TWELVE

"...And in the end in Wonderland

we both

went

MAD..."

———

February 24th, 2018

Of all the nights Dorothea had the six to eleven shift at The Pearl—

it had to be that one.

There had been a spontaneous, bold wave of courage that coursed through her veins at the singer's invitation; so strong that it nearly caused her to call Will and quit right in the middle of that SoHo conference room. But like the owner of a wild animal using both hands to control its leash, she had to resist the temptation. Her need for money in the After hadn't changed. Though if anything happened to come along...a long-term opportunity, perhaps—she wouldn't hesitate to rip her apron off right in the middle of the restaurant and leave through the gold-framed entrance with both middle fingers sky-high.

But the night that Taylor had asked her to come over, that wasn't an option.

She had let a few mental cuss words sail towards the monster in her uterus after denying the blonde's offer, but she immediately felt guilty. As if the baby could hear her thoughts. Could he? Or she? Of course not. She was not only being ridiculous, but also selfish. If she really wanted to give the rice-bean everything she possibly could, she was going to have to stop putting herself first.

Luckily, karma recognized her attempt at this, and Taylor ended up inviting her over for dinner with her friends the following night. And since The Pearl just happened to be closed that night for a private Golden Globes-related event —that she somehow luckily didn't have to work— Dorothea immediately accepted the second invitation. Perhaps that was how it was meant to be, anyway. Though the idea of being alone with Taylor in the blonde's apartment made her stomach backflip in that pleasant, cage-of-butterflies way, she felt more relaxed now knowing that it wouldn't be just the two of them.

Dorothea quickly glanced at her watch, then back at the lemon she was examining in her other hand. It was almost three in the afternoon and she had a little less than three hours before she had to leave for Taylor's, yet here she was standing in the middle of a packed Whole Foods, suddenly thinking she should make something. Not just bring a bottle of wine or store-made dessert and a bouquet of flowers, but actually turn on her ancient gas stove and use what little cookware she had in an attempt to make something edible for Taylor Swift and her friends.

She had to cover her mouth to avoid bursting out laughing next to a display of grapefruit. If she accidentally poisoned one of the world's biggest pop stars, that ship would sail faster than her toxic ex-now-ghost-father-of-her-child had essentially vaporized right before her eyes.

Or maybe once Taylor's bout of food-borne illness ended, the two of them would maybe...laugh about it?

Of course not, idiot. But after dropping the lemon back onto the pile, Dorothea struggled to suppress a laugh. For the past several hours she had been in one of those strange, giddy moods that felt wild and unpredictable.

As she wandered down the avenue towards the store earlier, she had been smiling to herself like a drunken fool; she almost skipped —really?— over a chunk of ice in her path. But when she got to the grocery store, the feeling softened to a vibration that rattled every inch of her limbs. Her thoughts were flighty and incomplete; she was questioning everything and surely, the other people at the store must have thought she was on the most platinum-quality cocaine. But even the one time she tried cocaine —one time! at a party in the Bowery when she was nineteen and yes, it was fucking stupid—it didn't feel nearly as electrifying or blissful as how she felt now, dead-sober in the middle of an over-priced grocery store.

While Dorothea scanned the display of vegan cakes and pastries, she tried to imagine what a dinner at Taylor's place would be like. All of her dinner experiences as a young twenty-something had involved some form of Nick's friend group and lots of alcohol. There was always food—sometimes homemade, most of the time ordered through an app on someone's phone—but drinking had always ended up being the main event. Yet, some rather patronizing voice in her thoughts told Dorothea that this wasn't how a Taylor Swift dinner went.

But—what did they even talk about? Surely not college football and cringey rap music and IPAs, and whatever other dumb shit Nick and his friends always argued about. She suddenly felt herself grow nervous. Dinner with Taylor and her friends. Friends? How many was that? Two? Seven? Enough to remind her of that chilling, twisted knot she had carried in her stomach everyday at her private Christian high school, where that one powerful group of girls made her squad of three feel like ants snuffed under the soles of their feet? But wait—maybe there would be guys at Taylor's, too? What made her think it would only be women, anyway?

Dorothea shook her head as though to clear it, then picked up the container of beautifully decorated cookies her eyes kept wandering back to. There were a dozen or so, iced in swirls of pastel frosting that reminded her of the spring season that was still very far away. Fifteen dollars. Not nearly as damaging as she imagined, and probably less than she'd spend on an embarrassing, burnt failure attempted in her oven.

Dorothea placed the container in the basket on her forearm, then weaved through the area to the wine section. At the decision to buy the cookies, she suddenly felt empowered to spend and selected two medium-priced bottles of wine—one red, one white, just to be safe. Once again, she —sadly—wouldn't be partaking in either. This time would be particularly hard, though. Her nerves only seemed to be worsening, and even just one single glass of alcohol would have been a magical Band-Aid for her discomfort.

But again, here she was, only thinking about herself.

Heading back towards the front of the store, Dorothea ultimately decided against purchasing the flowers that were displayed next to the checkout. Clever marketing on the store's part; a good old shove against some guilty person's shoulders. She wondered if this was what compelled Nick to show up with some at her apartment on New Years' Eve. They did have that somewhat plastic, much-too-vibrant, desperate sense about them.

