TWENTY-ONE

"...Give you the silence that only comes when two people understand each other..."

———

March 19th, 2018

The first call came seven-and-a-half hours later.

In the midst of sleeping off her jet-lag, Dorothea startled awake when her phone rattled loudly on the nightstand. She blinked several times, her blurry eyes darting around in an attempt to recognize the large, white-walled space. When she pawed the obnoxious device off of the furniture, she managed to swipe the Call button and mumble, "Hello?"

"Thea?" It was Maeve. The volume of her voice launched Dorothea up into a sitting position. "Thea? Hello—"

"Hey—hi," she cut in, clearing her dry throat. She wasn't nearly awake enough. "What's—How are you doing?" She asked.

A moment passed before her sister answered, "I'm good, Babygirl." She laughed. "Sounds like I woke you up. Isn't it almost noon in LA?"

"Ah, yeah it is. My flight got in around—" Dorothea froze. She never told Maeve she was going to LA. She never mentioned the job. Or the woman whose Beverly Hills king-size bed she was currently sitting in. Her sister's work schedule had been a nightmare during the three weeks Dorothea was in Dallas, and Taylor had —conveniently— showed up for the only one for which Maeve had night shifts at the hospital. While she slept during the day, Dorothea also —conveniently— avoided the arduous task of explaining her new...situation.

Evidently, though, Maeve had managed to discover a few details.

"Around three am?" Her sister guessed.

Dorothea took the covers off her lap then pulled her knees up to her chest, watching as one of the singer's cats appeared in the doorway. "How do you know I'm in LA?" She asked.

Maeve laughed. "You really overestimate our mother's capability of self-control..."

"Seriously?" Dorothea groaned. "She promised she wouldn't tell anyone!"

"First of all, I'm offended. How could you tell Mom you had a job working for Taylor Swift before me—"

"Who else did she tell?"

"Dean."

Dorothea sighed, holding her face in her palm. "Anyone else?"

"Not that I know of."

She sighed again, this time heavily, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. "So let me guess, you also saw the photo?"

"What photo?"

Her eyes shot open. "Oh—no. Never mind. Don't worry about it—"

"Thea, what are you talking about?" Maeve asked, "Where are you even staying? Are you in one of the hotels downtown? It better not be that one by the Walk of Fame that got busted for a drug-trafficking operation last month—"

"No, it's not—Okay, actually, I've gotta go so, talk soon. Kay?" Dorothea hung up the phone and dropped it onto the immaculate white sheets beneath her.

She had less than three minutes to contemplate how long it would take any of her family members to see the photo before the second call came in. It was from her doctor, all the way back in Manhattan. Dr. Marshall was calling to just check-in on how she and The Little One were doing. Dorothea had responded that they were doing Just fine! Thanks! despite the fact that she completely skipped her March appointment and was vomiting basically every day.

She suddenly felt less bad about hanging up on her sister, knowing the future gynecologist would have eventually turned the conversation to that exact same subject. For once, though, she couldn't let her stress about the baby —who was now between the size of a cherry and a plum?!— be a priority.

After she made a tentative April appointment with Dr. Marshall (while rambling far too long about a New Job, New Relationship, Traveling, all of the excuses the doctor didn't ask to hear about) the third call came just as she was finally motivated to get out of bed.

"Dorothea? It's Will Gray—" Oh god. The Pearl. She'd planned on calling and quitting right after she signed the paperwork to officially work for the singer. But since that was one of the tasks on the list for their trip to LA, and they had only just gotten there hours before, it obviously hadn't happened yet. All throughout her "absence", she'd secretly hoped they would just sort of...forget about her. Lots of people left The Pearl without notice. It wasn't exactly polite to abandon ship, but it was common in the restaurant industry. Perhaps —as she learned—there were more desirable opportunities, and those only made people realize how terrible it was to spend a life sprinting around a room carrying hundreds of dollars worth of food and drinks, for shit pay in return.

