll go take a walk," she says, getting to her feet.
"Okay, but don’t get back too late," Tiffany murmurs, "you have rehearsal tomorrow."
Taylor laughs, gives her a squeeze, and heads out the door after grabbing the keys to her pickup.
She drives aimlessly with the windows down, trying to let the air blow away the frustration she’s been piling up for days, but she quickly realizes air isn’t what she needs.
She needs advice, and Abigail is never short on it.
Every tip she’s given her so far has worked, so she flips on her turn signal without caring about the time and changes direction.
She knows where her Airbnb is; she’s been there twice with David to discuss some things about the festival, though she’s usually just a spectator because she has no idea what they’re talking about, and she has no choice but to trust what they decide, even if she’s grateful that Abigail always includes her in every meeting.
She stops in front of the building and goes still for a moment.
Now she checks the time—it’s almost ten p.m.—but she decides to take the stairs anyway and knocks twice, sharp and quick.
The door doesn’t open, and Taylor presses her ear to the wood, trying to catch any sound inside, then jumps when Abigail suddenly unlocks it and appears on the other side.
"What are you doing here?" she asks with a frown. "Did something happen?"
"Yes, no... Fuck, I don’t know." Taylor runs a hand through her wavy hair, mussed by the wind.
Abigail arches a brow.
"Can I come in? I need your help with something."
Abigail steps aside to let her in, closing the door behind her.
That’s when Taylor really looks at her. Abigail is still wearing the same suit she had on this morning at rehearsals, only now she’s barefoot.
Her aquamarine shirt is untucked, with more buttons than usual undone, and her hair is swept into a low bun that’s lost its grip and is almost falling down.
Taylor can’t think. She’s never seen her like this, in what must be Abigail’s comfortable version. Messy, but somehow even sexier, and Taylor’s throat goes dry.
"What’s going on?" Abigail asks, oblivious to Taylor’s internal torment.
The singer looks away from the woman in front of her to try to focus, and then she sees the coffee table in front of the sofa, where Abigail has her laptop open, her planner on one side and her phone on the other, next to a half-empty glass of wine. Working, of course.
Taylor sighs and heads straight for the sofa without waiting to be invited, sitting at one end without intruding on the spot where Abigail had been sitting.
"The third song," Taylor explains. "I can’t finish it. I can’t stitch the pieces together and the melodies don’t fit. It’s like I suddenly don’t know how to write."
Abigail looks at her for a moment, then goes to the table, picks up her wine, takes a sip, and sits back down where she was.
When she leans over to set the glass down, her shirt gapes on one side and offers a clear view of her chest, and she doesn’t even notice.
Taylor does, and her mouth goes so dry she grabs what’s left of Abigail’s wine and drains it while the executive watches her with a lifted brow.
"Sorry, I was thirsty."
"I can see that. Want me to get you one?" Abigail asks.
"No, I’m good."
"You should forget about the third song for a few hours," Abigail says.
"What? How am I supposed to forget it? There’s barely a week left before the festival. If I don’t finish it now, we won’t have time to rehearse it," Taylor says, frustrated.
"You can’t force creativity every second. If you don’t unplug, you’ll stay blocked. Give yourself a break," Abigail insists.
"Says the woman who works all day," Taylor shoots back, eyeing her laptop with that crooked smile that always rattles Abigail.
"My job doesn’t require inspiration, just discipline," she replies in a tone as soft as it is cutting.
"Seriously?" Taylor rolls her eyes. "And you never get tired?"
Abigail looks at her as if she doesn’t understand her.
"My mother always says rest is synonymous with mediocrity," Abigail replies, "that every moment not devoted to getting better was a wasted moment."
Taylor stares at her, openmouthed, feeling something tighten inside her as she listens. Abigail is completely rigid and doesn’t even seem aware of what she’s said.
"And what do you think about that?" Taylor asks.
"What?"
"Do you think the same as your mother? Do you believe if you rest a little you’re mediocre?"
Abigail shrugs.
