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akjensen-writes · 4 years

Text

holdin’ out for a hero

short story - wlw [Whitney/Taylor]

TW - suicide idealization (brief)

“That’ll be 13.95.”

Taylor says it automatically, feeling more like a robot than a person. She waits patiently as the customer across the counter inserts their card into the reader. It buzzes several times before the card is removed. She glances at her watch as discreetly as possible. Her red cashier’s vest reads ‘I dig Mr. Pig’ and if that isn’t bad enough, she’s got another three hours left until the end of her shift. An end that can’t come soon enough, for so many more reasons than sheer boredom.

Thursday nights at the Piggly Wiggly, aka the Pig -- pronounced “the Peeg” from the heavy accents of the locals -- are never very busy. They carry the same droning, languid feeling that Taylor can hear coming from her own voice, and she spends more time staring at the clock and contemplating her own existence than actually doing anything.

She’s been here for four years, which is approximately three and a half too many, with no escape plan in sight. The pay is dismal, but it’s a job, and in a small southern town, that’s really all she can ask for. But she’s trapped, and every day the walls seem to close in on her a little more. If this is the best she can do, then she isn’t sure what the point is anymore.

Chris, the cashier in the next lane, methodically swipes product across his counter with mind-numbing precision. Cereal, beep. Bananas, beep. Eggs, beep. All in a steady, even rhythm. Boring, beep. Useless, beep. Taylor taps her fingers on the counter. The same ‘80’s mix of songs rotates over and over again on the dated speakers. She wonders how many times she’s listened to it all the way through at this point. A thousand, maybe. She knows she can recite every track, sing every lyric, and that in and of itself is nothing to be proud of.

Bonnie Tyler’s rasping voice cuts into the silence. I’m holdin’ out for a hero ‘til the end of the night.

“Aren’t we all, Bonnie?” Taylor mutters to herself. “Aren’t we all?”

Tonight is the night, she thinks, as she plasters a smile on her face and hands the change over to her customer. Her lane is once again empty. The fluorescent lights buzz above her as she stares into space. Tonight is her last shift, for good. Tonight is her last anything. She’s going nowhere, and doesn’t even have the energy to care about it anymore. It’s not like it would matter. She could disappear off the face of the Earth and she doubts anyone would so much as blink.

It isn’t sadness, really. It’s just nothing. Deep, dark, nothing.

“Hey Taylor, I’m headin’ out.” Derek, the weekday manager talks as he’s coming around the corner. He always does that. He starts his sentences while he’s at odd places in the store, appearing just as his thought trails off. His beady little eyes dart around nervously as he glances at her register. It’s a silent reminder to thoroughly count the money before she turns over the key. He’s nice enough, Taylor thinks, even if all he does is sit in the back room and watch reruns of old ‘90’s cartoons. Nice enough is all it takes in this town, apparently. But a small pang of sadness hits her in the chest as she thinks about the fact that she’s never going to see him again.

“Have a great night,” Taylor says, nodding at him, trying to commit his squirrely features to memory. He has a small chin and scruffs of facial hair that he only keeps to look older than he really is. These are the two distinguishing features that stand out as somewhat noteworthy. In that moment, she feels sorry for him. “Thanks for everything, Derek.”

She feels weirdly nostalgic, nudged on by the anticipation of tonight being the end of everything. Derek has done exactly nothing for her, except leave her alone, which she supposes is something to be thankful for. He narrows his eyes in suspicion as he looks her over.

“Uh, sure,” he replies, frowning. “Just don’t forget to lock up, okay?”

It’s such a trivial request, but it fits, somehow. Don’t forget to lock up. Don’t make a mess. Just get it over with quickly and be done, will you? We don’t have any time for this.

Taylor almost smiles.

The sound of a throat clearing breaks the moment. She turns her attention back to her line. JenandJudy are standing there, wearing identical flannel shirts, staring at her with sweet, expectant smiles.

“How’s it goin’?” they ask, together in perfect unison. Taylor nods at them and starts scanning their items. A case of beer, and a bottle of whiskey. They’re probably going to the woods for a bonfire.

