Taylor's POV

People just love asking me to do things, and my people-pleasing ass just hates saying no.

After class, Ana shot me a text asking if I could go grocery shopping after I'm done at uni. I said fine, because yeah we need food and she did fix my car for free – so I guess this makes us even. Still, I'm exhausted, my hands ache from playing the piano on and off for three hours, and I haven't slept in my own bed for nearly two days now. I just wanna go straight home and sleep.

As I'm lugging armfuls of bags from my car, I nearly trip over a parcel left by our front door. As Ana opens and comes out to help me, she eyes the box and lifts an eyebrow.

"Who's that from?" she asks as I pass her some bags. I lift it to show her. "Why is Lyra sending you parcels in the mail now?"

I shrug. "I'll text her when the food's all put away.

We go inside. Mum's in the living room, watching TV. I say hi to her, and she merely grunts, eyes not leaving the screen. It's an episode of Home and Away, a brainrot of a show, but she seems to like it. Plus, it's nice not having her locked away in her room for once.

I get into the kitchen and drop the food on the counter with a relieved sigh. Ana starts putting stuff away, but gestures toward the parcel as she reaches the fridge.

"I can't wait for you to text Lyra. Just open it. Not like it's a bomb or something."

Chuckling, I do as told, and tear the packaging open. I face palm, and Ana busts out laughing. Among flyers outlining her campaign, a giant novelty badge sits in clear plastic wrap.

"No freaking way Lyra did this..." I mutter to myself. Ana pulls the badge out with a flourish, holding it up to my chest with a shit-eating grin. Before I can stop her, she takes a picture with her phone.

"Ana, delete that now!"

"No freakin' way, this is going on your Facebook timeline on your birthday. God, you look so funny."

I shake my head. It's a badge with a blown up photo of my face, with Lyra's campaigning slogan beneath it. My mouth looks like it's been photoshopped in a huge grin, and I have a random disembodied thumbs up hand next to my head. I waste no time pulling out my phone, and Bella and Darko are already messaging the group chat.

Bella: Lyra, I'm not putting this on at your party.

Darko: Yeh, wtf? This pic looks more like Stefan than me. I dont even think I can smile that big.

Lyra: Oh, come on! Be good sports! We'll be a team with all our badges on!

I start typing. Is it too late to change my vote?

Lyra angry reacts my message, and before I can wait for her reply, Ana reminds me that these groceries aren't going to put themselves away. I slip my phone back in my pocket, and keep helping her.

"Meme-worthy badge aside, I think it's nice how committed Lyra is. And I think it's even nicer how much you, Darko, and Bella are helping her with this."

"What friends are for, Ana. After all the trouble she's had with her mother about this, she really needs people in her corner."

Ana hums in agreement. "Just so you know, I'm going to be your plus one to the party."

I snort. "Oh, are you now?"

Ana nods. "Lola and I wanna get drunk. If you do this, I promise I'll vote for Lyra."

Laughing, I shake my head. "You don't even go to the university!"

"True, true. But Lola does. And I can just as easily tell her to vote for that other guy. What was his name again? Declan?"

"Duncan, and absolutely not you aren't voting for that twat. Can't you just go with Lola?"

She sighs as she puts a milk carton away. "She's bringing this new girl she met in her class. She reckons me and her will get along, and that she wants us to be friends. So, no, you're my only option."

"Well, fine then."

We wrap up the groceries, and put away the reuseable bags in our cupboard. I flick the kettle on, and Mum's sixth sense seems to have activated, as she's paused her recording of the show and bustles into the kitchen with her empty tea cup.

"Make me a cuppa? Thanks." She barely gives me a second to react before she's back in her recliner in the living room. I turn to Ana, who shrugs.

"Has she taken her pills today?"

Ana shrugs. "As far as I know, yeah. She hasn't drunk any alcohol either – it's a bit weird. But, good. She must have taken our advice yesterday."

"I guess so."

The kettle bubbles, and Ana sits at the kitchen table, fiddling with the pin on the back of the badge. As I pour myself a cup of black tea and get Mum's peppermint one ready, Ana drops her voice to a whisper. "What if Mum acts up while we're at the party?"

I go to say to her that I don't know, nor do I care, but I stop myself. "I'm sure she won't. If she did take the pills this morning, by the time the party rolls around she should be back into a routine."

She frowns. "But... even so, what if she isn't all right? What if she accidentally breaks another one of Dad's things and goes into a spiral?"

"I guess we'll just have to see."

There's a beat. I finish prepping Mum's tea, and bring it to her. She mutters a thanks before I return to the kitchen.

There's an uncomfortable silence. A few moments pass. Ana clears her throat, as if to clear away the awkwardness.

"Do you know what you're going to wear?" she says, changing topic. Déjà vu much?

