t h i r t y t w o

I'm woken up by the sound of sirens outside. My first thought is to find a way to silence them by writing a letter to the siren creators to inform them that they are entirely too loud. My second thought is about how awful my mouth tastes. I feel as if I have swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls but not before they were soaked in something sour and then set on fire and then placed into my mouth to be extinguished. The process transferred the burnt sour acid onto my tongue before then drying out again and stripping my throat of all moisture. I pull my blanket even higher over my head trying to drown out the light from the window above my bed hoping to fall back asleep for at least six more hours.

I smell the faint scent of pine and patchouli on my blanket. It reminds me of Taylor and the way he smells freshly showered after practice. I can picture him as he walks across the room in McGregor, slicking his wet hair back and tucking it behind his ears before asking me, "What's new, Capt.?"

I'm amazed that his scent would still be on me over a day later. But why would it even be on me? I make sure to keep a clear socially acceptable distance of six feet between us at all times. My eyes spring open with realization hits. Images from the night before come flooding into my mind.

Me, drunk, using the railing on Taylor's porch as a balance beam to reenact my missed calling as an Olympic gymnast while yelling his name. But only after I had begged the homeless man outside of the Brew Mart to buy me a bottle of cheap vodka by offering to buy him three in return. It was only then, one brown paper bag of my own in hand and thirty dollars lighter that I set out on foot. Not knowing where I was going to go, just knowing that I really didn't want to feel. I found myself turning left onto Lane and then right onto Waldeck stopping in front of the third house on the right.

I sit up on my elbows slowly trying to let my surroundings come into focus while also trying not to disturb anyone else who may or may not be in the room. Upon initial scan, I am in fact not in my room, but I'm also not in a room I recognize. It's sparsely furnished with the essentials, a bed, dresser, a desk, and a bookshelf doubling as a bedside table.

I see my phone and keys sitting on the shelf beside the bed and right below it on the floor, a pile of blankets and a pillow that seem deserted. I give my best sloth impersonation and grab my phone with little disturbance to the silence otherwise filling the room. I check the time, 6:04 am? God, I forgot how early I wake up when I drink. I also have a notification for an unread message.

Taylor Reed: Went to lift in case you wake up before I'm back. I have my own bathroom across the hall check under the sink for supplies and borrow anything you need.

I sit up fully uncovering myself and letting my legs dangle off the side of the bed. I'm still fully clothed in last night's outfit sans my sweatshirt that I can see slung over the back of his desk chair. So at least I know things didn't get too carried away. Sliding off the bed, I stab a toe into the pile of blankets just to be sure there isn't anyone else in here. I leap over them once I'm sure, and head for the door.

I open it and peek my head out looking left and right before making a dash to the bathroom. His roommates are all on the team so I can only hope they were all called to a six am lift, too. The idea alone makes my muscles exhausted. Once inside, I can only assume this is what all male bathrooms look like. Like his bedroom, its belongings are scarce. Nothing but the essential toiletries are present in slight disarray. No real organization to them, instead they are all in various spots on the counter. I am surprised though, to find that the toilet doesn't have a thick ring of gunk present and that the seat is down firmly in place. It's as if Taylor did a quick clean before he left this morning in anticipation of me seeing his space.

I open the vanity cabinets to find the supplies Taylor mentioned in his text. An unopened toothbrush, towels, toilet paper, and oddly enough a pink Wet Brush. I make a mental note to tease him about that later, but just as quickly erase it in the event it actually belongs to one of his many overnight guests.

I decide to shower after a glance in the mirror showing me the mess of hair and makeup that are currently present on my head. They only serve as another shameful reminder of the previous night. I let the hot water pelt my back first, then tilt my chin up to let the water run over all of me. I squirt a handful of Taylor's soap into my palm, the same one I can smell on him during our sessions, and create a lather. It makes me wonder if he keeps a second bottle in his locker at the practice facility or if he comes back here to shower before meeting me. I drag the suds across my skin slowly. Letting them sink into every nook, cranny, and crevice hoping to strip away the imperfections one by one. Willing any of my decisions from the night before to wash away as they do, circling down the drain until they can no longer be brought up. After scrubbing my teeth and tongue for at least five minutes, I take my towel wrapped body and I make my way back to his room and search for something to wear.

I slide the closet door open to find a handful of plain white and gray cotton t-shirts along with his collection of team athletic wear all hanging beside his signature blue jeans. Under normal circumstances, I would use this time to analyze all of his belongings. Searching for clues into who he is, but I need to behave. I'm lucky I'm here at all. Taylor should never have answered his door last night in the first place. I opt for a t- shirt and pull it over my head. I do, however, let myself breathe in his laundry detergent before making my way to the lone dresser in the room to search for sweatpants.

