Chapter Text
Taylor stared at the clock, waiting for it to strike midnight. It had been 11:57 PM for an eternity.
She sat on the floor. The neon Electric Lady Studio sign on the wall blared bright against the music sheets and coffee cups sprawled all over; her mouth mumbled half-strung words and melodies.
burn your files, your house, this love
dessert all your past lives
don’t ever take my advice, kid
“Ugh!” Taylor stood up and crumpled up the paper and tossed it at the door. Nothing was working. Her mind was a labyrinth, a zoo filled with feelings and failures she could not free. She tapped her socks against the hardwood floor, searching for the answer, praying for whatever music god to reveal the question she did not know—longing and loneliness bottled into sweet wine.
Jack had gone home for the night. “Margaret made Vodka Pasta”, he beamed like a little kid. “D’you wanna come over?” Joe was…somewhere. Off filming into Croatia, Hungary, Nicaragua, how was she to know. He’d go far and wide just to be away from her.
“No, no, no,” Taylor cursed. “We are not doing that. We’re not sabotaging the relationship. Every couple needs time away from each other. Don’t blow things up bigger than they are. Like you keep doing. Shit.”
She slumped on the velvet settee. 11:59. Another day with no progress on the song to show for it. She scrolled through her contacts list. Who could she call?
Her mom? She’d fuss and ask about how Joe was doing. How am I to know mom, just Google it.
Gigi? No, she’d be sleeping with her baby.
Abigail? She’d need to get up early for work tomorrow.
Phoebe? Probably with Bo.
It was massively embarrassing. To the onlookers, she was at the top of the world—picture perfect pap shots, an army of worshippers, records smashed left and write and then some.
But here, inside this room, who was she without being the Taylor Swift™. She was a girl with no place to come home to. Oh, boohoo, what a poor homeless girl she was, in her $700 dollar Channel dress.
Taylor giggled at the thought when she heard someone clear his throat.
She looked back and there in doorway, a phantom leaned. Or perhaps it was a magician silhouetted in shadows. The Grim Reaper come to take her away?
When her eyes adjusted, she saw familiar curls. The same devil grin but with a stubble now.
“Matty!” She rushed to give him a hug. A familiar wave crashed inside her. When they pulled away, a barrage of words escaped from her, like a dam. “You’re in New York. You’re here. I suppose you’re making a record…that’s why you’re here.
“Nice to see you too,” he chuckled as he crouched and picked up the crumpled piece of paper that fell from the piano beside them. He unfurled it and raised his eyebrow. Taylor gulped, unsure of what to make of this scenario.
“Sit quiet by my side in the shade and not the kind that’s thrown, I mean the kind under where a tree has grown.” He laughed his head back like a little boy. “Well, I’m certainly better at writing.”
“Give me that,” giggled Taylor as Matty raised the paper above his head, arms in full extension. She snatched the paper away and stuck her tongue out. “I’m taller than you, sorry.”
“I’m at least an inch taller. Every inch matters!” He laughed. “So I’ve heard from Jack you were making a new record. We’re making one too.”
“Really?” Taylor feigned surprise. Of course, she knew. Ever since Jack mentioned it, she couldn’t help but drop the most miniscule, most nonchalant, most chill of inquiries.
Oh, do they have a title track already?
Ah, they’re in New York? You guys are going out for dinner?
They broke up?
She recalled the last one. Had it been a few weeks ago already? They were at the Red TV afterparty. Jack was leaving early to have some drinks with Matty. Joe was in some corner…they weren’t talking. Taylor gulped down the rest of the Old Fashioned as soon as she heard that forbidden news from Jack. She saw herself in the mirror in front of them, a mirage of herself smiling ever so slightly. A knowing smirk. A sigh of relief. She felt bad about that.
“So,” Matty cleared his throat as his hands fiddled with the piano keys, filling the silence between them with noise or harmony, she couldn’t decide. “Happy writing.” He waved goodbye as his eyes turned into half-moons.
Taylor stood there, watching Matty go, like the end of an indie film. Like a past life, a decade removed, forgotten.
“Hey, Matty.” The words spilled out from Taylor’s mouth like a canary escaping a cage. “Can I ask you a question?”
Matty turned back. He shifted his weight on his right foot. “Yeah?”
“Do you eat burritos?”