"What is it with girls and asking me if I've got an outfit planned?"

Ana furrows her brows. "I'll take that as a no?"

I exhale through my nose, shutting my eyes. "I think I do? I'll put it on later."

"No, I wanna see! Go try it on and come back."

"Ana, I'm really tired—"

"C'mon, please? As your sister it's my duty to tell you whether your clothing choice is garbage or not. Plus, I want you to wear something nice. Lola's friend is apparently easy on the eyes, and maybe Lola could hook you two up."

I feel a chill go up my spine, and I do my best to hide my disdain. Knowing that Ana won't stop until she gets her way, I sigh and nod, rushing to my room past the living room and throw on the clothes. Short sleeve Henley shirt? Check. Green bomber jacket? Check. Jeans? A small stain on the thigh, but check.

She can see the shoes later.

Walking out, I pass Dad and stand in the kitchen's archway, catching Ana fanning her hands. I grin for a second, but frown as her eyes judgingly cascade over my clothes.

"Here. This is my outfit."

I do a stupid pose, twirling slightly for added effect. She hums to herself.

"Didn't you say she was making a shirt for you to wear, or something?"

I nod. "Yes, and I've seen it. Not the best-looking shirt."

Ana brings her fingers to her chin, eyes narrowing as she appraises me. Her lips scrunch up, lost in thought.

"Well, the campaign shirt will bring the look down, but it's not bad. It's casual but put well enough together to show that you care. I'm sure Lola's friend will love it."

"Great," I say, barely hiding my lack of excitement. "I'm gonna change, then play on my piano. If you need me, I'll be in my room."

I hear a grunt in response. Once in my room, I strip down to a pair of boxers and socks, digging through my bag for the sheet music for one of the songs I'm playing at the end of year concert. Thinking Out Loud finally appears, and I pull it out my bag. But, something snags on the bottom of it, and another sheet lifts up, folding over the zip. I pick it up. It's the tune I found yesterday, the song I wrote of Darko. I never got to finish playing that.

No, not now. I need to focus – nobody wants to hear an original piece at the concert. I need to bring my A-game – maybe someone in the crowd will hear me and would want me to join a band, or be part of a symphony. Or, maybe, someone will give me a record deal and I could create my first album. That would be the ultimate dream.

I put the music sheets on the wooden lectern built into the front of my upright oak piano. I sit in front of it and crack my knuckles.

#

I play through my choices of songs, twice, and as I hit the final note on the final song something in me decides that none of these are good enough. Some are too shrill, some are too sad, and some are just too amateur. Fuck's sake – if I can't pick a set list, I'm going to be the only musician there that doesn't play a thing. Maybe that's what I'll be famous for – the musician that does not actually make any music for a living.

Urgh. I need food and some sleep.

Rubbing my eyes, I check my phone for the time. Ten past ten. A few missed messages from my group's group chat on Facebook and a few new likes on Soundcloud, Youtube, and TikTok. I've posted a few covers on there, so seeing those notifications makes me smile. But before I can enjoy the endorphins a second longer, my stomach growls something fierce and I know it's time I ate something.

Putting pants and a shirt on, I slip my phone into a pocket and open my bedroom door, creeping around the still, dark house toward the kitchen. It's cold out here.

Hopefully, Ana hasn't already gone and devoured everything in the pantry. It would be a miracle any of the chocolate I bought today lasts till tomorrow afternoon.

I reach the kitchen, and something in my heart stings. Look, we all had our vices to cope. Mum's coping mechanism for the accident is obviously the bottle, which makes sense. Alcohol makes you forget, and if I didn't see how much it affected Mum's day to day life, I'd have turned to it for comfort as well. But Dad raised me better.

Ana's way of dealing with her emotions is food. Cakes, treats, snacks galore — if she's watching a movie, or she's had a rough day, or if she's sitting reading a book or scrolling on her phone, you can bet that Ana's got something edible nearby. She's also started to change her appearance, turning away from the ombre-dyed teen who wore sundresses to a chubby girl with coal coloured nails, jet black hair, and a wardrobe that would impress Marilyn Manson.

I swing open the fridge door, and I instantly see leftovers from dinner. Hell yes, roast chicken - get in my mouth. Thank you Ana for making this.

Chucking together a haphazard roast-chicken-and-mayo sandwich, I close the fridge and sit at the table. Licking my lips, I go to take a bite, but a loud snore interrupts me, almost making me drop the food on the floor in surprise.

Mum?

I look out into the lounge room. It's pitch-black in there, save for the tiny standby lights of the TV and gaming consoles. Another loud snore erupts from the recliner seat.

She must have fallen asleep out here.

Getting up, I switch on a floor lamp in the corner of the room, lightly illuminating the lounge. Mum's sprawled on her single recliner chair, four empty beer cans on the coffee table next to her. So much for her getting back on track...