They all went to high school together, and at one point, Taylor assumes Jen and Judy were separate entities. But for as long as she can remember they’ve been together, their names a one word anomaly. JenandJudy. They’re the kind of lesbians that have now merged identities so ferociously, there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. It’s borderline creepy, the way they almost look like twins at this point, but no one ever comments on it out loud. Taylor assumes that’s just what happens when you fall in love, but something about it seems a little...much.

Not that she would know.

“You should come to the clearing,” Jen suggests, with Judy nodding emphatically. “We’re headin’ there in a few.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taylor verbally agrees, while mentally declining. The clearing is a dump, almost literally, where everyone in town gathers as an excuse to do something other than sit at home. Taylor hasn’t been there since she was 15. JenandJudy smile, satisfied at doing the bare minimum in extending the invitation.

Judy’s arm stays protectively around Jen’s waist. She watches her with starry-eyed fascination as her girlfriend pays. ‘Look at this incredible specimen!’ her eyes seem to exclaim, like it’s the singular most fantastic thing she’s ever witnessed. ‘She pays for groceries better than anyone I’ve ever seen! Can you believe it?’

Taylor snorts to herself. She isn’t mad, or even put off by it. It must be nice to have someone who thinks you’re fascinating, even when there’s nothing remotely amazing going on. The jealousy is warm and cozy, like a blanket she can pull snugly around her shoulders in her hour of need.

“See you later!” they announce, gathering their alcohol and heading for the door. Taylor waves a final goodbye.

“How do you tell them apart?” a voice teases from somewhere behind her. She turns, and instantly she’s met with bright hazel eyes that seem so sharp, they could probably dissect her right where she’s standing. Taylor swallows several times, unsuccessful in her attempts to get her mouth working properly. She smiles weakly, shrugging. “I’m just kidding,” the blonde stranger says, running her fingers through her hair. Taylor catches the way her slightly tanned cheeks flush, and a warmth runs through her chest.

“It’s a good question,” Taylor says, glancing back out the door where JenandJudy have just left. “At this point, I don’t think I can.”

“Fair enough,” she giggles, and Taylor’s heart, inexplicably, flutters.

Sexy customers are not really a thing at The Pig, and when it happens, it’s almost like spotting a unicorn. In all the years Taylor has been working here, it’s only happened half a time, and that’s because the woman in question was wearing so much makeup that Taylor couldn’t make an accurate assessment.

She’s suddenly acutely aware of her horrifying vest, and the fact that her brown hair is disgusting, all matted and greasy against her scalp. Of course this would happen tonight, of all nights. The final night. Why couldn’t she have made an effort, just this once? Maybe she should have planned better. But she knows no amount of planning would ever prepare her to lock eyes with someone as stunning as the girl in front of her now.

She adjusts her dark framed glasses and tries to focus on doing her job without saying anything horrifying.

There are only two items to scan: a sympathy card and flowers. Taylor glances up at the stranger and notices her wringing her fingers together, looking around the store with a sort of forlorn expression. She clears her throat.

“These are really pretty,” Taylor offers, gesturing at the flowers as she scans the other item. She doesn’t know why she comments. She usually makes it a rule not to get involved in other people’s purchases. It’s none of her business. Whenever she goes shopping, she’s so conscious of what’s going through the clerk’s mind that she almost can’t stand it. But this feels different. Magnetic, somehow, like she’s drawn to this girl, like not saying something is a worse transgression. Besides, she started it. The conversation feels like it has to go somewhere.

“You think?” the girl replies, taking them with a skeptical smile. It’s a lavender themed wildflower bouquet. Classy, in Taylor’s not-so-expert opinion. “I wasn’t sure.”

“They’re great,” Taylor assures her.

“They’re for my friend,” the girl explains. “Her cousin died, and I wanted to stop by and do something nice for her, you know? But I’m the worst at these things. I never know what to freakin’ say.”

“Sometimes just showing up is enough,” Taylor says, and she means it with everything she has. She wishes more people would understand that. Just being there means everything.