And even though Dorothea admittedly wanted to please the singer, she would never allow herself to appear that pathetic. And more than that, adding flowers to a box of gourmet cookies and two bottles of wine would definitely seem a bit...aggressive. Then again, it wasn't so much what Taylor would think; it was what those friends would. The idea of meeting other people's friends was already scary, especially if you were more than just a friend.

But...was she?

Obviously.

Unless...

Dorothea forced herself to bury that internal debate later on as she showered and blow-dried her hair silk-straight. She wanted to make sure she was hungry for dinner, but the devil in her uterus seemed to be demanding food right this very specific instant you piece of shit!! (Okay, perhaps her baby would only start calling her that as a teenager—Or, she could only hope, anyway). So while she applied her makeup with jittery fingers, Dorothea nibbled on a few crackers. She knew with her luck, anything more would land her right back into a nauseated whirl, and she could only think to herself—

How the fuck did people go through this more than once?

Dorothea was running early on getting ready, so to compensate she doodled around with her outfit choice and took Oliver on a rather long walk—and now she was going to be late. But it was probably better not to be the first one there, anyway. Slipping in when everyone was already holding drinks and laughing and chatting was much easier than being the first unfamiliar thing their eyes landed on when they walked in the door.

After putting on a coat and scarf, Dorothea slid a gold-chained purse over her shoulder and put the wine and cookies in a canvas bag with a Coachella 2016 logo on it. It felt sort of tacky, but somehow it seemed like a step above grabbing from the pile of plastic, smiley-face take-out bags in her coat closet.

She paused to make sure she could smell her perfume, then abruptly exited her apartment. Outside, the cold, dark air snapped against her frame, yet Dorothea forced herself down the concrete steps. She could've called an Uber, but that mildly distressed, spacey feeling from earlier had returned, and walking seemed to be the only thing keeping her from floating off of the ground and up towards the stars.

Ten minutes later, Dorothea arrived at Franklin Street, and despite the lively lit-up blocks surrounding it, the avenue was almost silent. It was primarily a residential street, though, and most of the apartments were actually in the process of being gutted, renovated, and most-likely sold for millions. No doubt Taylor's place had once been one of those. The real question was, how much of that block was actually hers?

The outside of the building where the singer resided was just as deserted as the rest of the street. Dorothea's heels echoed softly against the metal stairs, and when she reached the door she waited for a security guard —Ted?— to let her in.

When the elevator doors opened on the third level to reveal a single pair of solid wood doors, Dorothea felt her pulse lodge in her throat. If the street outside was quiet, the hallway was another level of silent. Was she even at the right apartment? She had to be—that was definitely Ted who let her in, and Ted was the one who pushed the button before she disappeared upward into the building.

Was it just her hormones, or was it also suddenly five-thousand degrees?

Dorothea stepped towards the doors, exhaling before tapping a few knocks against one of the panels. The inanimate object was almost mocking in how sturdy and intimidating it was against her knuckles. Bare feet on carpet were probably louder than the stupid weak knocks she just gave.

For goodness sake, she thought to herself, it's just a fucking dinner party.

Dorothea knocked again more firmly, and now she could hear laughter echoing in her direction. For a moment, she rocked on the balls of her feet, until the door opened and there was not one, but three smiling, knockout-model-looking women on the other side.

"Dorothea!"

"Dorothea from The Pearl has finally arrived!"

"Oh my god, she brought wine!"

"Two bottles!"

"Taylor!"

The three women with various shades of blonde hair were buzzing with alcohol-induced friendliness—Or so it seemed. Dorothea only ended up being about twenty minutes late, so she was surprised at how inebriated they already were. After getting swept up in a whirl of introductions and overly-affectionate hugs, she felt oddly relaxed as they led her towards the kitchen. Apparently even celebrities—like Nick's friends—also enjoyed spending Saturday evenings as blissful, drunken fools.

"Thea!—" Her eyes landed on the singer, who was standing at the stove stirring the contents of a large silver pot with one hand and holding a glass-of-something in the other.

"So nice of you to finally grace us with your presence," Taylor noted, lifting an eyebrow when she stopped at the adjacent island counter. Dorothea could tell by the singer's rosy cheeks that she was somewhat buzzed herself, but not quite to the degree of the others. The room was pleasantly warm, smelling of wine and spices, and Dorothea had to fight the urge to launch across the floor and wrap herself around the singer's cashmere top.

There was that stupid-happy, out-of-bounds feeling once again.

"So, what? Are your clocks broken, or something?"

"It was barely twenty minutes!" Dorothea scoffed, then laughed, eyeing the singer as she poured wine into one of the simmering pans. "Sorry, I didn't realize this was a business meeting."

"It's not," Taylor countered, side-eyeing her. "But that doesn't mean there isn't an agenda."

Dorothea lifted one of the lids and examined the steaming dish inside. She then glanced towards the blonde, her voice lowered, "Care to elaborate?"

Taylor took a careful, slow sip of her wine, smiling behind the glass. She then glanced over her shoulder, seeing the others wandering into the living room, then suddenly stepped to close the gap between them. She leaned to stir the pan right beneath Dorothea's chest.

"Don't you think surprises are more fun?"