My eyes catch on a picture frame sitting on the smooth surface. It's pale yellow with mismatched rhinestones glued around the perimeter. The kind of jewels you would find in the craft aisle in a store, along with the foam letters that spell out "I ❤️you to infinity and beyond!" that are spread across the bottom. It holds a picture of a much younger Taylor, maybe twelve or thirteen. His hair is shorter but still messily pushed back from his forehead. The smile on his face spreads all the way to his green eyes. His skin is more tan in it, the bridge of his nose splayed with little brown freckles. His cheek is pressed against that of a young woman. I'm struck by how beautiful she is. Her hair is almost as short as his, but unlike his, hers is a deep almost black brown and is artistically parted and smoothed back before tucking behind her ear. She has the same green eyes as Taylor, but I can still see the little fleck of brown above the pupil in his left one.

Even though he's mentioned her, I don't know why I never imagined him with a mom. Or a family for that matter. Like Peter Pan, forever a lost boy fighting his own battles. But here she is, his beautiful mother, and an adoring little Taylor who loves each other to lengths larger than this world can hold. I can feel their bond through this picture without even knowing her. My chest tightens with my own sadness. I quickly push it away by ripping my eyes from the picture and continuing my search for pants. I settle for the first pair I find even though they are ridiculously big on me. But I tighten them anyway and fold the waistband three times until they at least stay in place when I walk.

The dryness of my throat is back and reminds me again of the pint of vodka I consumed in a very short amount of time. I pad my way down the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen in search of some water and in a house full of athletes I hope, a gatorade.

I hit the jackpot when I grip the handle on the fridge and open it. Not only is there gatorade, but in three different flavors. I settle for the superior glacier freeze and also snag a box of Cheez-Its I find on the counter. It's only when I turn back around and face the table I see it. A cheap rectangular foil pan covered with the lid that came with it. More memories from the previous twelve hours swarm my mind. Me, skipping down the isles of the corner store, walking home arm in arm with Taylor, Taylor's body flush with mine, his hands engulfing mine as we carefully measure out the ingredients. Dumping, mixing, pouring as one.

My pulse quickens, reliving the contact. The feel of his head resting against mine as he leaned in over my shoulders. A puppet master, me his puppet. What I can't remember though, is anything that was said. A silent film reel playing over in my head. I take it as a sign from my body, that the conversation was too unbearable to save a hard copy in my mind. The only thing worth saving apparently, was the short lived intimacy between us.

I inspect the cake closer. It's fully iced. Chocolate cake with chocolate icing. The sprinkles that came with the tub of icing are carefully sprinkled around the edges of the cake, leaving the middle blank, as if someone were saving it to write their message.

I don't quite remember it all, but I do know I didn't ice or decorate this cake because I would have haphazardly dumped the sprinkles all over the place. The same way I always have since the birthday cake baking tradition began over a decade ago. So unless one of his roommates woke up feeling inspired, this is the work of Taylor. I check the clock again, 7:30am. Over an hour has passed which means he has to be returning soon. I retreat back to his room, sustenance in hand and scroll social media. I need to forget the cake, forget what it means.

🏈🏈🏈

I must fall back asleep because I'm awoken by the sound of a door creaking open. I sit up and find Taylor walking in.

"Shit, sorry. I–uh– figured you would have gone home by now," he whispers.

"Oh yeah... sorry, I should leave. Sorry for uhm–staying. Sorry," I say, scrambling to my feet and searching for my shoes. I can't remember where I put them the night before, or if I was even wearing any in the first place.

"No, didn't...I– I mean you don't have to. I, uh," he coughs, "didn't think you would want to be here. Ya know, after?"

"After?" I ask, confused. I assume he's talking about last night and probably thinks I would have died from embarrassment this morning before dragging myself out of here and climbing into a hole of solitary confinement. But maybe he knows more than I do. I have no way to know the state of his mind last night, not after I had skilfully worked to erase mine. Suddenly overthinking my decisions yet again, I continue my search for my shoes to get the hell out of here.

"I just—you weren't yourself last night," he says finally. Taylor places his hands on my arms, forcing me to stand still. He uses his grip to steady me. "Are you, ya know, okay?" he asks, his green eyes invading my blue. I can't register his questions from the way his touch has the cake baking front and center in my mind once more. The way I could feel the calluses on his hands sliding down the skin on my arms. Or the way his middle finger slowly glided over my own, slowly tracing my knuckle—

The sound of my name rips me from the daydream. "Hmm?" I say, unable to conjure anything else.

"Are you okay?" he asks again.

"Okay? Yeah, sure. I'm fantastic," I say pointing to an over exaggerated smile on my face.

"Because you don't have to be," He responds calmly.

"What?" I ask. I need to find multi-syllabic words to say, or he really is going to start worrying.

"You don't have class until one on Wednesdays, right?" For a second my heart flutters at the thought of Taylor memorizing my schedule. Until I remember he only knows that because I go straight to McGregor from class and am usually late because I have to cross the entire campus.

"Right," I mutter, finally spotting my shoes peeking out from under his bed.

"Give me ten minutes. I want to take you somewhere." He raises his eyebrows in question as he begins rummaging around his room for clothes. So, he must come back here to shower before I see him, I think.

"So you'll wait?" he asks again. I nod in agreement before he disappears, leaving me standing in the middle of his room wondering what in the world could possibly make this day any worse.

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