“That’s a good point,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “It’s always nice to know that people care. I wish we didn’t always wait for funerals to show that to each other, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s too late, and then what?” the girl asks, almost exasperated. “It’s not fair. People should just be nicer to each other.”

“They should,” Taylor agrees, her heart pounding as they make eye contact. The girl smiles, a dazzling, dreamy smile, and Taylor’s insides melt. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The girl takes her change and shrugs. As she gathers her items, she pauses and nods at Taylor again. “Thanks for listening to me ramble,” she says. “Genuinely. I haven’t come to this grocery store before, but I just moved from across town. I think this is going to be my new regular spot. I’m sure I’ll see you around soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Taylor promises.

Her eyes follow the girl to the exit. She watches her carry her items carefully, her other hand fishing in her jeans pocket for her keys. Taylor stares long after she’s gone and decides that maybe, just maybe, she can hold on for a little longer.

----

The charming stranger returns a week later, on an unassuming Tuesday evening to do a routine stock of groceries. Taylor is working, holding on to the hope of being able to see her again. If that makes her pathetic, then she’s already mostly made peace with that. She sees the stunning blonde sashay in around 7pm, wearing the exact same outfit as she wore when Taylor met her: a red zip up sweatshirt, white tshirt, and jeans that seem to be tailor made for her. Taylor’s mouth is instantly dry, her insides pulsing like the walls of a night club. The girl glances at her phone with a focused expression, before placing it in her pocket.

Taylor wonders idly if she normally shops on off hours like this, but she supposes she’ll figure it out sooner or later. That’s the thing about always working at a place so integral to people’s lives: the routines become part of her. She knows Mr. Jensen, the math teacher, always shops on Wednesday mornings because he has two free periods and hates crowds. He stocks up on Folger’s coffee like they’re going out of business, and he has a particular affinity for Corn Flakes cereal.

Taylor can tell you about most of her regulars. She knows their preferences, their routines, their schedules. She even knows their moods. An extra bottle of wine for the dark haired lady who works downtown? A rough week. Lactaid milk for the balding guy that lives in her apartment complex? His mom is coming to town.

All this without saying much more than “paper or plastic?” and “did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hey!” a now familiar voice announces. Taylor turns, and once again is taken by mystery girl’s marvelous hazel eyes. She’s smiling like they’re in on a tremendous secret, even though there’s nothing coincidental about running into her here.

“You’re back,” Taylor greets, trying to keep her voice steady, like she hasn’t been counting down the minutes until she could see this girl again. She absolutely has, but no reason for her to know that. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yup,” the girl says, piling her items on the conveyor belt. “Most importantly--” she reaches into her cart and picks up a bottle of wine. A red blend from Napa. That tracks. Pretty girls from out of town drink smooth red wines. Everyone knows that.

She slides over her ID and Taylor scans it quickly. Not too quickly to notice her name, though. It’s like a slight-of-hand card trick, the way she does it without moving her eyes. The result of years of on the job training. She can’t say the Pig didn’t give her at least one weirdly applicable skill.

The blonde’s picture beams back at her. Whose DMV photo comes out this gorgeous? Taylor bites her lip as her gaze flickers to the flawless face in front of her. Nice to meet you, Whitney Matthews, of Cherry Grove Court. According to her license, she’s 24 as of April 4th, making her two years older than Taylor. She slides the ID back and rings up the rest of her items. The haul is mostly produce, almond milk, eggs. She’s clearly a responsible eater, one of those people who seem to be into wellness. She probably does yoga. Taylor sneaks a glance at Whitney’s legs.

Definitely yoga.

There’s a few frozen pizzas and a surprising appearance from a large bag of skittles. Taylor grins as she rings them up.

“I love skittles,” Whitney says with a teasing smile. “Don’t judge me.”

“Who doesn’t love skittles?”

“Thank you,” Whitney nods, approving. She grabs her bags and puts them back in her cart. “Same time next week?” She chuckles when she says it and Taylor’s cheeks flush, as if this is a standing date the two of them now have.

