TWENTY

"I had a marvelous time

Ruining everything..."

———

The pair instantly tore apart, taking off in opposite directions around the car. In those few seconds, Dorothea watched the camera strobes light up the pavement from behind her back. She could already imagine the aftermath: the glossy, cruelly-lit photo of her with tangled hair and sweatpants, beneath a barrage of neon yellow and pink font, stuffed on a magazine rack between a display of candy bars and a fridge full of Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi.

"Shit!" Taylor, putting the car in reverse, slammed the breaks as a few paps darted behind the SUV. She groaned, then smacked her hand against the horn. "These stupid motherfuckers...Move!"

Dorothea's pulse hammered as she watched them scatter like ants, lit up in the red glow of the brake lights; beer-bellied, wearing pit-stained t-shirts, and tripping over one another with cameras that could have been telescopes to see to outer space. They disappeared just as quickly as they came, though, as she felt the singer swiftly back out of the space and floor it to the Stop sign to exit the gas station.

A pang of guilt twisted into Dorothea's chest. She stared at the white plastic bag at her feet, now nauseous at the idea of that damned ice cream. It was her fault. It was her fault that at almost four o' clock in the morning, they chose to stop at a Hollywood gas station for something she would most likely vomit up later that morning, anyway, thanks to the monster growing inside of her.

Monster? Really? Another stab of guilt struck her, along with a stupid prick of tears. She was exhausted and her hormones were most definitely zig-zagging off the charts. She couldn't bring herself to look at Taylor. How cruelly ironic, that only hours before they had confided in their shared secret.

The first few minutes were quiet between them. Once they merged back onto the highway north towards Beverly Hills, though, she heard the singer sigh deeply.

"Thea...I'm—" the blonde's voice was weak, bordering on shaky, and Dorothea suddenly looked at her. "I'm so sorry," Taylor said.

She continued to stare at the singer, puzzled. Then after a moment she shook her head. "Why are you apologizing? This is my fault! If I hadn't been so fucking stubborn about this ice cream, we wouldn't have stopped—"

"I wanted to get you the ice cream," the blonde interrupted.

"But it's stupid!" Dorothea argued, "It's the stupidest fucking thing to cost you your privacy!"

"But it's not just my privacy. It's your's too, Thea. Which is why I apologized," Taylor explained, her voice faltering on the last few words. Her eyes suddenly appeared glassy in the highway lights, her red lips folded. She adjusted her grip around the steering wheel, as though trying to grasp at something that wasn't truly there. "If I had seen them—" she shook her head to herself, her tone wavering with tears.

"Taylor." Dorothea suddenly reached across the center console, wrapping a hand around the singer's arm. "You can't put that on yourself! This is my fault. I'm sorry—"

The singer shook her head again. "I just wish—"

Dorothea waited for her to continue, but when she didn't she rubbed her arm gently. "You wish for what?" She asked.

"I just wish that I could go to a gas station at four in the morning to buy a treat to comfort my pregnant girlfriend! But as soon as I've convinced myself that my life is just a little bit normal, just the teeniest bit in my control, something happens to remind me otherwise." Taylor swallowed as two tears slid down her cheekbones. "I've had relationships go up in flames because of this shit, and I told myself...I told myself I was going to do anything to keep you away from it..."

Dorothea slid her hand down the singer's forearm and laced their fingers together. She wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. She didn't have any. Despite serving high-profile celebrities and elites at The Pearl, and now working for —and dating!!— one of them, she was virtually clueless about the implications of fame. Now having had her first encounter with the consequences of it, she could understand why it drove some to shave their heads or get staggering-drunk on a daily basis. But there were plenty of others, including Taylor, who didn't do those sorts of things, so how did they cope with it?

Taylor's sniffling brought Dorothea back to the moment, and she realized the blonde was now crying steadily. She then frowned, squeezing the other woman's hand. "I don't know how you deal with it," she admitted softly.

The singer didn't seem to hear her, though, only sniffling loudly. Dorothea lifted their entwined hands and reached into the center console to grab a few tissues. She handed one to the blonde, then looked out the window ahead at the approaching exit sign for Beverly Hills. The click of the car's turn signal filled the air, and soon the highway faded behind in what Dorothea realized was the very early light of the approaching dawn.

At the end of the off-ramp, Taylor was about to signal to head east towards the Hills when Dorothea cleared her throat. "Taylor, you're shaking. Let's pull over for a few minutes," she offered, pointing in the opposite direction toward Santa Monica.

Though they didn't have much farther to go to get to the singer's house, Taylor listened and drove into a lookout point on the hill that encompassed the entire beach city, Pier, and Pacific Ocean beyond.

Once the engine was off, a peaceful silence filled the space. While Taylor took the opportunity to use the tissues, Dorothea picked up the plastic bag at her feet. As she was taking its contents out, her attention was suddenly caught by the swirls of pink and orange peaking over the horizon in the distance. Her first West Coast sunrise. Unlike the East Coast at this time of day, the city below was mostly dark. And being the only ones parked at that lookout point was strangely comforting.

Dorothea smiled, then turned and held a black plastic spoon out to the singer. "How about some sunrise dessert?" She asked.

Taylor smiled and took the spoon. The pair took turns taking bites of the peanut butter cup ice cream, both of them focusing on the city below.

After a few minutes, the singer put her utensil down and looked at her. "Thea, if we're..." she began, searching for the words, "If you choose to stay with me, I want you to know that I'm still going to do everything I can to keep you out of situations like what happened at the gas station, but I also can't guarantee it won't happen again. Because it will."

Dorothea nodded, knowing the blonde was being very serious, yet she couldn't help but smirk as she licked her spoon. "Fair enough. And if you choose to stay with me, I want you to know that I am slowly going to transform into Shamu, and when that happens you are not allowed to keep me in a swimming pool. I've decided that I want to be down there in the Pacific, so I have full access to the Pier and all of the cotton candy and ice cream my body can hold."

For the first time since they got in the car, Taylor laughed. "Fair enough. But seriously, where do you come up with this shit?"

Dorothea shrugged, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. "Just based on the photos I've seen of my mom when she was pregnant, I probably won't be able to wear shoes by month four."

"God, your body is literally attacking you," Taylor chuckled.

"And to think that I almost wasn't going to have someone to carry me when my feet got tired," Dorothea mused, looking up at her.

"For the sake of you and the baby, I will not be providing that service for you,"

Dorothea's mouth dropped. "Not even when I'm six months pregnant, after standing for four hours in a stadium taking photos of you—"

"That's what the golf cart's for."

Dorothea lifted her eyebrows. "I get a golf cart?"

Taylor laughed. "You can get rides on a golf cart, yes."

"So you have a plane, a golf cart, a few SUVs," Dorothea listed, "is there a yacht, too?"

"Fuck you."

Dorothea laughed, dropping her head on the singer's shoulder. "I'm just saying, when the time comes, I think Shamu would love a spot to sunbathe."