"What I think doesn’t matter. I don’t know how to do it any other way. When I try to relax, I get nervous; I don’t know what to do if I don’t have a to-do list. Now let’s focus on your thing," she orders, closing the subject.
Taylor is stunned and stares at her, fighting the urge to step closer and hug her.
She doesn’t know what just happened. For an instant it felt like a moment of vulnerability from Abigail, but the executive remains as cold as ever, as if what she just said was only a casual comment, something unimportant that doesn’t affect her, something not to be discussed further.
"Lie down," Abigail says suddenly.
"What?"
"On the couch." Abigail points to the space behind her. "Lie down and close your eyes for a bit. Unplug—stop thinking about the song and think about things that distract you, or watch TikTok videos, or whatever it is people your age do. Inspiration will show up when you stop chasing it."
"People my age?" Taylor asks, smiling.
Until that moment, she hadn’t even thought about it, about the difference between Abigail and her, because she simply doesn’t care. But it’s possible Abigail does.
"You do those things, right?" Abigail asks, not taking her eyes off her laptop.
"I do other things too," Taylor replies, "just like you."
"I’m sure you do. Lie down," she insists.
"That’s your big advice?"
Abigail turns to stare at her.
"It’s the only one I’ve got. If you’re not interested, you can leave and let me work," she answers with a calm that chills the blood.
Taylor lifts her hands and shakes her head with a smile. She’ll do anything to spend more time with her.
"Fine, I’ll lie down," she agrees, letting herself sink back behind Abigail.
The singer closes her eyes and tries to clear her head, but it’s impossible being this close to Abigail, feeling her own waist brush the woman’s lower back. She opens her eyes and sees her there, fixed on the laptop, elbows on her knees while she checks something on her phone.
"It’s amazing you tell me to unplug when you won’t even try," Taylor blurts out.
"What?" Abigail asks without lifting her gaze from the screen.
Taylor doesn’t answer and moves without thinking, pushing down the screen of Abigail’s laptop before taking the phone from her hand.
"What the hell are you doing?" Abigail asks, eyes wide.
"Helping you," Taylor says with a mischievous smile.
Abigail is disoriented for a moment, like she doesn’t know what to do without her tools, until fury rushes in.
"Give me the phone, Taylor," she demands, her voice so low anyone would hear the danger in it, but Taylor isn’t afraid.
"No."
"Give me the fucking phone," Abigail insists.
"Come take it from me," Taylor goads her with that crooked smile.
Abigail’s gray-green eyes narrow and she leans over her, trying to take the phone.
Taylor leans back as far as she can, laughing while keeping the device behind her body.
Abigail comes closer, practically lying on her in the middle of a scuffle that feels ridiculous.
Taylor won’t stop laughing, a loud, visceral laugh Abigail hasn’t heard before, and it makes her lose strength.
Then Taylor turns her head and kisses Abigail’s ear, and Abigail goes completely still.
The brush of Taylor’s full lips is a jolt that races down her spine and steals her breath for an instant, but then she reacts and keeps trying to pry the phone free, because she needs to regain control so she doesn’t get even more nervous.
"Taylor, seriously, give me the fucking phone," she demands, shaken, though her voice comes out rough.
Taylor can see the bewilderment in that cool gaze, the nerves sparked by such a silly act, and just as she decides to hand it back, the phone starts to ring and she sees the name on the screen: Erin.
The same woman again. They both go still, staring at the device between them.
Taylor holds back the urge to ask who she is—if she’s a fucking lover, her wife, a girlfriend.
The thought staggers her because she’s jealous of a name, and when she looks at Abigail, she sees her expression has changed.
Where there was confusion, now there’s anger, or maybe rage or frustration; Taylor can’t tell.
Abigail yanks the phone from her hand, sits in front of the laptop, and in the middle of the inner storm that’s broken loose and won’t stop, she answers without thinking.
"Fuck, Erin, what do you want?" she snaps, not realizing that, in her nerves, she’s also hit speaker.
"Wow, so affectionate," the woman’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. "I’m just trying to talk to my sister; it’s not asking for much."