With a nod she replies, “I’ll be here.”

Whitney gives her a little wave, and Taylor wonders if she’s like this with everyone. Is she a serial conversationalist, making flirtatious small talk with every clerk in town? Or is this something a little more significant?

She knows what she wants the answer to be.

---

From then on, every Tuesday, like clockwork, Whitney comes into the Pig and does her usual shopping trip. She always seems to wear her signature red hoodie and jeans, like she’s got her own version of a grocery uniform-- only hers isn’t mortifying and ugly. Quite the opposite, if Taylor has anything to say about it. It’s casual and sexy which is a combination only Whitney can pull off with such ease. She usually has her hair up in a ponytail, but sometimes she comes in with wavy, sunkissed locks, and Taylor can’t seem to shake the desperate need to run her fingers through it.

Today is a skittles day, which means Whitney’s in a good mood. These are the weeks Taylor loves the most. This is when Whitney gives her teasing smiles that stay on her face a little longer than usual, and offers tidbits about her day. She’s a nurse in the orthopedic wing at the hospital, she says, and this week she got to scrub in on a really complicated sounding surgery. A knee reconstruction, or something. It’s so impressive that Taylor almost forgets she’s supposed to be scanning groceries, lost in the idea of Whitney out there doing good, saving lives. She feels inadequate in comparison, but can’t seem to dwell on it while Whitney is here looking at her like she’s the only person in the world she wants to talk to.

Sometimes, on weeks like this, she’ll share her weekend plans, or talk about something she’s planning to cook. She likes to go hiking, which isn’t a surprise. She also loves Italian food. Taylor listens and catalogues everything in a mental Whitney spreadsheet that she keeps in her brain, in case she ever has a reason to need it.

She hopes one day, she will.

Some weeks, though, Whitney only buys the staples, and her smile is a little slower, her eyes a little muted. She’s more tired, or stressed, or something that Taylor can’t detangle, and those are the weeks Taylor wishes didn’t have to exist. On those days, it’s almost like the little light in Whitney flickers, too exhausted to be kept on at the normal brightness she exudes. She quietly greets Taylor, and thanks her when the transaction is done. She puts her bags in her cart and slowly shuffles out of the store, leaving Taylor alone with nothing but Bonnie Tyler crooning in the background.

Turn around, bright eyes.

“Shut up, Bonnie,” Taylor mutters, disappointed.

---

Taylor tries to avoid working Saturdays because the Pig turns into an overrun madhouse of exhausted mothers, screaming children, and bleary eyed white collar workers who can’t sneak away from the office any other time to do their shopping. The lines are nonstop. The shelves are in a perpetual state of near-depletion. Everywhere she looks, it’s a disaster, the store ground zero of a perfectly executed attack.

But the extra cash is necessary if Taylor is going to go back to school. She decides to get serious about it on a random night when her shift ends. Whitney had been in, elated from a successful day caring for a patient with a broken leg, and something in Taylor just clicked. Maybe this isn’t everything her life has in store for her. Maybe the Pig isn’t her last stop.

Nursing probably isn’t a good fit, she’s squeamish around needles and doesn’t think she can handle that much potential death. It’s ironic, considering her state of mind a while ago, but the two ideas remain disconnected. She considers teaching, or journalism, or maybe even accounting. She’s always been good with numbers. The options are suddenly endless.

She’s giddy at the prospect, and it seems to overflow into her work. She’s chatting with customers for no reason today -- asking more than the obligatory questions, and even going so far as to compliment a lady’s hair cut. Everything feels brighter, somehow.

The morning goes by in a blur of produce codes and aisle clean ups, but the pace is strangely satisfying. It’s already 2pm by the time she checks her watch, which is astonishing. Her face hurts from smiling at so many people, but that’s a nice problem to have. She turns her attention to the next customer and her heart catches in her throat.

“Twice in one week, lucky me,” Whitney says cheerfully, smiling a hundred watt smile as she places the divider on the belt to separate her items from the person behind her. “How ya doin?”