"I hope everything is okay and just wanted to check in—" There it was again, that phrase "and see how you're doing?" The manager inquired. "I realize you left during an, uh—emergency family matter that you needed to take care of, with no exact return date in mind, but we're in the thick of Awards Season and tourism is picking back up so we could really use all of the staff we have—"

"Sorry, yeah, I understand," Dorothea cut in, "Um...Actually. Well—" Just spit it out!! "—I'm not sure when I'm going to be back in New York. And at this point it's probably best for me to...leave. The Pearl, I mean. I'm sure there's someone else, I mean, there probably is, who would want to fill my spot—" She suddenly stopped and squeezed her eyes shut.

"No, Dorothea please, don't quit—" Her eyebrows lifted in surprise at his tone. Will had never been the desperate type. It didn't exactly fit the personality of someone who managed one of Manhattan's most exclusive restaurants.

"You're one of our best servers!" He continued, "Since you left we've had several of our regulars asking for you. You're one of the few left who have been here long enough to help train new staff...I realize it's not ideal, definitely not the highest paying job, but we can talk about that. You have the experience, I can get the owner and we can discuss it..."

"Um...Okay—" What the hell was she doing? Less than a minute ago she quit! "No. Will, I'm sorry," she apologized, twisting her mouth as though she tasted something sour. She was about to add, I got another job! but she knew he would spew out follow-up questions like bullets from a shotgun. It wasn't worth dancing around the subject —because telling Will that she was working for Taylor Swift would have definitely violated the stacks of papers covered in her purple-inked signatures— and lying didn't feel quite right, either.

After another few minutes of the manager trying to convince her otherwise, Dorothea settled that if there was a large private event and he gave her enough notice, she might be able to help out. Initially, it helped her feel less badly, but as soon as she hung up she regretted it. For a moment she imagined being in a sea of a screaming crowd, fireworks and sparks and smoke shooting in every direction, the bass of the music pulsing through her limbs, trying to get a shot of Taylor as she waltzes out onto the stage, when suddenly her phone rattles in her pocket and Will is asking her if she'd be able to come in and train staff on the new summer drink menu.

Why was she just so, absolutely incapable of being straightforward with people?

Dorothea flopped down on the bed. Her groan that followed was mixed with the sound of the bedroom door creaking open and light footsteps.

"Hey, I just got off the phone with Tree and—" Taylor stopped when her eyes landed on her, then laughed curiously. "Everything okay?"

"I need to tell my family I'm bi," she said, her voice muffled through her hands covering her face. "Also, I skipped my last doctor's appointment and I think I only sort-of quit my other job."

Though her eyes were closed, she sensed the singer approaching the bed and lowering herself at her side.

"First of all, there's no rush to tell your family anything," Taylor noted.

"Well, it's either that or wait for another surprise photo attack in a gas station parking lot. But I guess they may have already seen the first one. Or one of them has, anyway."

"It's possible, but not likely,"

"Really?"

"That's what I was on the phone with Tree about. Apparently the photo gained some traction on social media, but she tracked down the sources and got as much of them taken down as possible. The pap ones, that is," the blonde explained, "but unfortunately we don't really have control over what circulates among fans or other private accounts. The point is, though, unless any of your family members are hanging out in those groups, I'm pretty sure they're not going to see it."

Dorothea twisted the sheets between her fingers, relieved for a moment, but then her eyes widened. "Wait. Tree's seen it?" She asked. "Oh, god—No. Am I going to get fired?"

"What?" Taylor laughed. "No, of course not—"

"Well, I don't know!" Dorothea said helplessly, "Most jobs aren't exactly supportive of employees getting involved with their boss."

Taylor laughed again, then rested her hand on the other woman's fidgeting fingers. "Thea, I'm going to sound repulsively stuck-up when I say this, but working for me is not like 'most jobs'."

Dorothea hummed, keeping her eyes on the singer's hand. "So fame does make you special."

"Hey, if you can think of a better way for me to refer to my obnoxious career when I have to, I'm all ears, Babe."

Her heart suddenly fluttered. "Your career isn't obnoxious."

"But fame is."

"It's kind of what you signed up for."

"Yeah."

