DOROTHEA

THIRTY-FIVE

"...Even on my worst day, did I deserve Babe, all the hell you gave me?..."

———

Taylor stood at the bar, swirling a glass of room-temperature whiskey.

She checked her phone for what felt like the thirtieth time and drew a sharp breath. She didn't know if it was the alcohol or stress bringing the preliminary ache of tears behind her eyes. Either way, this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Her urge to cry should have been due to relief; happiness. The polar opposite of how she currently felt.

Taylor sipped the amber liquid and shot her gaze to the door. The sticker-covered entrance to Bar None burst open and caused her heart to jump, only for it to plunge into free-fall less than a second later. Where the fuck is she? She thought bitterly.

It wasn't the first time Karlie had been late, though. But this was very important. Arguably the most important plans they had ever made together. They had it set for over a month: No matter what happened earlier that day, they'd meet at Bar None at 9 pm.

No matter how their families reacted.

No matter the aftermath.

No matter what.

Taylor took the first sip of her third drink when the model appeared next to her at the bar. She didn't look at her. It was petty, but she was tired and upset and somewhat drunk, so it seemed like the least that Karlie deserved.

After a moment of awkwardly tapping her fingers on the counter, Karlie sighed, "So, are you gonna lay it on me or what? Though I also don't mind keeping the silence and just getting hammered—"

"We agreed on nine," Taylor interrupted sharply. Her tone was already too angry. She didn't want Karlie to know how upset she was. At least not until she'd run her over with the speech she prepared like a semi-truck on the freeway.

"It's also Thursday, and I told you I had a shoot in the afternoon. My parents got caught in traffic and showed up to dinner late," Karlie explained, her voice tight. "I see them once every six months, Taylor, so excuse me for not wanting to rush them just to meet you at this sticky shithole by a certain time."

Taylor's eyes darkened. She knew the angle the runway model was going for. "You could've put all that in a text," she snarled.

Karlie laughed stiffly, signaling to the bartender. "You say it like it's that simple—"

"It is that fucking simple, Karlie," Taylor interjected, hitting her fist against the bar. She immediately felt her cheeks flame and jammed her hand in her coat pocket.

"But it isn't, Taylor," Karlie snapped. "It never ends with one text. For the rest of dinner I would have been juggling the hardest conversation I've ever had with my parents and also trying to placate you on my phone beneath the fucking tablecloth."

Taylor's throat twitched. There was something about the way she said it that made her feel like an insufferable toddler clinging to her mother's apron strings. "I would have let you talk to them," she said softly.

Karlie didn't look at her as she took a sip of her drink. Taylor was a breath away from repeating herself but she stopped. She knew the model had heard her. What she really wanted to do was cross the gap between them and wrap her arms around her waist; force the taller woman to pay attention to her through all of the ways she did behind closed doors. But they were in public.

Taylor studied her for a moment. Then, right as a rowdy group playing pool broke out in shouts, she asked, "How did it go?"

"Hm?"