“Great,” Taylor squeaks, her voice cracking horribly. She clears her throat and studies Whitney’s stuff. A birthday cake and some wine. Taylor’s stomach drops. She glances at her watch. April 4th. “How--how are you?”

It’s Whitney’s birthday, but she doesn’t want to bring it up. She doesn’t want to explain why she knows it, why April 4th is ingrained in her memory. It isn’t for any creepy reasons, honest. She just finds Whitney fascinating on every level. And a little sexy. It’s not a crime to be invested.

Whitney shrugs. “Oh, you know, doing okay,” she says, and it isn’t very convincing. She looks suddenly defeated, and Taylor wants so badly to help.

“Got any plans tonight?” she asks, hoping it might coax something out of her. She wants Whitney to be doing something extraordinary, to have a day that celebrates her, the way she deserves. But her demeanor stays reserved.

“Dinner with my parents, and my sister,” she says softly. “Nothin’ crazy.”

“And cake, of course.”

“And cake,” Whitney agrees. “Of course.”

The receipt is printed, and Taylor finally cracks. She wants to ask about her family, about her sister. Is she older or younger? Is she anything like Whitney or completely the opposite? Does she get along with her family?

“Is it your birthday?” is all she asks instead, the only question she already knows the answer to. She blinks at Whitney carefully.

Whitney’s cheeks flush as she nods. “The cake gave it away, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Taylor replies.

“Pretty sad, I know, buying my own cake,” Whitney shrugs. “It kind of snuck up on me this year.”

“No, it’s not sad,” Taylor says, trying her best to reassure her. She carefully places the cake in a bag and gently ties the top. Their hands touch as Whitney takes it, and a jolt goes through Taylor’s core. She swallows heavily, trying to gain her composure.“This way at least you know you’re getting one you like, right?”

“Very true,” Whitney finally smiles. “Something about bakery frosting, I swear. I don’t even care what kind of cake it is, but this frosting is addicting. My mom is probably baking something, so she’s going to be so pissed.” She laughs at that, and Taylor joins her, for the simple fact that Whitney seems to finally be cheerful.

“I hope you have a really great birthday,” Taylor says, handing her the receipt.

“Thanks,” Whitney takes it, her nose scrunching as she smiles. “I’m glad I saw you.”

Whitney exits, and Taylor’s eyes follow her for a few seconds. She wonders, briefly, if Whitney is happy.

---

Conversations have never come easy to Taylor. People are fascinating, but only from a distance. She likes to observe, to formulate an idea of a person curated from the tidbits they choose to share. She’s always been told she’s a great listener. Mostly, it’s because she doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t want to say something stupid or awkward and disrupt the connection she has with someone. Instead, she nods along, perfectly content to absorb whatever people feel like sharing.

Whitney doesn’t seem to mind Taylor’s silence. She’s warm and genuine, always patiently nudging the conversation ahead and navigating when Taylor prefers to coast. Granted, they don’t sit down and have long heart to hearts, but their connection is purposeful. They speak with intent; Whitney always seems to focus on Taylor and only Taylor when they speak. She isn’t on her phone or reading over her shoulder or flipping through a magazine. She even goes as far as pausing on unloading her groceries in order to finish her thought, or wait for Taylor’s response. She’s probably the worst to stand behind in line, because she never seems to be in a rush. She simply exists in the moment, thoughtful and patient and kind, allowing herself to simply be.

Their routine continues week in and week out. Whitney comes into the store, seeks out Taylor’s line, and pauses to catch up. They’re cautiously toeing the line from acquaintances to almost-friendship, a gray area that Taylor knows is going to eventually require a leap. But just seeing Whitney’s face light up when she holds up two bags of potato chips one Tuesday night in late May is enough for Taylor to be grateful.

She’ll take Whitney in any form she can get, even if it’s just as the adorable customer with the dazzling eyes who gets overly excited about a potato chip sale.

“Buy 2 get 2, I’m so freaking pumped!” Whitney exclaims, placing them down on the belt and grinning in triumph. She doesn’t usually buy chips, so Taylor’s eyebrow raises in question.