Quietly moving up beside her, I lightly touch her shoulder, nudging her with my fingertips. "Hey Mum, wake up. Mum?"

She stirs for a minute, before snapping her eyes open. She slurs something about me going away, but all I can focus on is the rancid scent of beer coming from her mouth.

"I'm going to bed now," I say, taking a few steps towards the kitchen, "you should go to your bed too."

Mum sits on the chair, blinking for a few moments, either concentrating really hard on what I've said or remembering where she is in the house. Either way, she stands up, nearly knocking over the beer cans, before trudging off to her bedroom, closing the door with a thud. I contemplate throwing the cans in the bin, but I just shake my head and take my food to my room.

#

The food settles, and it's as if my brain knows it's bedtime. Christ, I missed my bed.

Moving the empty plate from my lap onto the bedside table, I take off my glasses, switch off my lamp, and lie in my bed, closing my eyes. I toss and turn, but sleep doesn't come. My mind shifts from thoughts about the party to thoughts about coming out to Bella (and how it could go horribly wrong), and to scenes of me somehow getting drunk and making an ass of myself.

I know it won't happen - I've seen enough of drunk people for one lifetime, but I can't help but shake the feeling that something's going to go wrong at the party. Nothing wrong with Lyra, but I mean with me.

God, how egotistical do I sound?

Forcing the thoughts out of my head, I sit up and reach for my bedside table, flicking my lamp and my bedside speaker on. Remembering that I can't see things close to my face, I put on my glasses and begin rifling through my music library. Fleetwood Mac? Nah, not in the mood. The Killers? Nah.

Maybe this. I haven't played my nature sounds playlist in a while, and this seems a good of a time as any for relaxing ambience.

Hitting play, I switch my lamp back off and wait for music to fill the void that the light had left. I drop my phone on my chest, my hands wrapping around the warm device. Soon, the sound of trees rustling in the wind echoes from my speaker, the melodic chatter of rainforest birds and the pitter of rain following it. Through the crack between my curtains, thin rays of moonlight seep through. I take a slow, deep breath.

There. Much calmer already.

I close my eyes again. Party scenes make their way into my head again, but are drowned out by the ambience. Soon, there is nothing in my mind but the breathtaking view of a tranquil rainforest, misty shrouds and rolling hills of dense jungle filling my mind's eye.

Then, thoughts of Dad stray into my head, and my stomach knots.

A memory surfaces. I'm at the dining table, and he's in the kitchen, making his classic Larb recipe, a warm smile on his lips. Humming a song to himself, he adds spice after spice to the dish, throwing the powders into the pot with intention, as if the way he puts the spices in the food will influence the flavour. When it was Dad's turn to cook, Mum would finish work earlier on those days so she could have dinner with us; she soon pops into my head, sneaking up behind Dad and giving him a peck on the cheek, her arms wrapping around his waist.

My heart twists at the memory. I can't remember a night where we've all sat down at the dinner table, eating together, since Dad died. Mum's either at work or almost always asleep early, leaving Ana and me to cook something for ourselves.

Rolling over on my side, I let a tear roll down my cheek. Come on Taylor, think of something else. Anything else.

Soon, Mum fades to the back of my mind, and Darko comes to the forefront.

Another memory resurfaces. I was half asleep at his house a few months ago, having only just awoken, and Darko had burst into the bedroom with only a towel around his waist, dripping wet. He must have had a shower and thought I was still asleep because he started getting dressed in the middle of the room, not a care in the world. He never turned to face me, but God damn, that back view was more than enough. He got dressed, and I pretended to wake up when he was done. He sheepishly said that if I woke up five minutes ago, I would have seen him nude.

Joke's on him. Ugh, the sight of his ass, completely naked and wet... that's one memory I'll never forget.

Great, now I'm hard.

I wonder what would have happened in that situation if Darko and I were dating. He'd wake up, jump in the shower, and he'd come back, steaming wet. He'd hover over me, towel already loosening, and I'd smile, saying good morning to him while still half asleep. He'd lean forward and kiss me out of my drowsiness.

Making a fist with my left hand, I kiss the gap between my thumb and pointer finger. Making a fake mouth with your hands is easier with two, but my right hand is, well, preoccupied.

He'd ask if I had a good sleep, and I'd say yes, asking why he still has that towel around his waist. He'd throw the towel across the room and sink his weight on top of me, kissing me. His lips trail down my jaw to my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

I stifle a moan. Ana is one room away; the walls in this house are so thin.

He asks if I want some breakfast. I say yes. He slowly, agonisingly slowly, gets up and squats over my chest. It's in front of my face. I take it into my hands, and — ugh, I'm so close.

I'd give up the world for him to be in bed with me now — no, scratch that. To be with me right now. For him to be mine.