“What?”

“You don’t usually buy them,” Taylor shrugs, scanning the package. Lays BBQ and Wavy. Interesting.

“My friend is having a barbecue and I’m on snack duty,” Whitney says, surveying the rest of her items with a frown. She places her hands on her hips. “What am I missing?”

Taylor follows her eyes and takes note of the contents: several kinds of dips, and what looks like one of each type of chip flavor the store carries. She shakes her head and grins. “Did you leave any on the shelves?”

“Very funny,” Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Sweet tea?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t see it,” Taylor frowns, searching again.

“What?” Whitney tilts her head thoughtfully to the side before her eyes widen. “Oh! Sweet tea. Sweet tea! I thought you said sweetie.”

Whitney’s cheeks flush, and the muscles in Taylor’s stomach clench at the unexpected endearment. She’s warm and tingly all over, and might actually pass out, now that she’s processing the whole exchange. Whitney reacted so naturally, like tossing out ‘sweetie’ is just something they casually do.

Taylor chuckles, shaking her head. “They basically sound the same, yeah,” she agrees, and Whitney holds her hand loosely over her mouth.

“I’m an idiot,” she says. “No, I don’t have sweet tea. Should I?”

“Sort of a requirement around these parts.”

“Dang, the more you know.” Whitney glances at the drink aisle and back to Taylor.

“No worries, I’ll go get it for you,” Taylor says, already turning toward the aisle. She slips past several customers and heads for the back of the store. She could navigate with her eyes closed, but she still picks up the pace so she doesn’t keep Whitney waiting. She grabs the biggest one she can find and heads back to her register.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Whitney gushes, and Taylor feels her cheeks burn. That’s her, the friendly neighborhood sweet tea proctor.

“It’s not quite the real deal, but it’s damn good,” Taylor says as she rings everything up.

“The real deal huh? You’ll have to tell me how to do that,” Whitney says. She places her card in the reader and grins. “I’m obviously not from here originally.”

She has a smooth accent, but not one Taylor can easily place. Her voice isn’t nasally like a northerner, but she talks faster than most of the people around here. It’s actually been driving Taylor crazy for weeks.

“Where are you from?”

Whitney gives her a teasing smile, her full lips twisting as she grins. “Guess.”

Taylor thinks about it more. Their eyes meet and her heart flips, the way it always does when Whitney’s around. She squints and sighs. “California?”

“Nope,” she replies, her smile radiant. She’s positively giddy at the idea of this game. “Guess you won’t find out.”

Taylor holds out her receipt. Whitney reaches for it, and Taylor pulls it back at the last minute. “How about now?”

Whitney’s mouth hangs open playfully as her eyes widen. “Taylor!”

She almost drops the receipt. It’s the first time Whitney says her name, and it sounds incredible coming from her lips. She has never been more thankful for her ugly name tag than right at this moment. She wants to ask her to repeat it, to find some way for her to say it over and over and over. Taylor. Her name is suddenly majestic.

Whitney grabs the receipt, catching Taylor in her tailspin. She flashes it in victory. “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Taylor says as Whitney gathers her bags. “Bye Whitney.”

“Later, Taylor,” she replies with a sweet smile, and Taylor’s entire body vibrates with something magical.

---

The summer is a whirlwind of activity. Besides the holiday rush, this is the only other time where Taylor notices a deluge of milestones. Graduations, weddings, christenings, all seem to be taking place in June, July and August. She recognizes Mrs. Johanssen from the library, coming in for a graduation cake. It’s for her son, she beams, he’s graduating from college, can you believe it? Taylor smiles and rings it up, sending her on her way with congratulations.

Mr. Hood, the hulking owner of Smash Fitness, comes in one morning for a dozen pink roses and a pink balloon. It’s for a christening, he says, blushing. His muscled hand is surprisingly gentle as he cradles the stems of the flowers. His arms practically burst through the sleeves of his suit. His baby girl, he gushes. Did she want to see pictures? Taylor obliges, and smiles, and wishes him the best. His eyes are misty as he thanks her and heads out on his way.

It’s a strange phenomenon to be present for the significant events in people’s lives without really knowing them. But Taylor shares something with each and every person, experiencing pieces of their joy as if she’s actually present for their celebrations. It’s one thing about this job that she’s grateful for. There’s an unexpected connection now, and that makes it mean something.

Whitney comes into the store more often, celebrating her own set of milestones. Taylor watches day in and day out as she buys graduation cards, and birthday cakes for family members, and a wedding card for another cousin. The wedding is going to be in Napa, she tells Taylor, starry-eyed. Isn’t that cool?

Taylor smiles, thinking of Whitney in a beautiful bridesmaid’s dress. Not the kind that awful brides make their friends wear so they look frumpy in comparison. But the real classic kind, a deep blue or a maroon, maybe, that would fit her like a glove and make her tan skin look incredible. She nods along with Whitney’s excitement, hoping for pictures, even though she knows that’s far fetched.

Taylor gives her the receipt and her bag and wishes her a great trip. She feels the way Whitney keeps her eyes on her as she starts to ring up the next customer in line.

“Can I text you?” Whitney asks softly, so softly that Taylor almost thinks she’s imagining things.

She turns to face her, and sees Whitney’s hopeful smile as she holds out her phone. “If you want,” she says. “I thought I could send you pictures from the wedding.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. She has to shake her head to make sure this is really happening, but then she nods, taking Whitney’s phone. She puts in her number and hands it back. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” Whitney says, staring at her phone briefly before nodding, satisfied. “I’ll do that then.”

For the first time in months, Taylor catches the music on the speakers.

Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me.

---

The following Tuesday, or Whitney day as Taylor secretly refers to it, is awful, because Whitney is out of town. She wakes up in a sour mood, despite the fact that they text now, which is a significant step in a fantastic direction. It just isn’t the same, knowing she won’t see her face in person, or get to listen to her talk about her day with a wry smile, or get teased for still not being able to guess where she’s from.

The day is long, but at least Whitney is diligent with her messages. That’s one thing Taylor was happy to discover with this whole development. Whitney doesn’t just text -- she writes. She sends her silly messages, almost a stream of consciousness that Taylor can actually picture her saying in person. It makes getting through her shift infuriating, for the simple fact that she can’t focus enough to reply. Even though that’s absolutely all she wants to do.

She asks for Taylor’s opinion on Wonder Bread, and what there is to wonder about, but then she answers her own question since she’s clearly sitting here wondering about it. She asks about Taylor’s work schedule. She tells her about the California weather. She sends a picture of a palm tree. She apologizes for sending so many messages.

Taylor quickly sneaks a look at her phone and tells her it’s okay. She likes them.

Finally, she sends a picture of her in her dress. Taylor’s face blazes. Whitney’s hair is done up in an elegant updo, a few pieces curled perfectly to fall along her cheek. The dress is magnificent -- a coral color that makes Whitney’s eyes pop. She’s got a sly teasing smile, like she wants to appear unsure that looks amazing, but knows she looks beyond.

“Dammit,” Taylor mumbles to herself, closing her eyes and trying to keep steady. It’s all she can do to stay rooted to the spot instead of hopping on a flight to who knows where California and trying to find her.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she replies, which doesn’t convey what she wants to say at all. In a fit of embarrassment, she pockets her phone.

The week is painfully slow, but somehow, they make it to next Tuesday. Taylor is on her “lunch” break, a 4pm slot that is closer to dinner, but no one cares enough to be technical about it. She’s sitting at one of the tables by the deli, which she does on occasion when the store is slow. The employee break room is dark and depressing, with a TV that only plays 3 channels, 1 of which is Fox News on repeat. She’d rather face awkward conversations and customer questions than Tomi Lahren, thank you very much.

She feels someone standing near her and she glances up, practically choking on her sandwich when she realizes it’s Whitney. She’s radiant, smiling like she’s got a trick up her sleeve and Taylor is so overjoyed she almost stands up to hug her. She isn’t much of a touchy feely person, but Whitney has her head spinning in so many directions, she might just make an exception.

“Hey!” Whitney exclaims, claiming a chair for her own and plopping down. “Can I sit here?”

“You already are,” Taylor says, chuckling. Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Smart ass,” she says.

“You’re here early,” Taylor says, checking her watch.

“I didn’t go to work today,” Whitney says, shrugging. “I took an extra day off. Jet lag is a bitch.”

Taylor nods as if she understands, but she’s never been out of the state. She takes a sip of her soda to try to steady her nerves.

Whitney taps on the table nervously. She’s fidgety, and gorgeous, and Taylor wants to just reach across the table and hold her hand. She doesn’t. She knows it would be weird, or something. It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure Whitney feels the crazy connection between them, but it’s also something she’s going to have to act on. Taylor doesn’t want to make anything uncomfortable.

“I’m not really good at this, and I know I should have done this a long time ago so I’m just going to ask--” Whitney starts, her eyes darting from the table to Taylor and back down again. “Um--”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet!”

“I feel like I know you,” Taylor replies, shrugging. She doesn’t care what Whitney is going to ask. She already knows her answer is always going to be yes.

Whitney pauses. “Yeah,” she agrees, an airy chuckle escaping her lips. “I feel like I know you, too.”

“So what were you going to ask?” Taylor’s stomach is in knots, but the good kind that comes from anticipation and excitement.

“Oh right,” Whitney bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words contained before blurting them out in an incoherent jumble. “Would you want to go out sometime?” Another breath. “With me, I mean?”

As if Taylor would want to go out with anyone else.

“It’s still a yes,” Taylor says softly. Whitney meets her eyes and a look of relief passes over her face.

“Yeah?” Whitney scrunches her nose and grins. “When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow I finish at 3,” Taylor says. “I’m free the whole night.”

“Tomorrow it is,” Whitney slaps the table with a snappy grin and stands up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a ton of shopping to do.”

Taylor nods her goodbye and takes another sip of her drink.

Forever’s gonna start tonight, Bonnie Tyler exclaims. For once, Taylor thinks she might be right.

---

The most disorienting experience is shopping at another grocery store. Their layout feels twisted and wrong, the lights a weird, new-age dimness that makes her forget what time it is. Taylor peruses the aisles slowly, going over her list with precision.

She doesn’t like to shop at the Pig too often since she knows everyone there. It just turns into an hour of unnecessary conversations then two hours of jumping in to actually work, even if she’s off. Tonight she’s on a schedule. She only has a few hours before her night class at the community college. She’s almost finished with her first year, which is crazy. Accounting, which is smooth and satisfying, the numbers crisp and clean and honest.

But she’s also taking creative writing, too. She has too many stories to keep in her head.

The frozen aisle is up next. She places three frozen pizzas in the cart, grinning to herself. They taste like cardboard, but she isn’t going to complain. She stocks up on almond milk and eggs, and gets all the fresh produce. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Whitney, reminding her about dinner tomorrow, as if Taylor could ever forget. Tomorrow is Whitney’s birthday, and she’s been planning a weekend trip for them for months. She’s going to surprise her and take her to Florida where, it turns out, Whitney is from. It only took several agonizing months to pry that information out of her, but Taylor finally landed on a quality guess.

She thumbs through several cards, none of them saying exactly what she feels, but she ultimately settles on one with two puppies. Can’t ever go wrong with puppies. She tosses in a bag of skittles and heads for the check out.

The clerk is a quiet girl who smiles at her briefly before scanning her items. Taylor fixes her shirt, a nervous habit when she doesn’t know whether to make conversation or not. She absentmindedly fiddles with the buttons, wondering if this shirt is hers or Whitney’s. It doesn’t really matter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the girl asks, her bored eyes still focused ahead of her, trained on the screen.

“Yeah,” Taylor says, confidently. “Yeah, I did.”

#og writing #short story #wlw #writeblr #authorblr #taylor x whitney #practicing all sorts of stuff #shameless plug for bonnie tyler because i do what i want #writing #fiction

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