The pair met each other's gaze. Though neither of them was smiling, Dorothea sensed it in the singer's eyes. The bedroom could have burst into flames and she still would have used every last bit of her charred grip to stay trapped in their perfect silence. They continued looking at one another, Dorothea finding herself being swallowed by the waves while also trying to guess what Taylor was thinking about. Perhaps nothing. Or everything. Or perhaps, like Dorothea, she was perfectly content with letting herself drift. It seemed a lot less scary to float in the eyes of the one person who kept you from losing yourself completely.

"I want to come out to my family soon," Dorothea said quietly.

"Okay," the singer agreed softly, lacing their fingers together.

"Before the first tour date."

"Okay."

Dorothea nodded, as though convincing herself. Her face then fell. "I have to get another ultrasound soon."

Taylor nodded. Dorothea could tell she was trying to form a reasonable response to her spontaneous list. All she managed to say was, "I'll be here for you."

Dorothea smiled appreciatively, though the words didn't seem to penetrate her stress like she would have hoped. She fell back against the pillows, moaning, "Ugh, I feel sick."

The singer straightened, suddenly alert. "You need to throw-up?"

She hummed. "At some point, probably."

"Okay, I love you, but I think we can both agree this would be better handled in the bathroom that's less than ten feet away—"

Dorothea's eyes shot to the other woman's. "What was that?"

"What?"

"What did you say, right before suggesting I drag myself out of this bed and lay down next to the toilet?" Dorothea prompted, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Taylor looked at her. There was a smile playing beneath her expression as well when she slowly leaned toward her and whispered, "I love you."

The blonde's eyes were so close that she could almost see the reflection of her own; gold and green swirling in a sea of rich, dark sapphire.

"I love you, too."

———

March 23rd, 2018

"You're really getting close to ruining peanut butter for me."

"Do you want me to apologize?"

"I want you to develop another craving. What about French fries?"

"Tried it. Baby said, 'fuck you'."

Taylor burst about laughing. "That's some vocabulary on someone no bigger than a golf ball."

Dorothea spread another bit of peanut butter on an apple slice and took a bite. The pair were currently breaking for lunch during the first day of rehearsal with the official stage that would be used for every city on the tour. "What can I say? The ping-pong ball and I have our creative differences," she explained.

Taylor sipped her iced coffee. "Maybe giving the baby a proper nickname would help."

"Okay. Ping-pong ball it is."

"No."

"Why?"

Right as Taylor was about to lecture the woman on referring to her baby as an inanimate object, Tree appeared in the doorway to the dressing room. The pair fell into almost comedic silence, as though they were high schoolers getting caught fooling around beneath the bleachers.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Tree said, smiling as she took a stack of papers out of her tote along with a pen.

"No more than you usually do," Taylor said, earning a surprised look from the younger girl, who wasn't quite yet familiar with their dynamic.

Tree chuckled, "I'm aware that most things I do aren't convenient. I'd be more than happy to let you meet with lawyers and deal with the press, if you're looking for something to entertain yourself with."

Taylor hummed. "I prefer being the entertainment."

The manager laughed sharply. She then held out one of the packets toward Dorothea. "Thea, once you've finished eating, would you mind reading and signing these? It's the contract for the photographer position."

Dorothea agreed, and for the next few minutes the group chatted about the rehearsals, launch dates, and announcements. Though the conversation was light, Taylor was very aware of the subject that was looming over the space. It was obvious they were all thinking about the photo. She wanted to ask Tree if it was still lingering on social media but at the same time, she didn't really want to know. If there was one thing she discovered in the past two years, it was that she was a lot happier not knowing.

Less than a minute after Dorothea completed the paperwork, the brunette's phone rattled on the adjacent table. Taylor grew puzzled as she watched the girl frown at the screen, then quickly excuse herself into the hallway.

"Taylor," Tree spoke, scanning the paperwork that the younger girl gave back, "did Dorothea mention to you that she's pregnant?"

"Yeah." The singer nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the brunette in the hallway. "She did."

———

The fourth call came from an unknown number, approximately ninety-six hours after the first.

And it also ended up being the only person who saw the photo.

"Thea?"

His voice wove into her mind, triggering a sensation like that of tearing open Pandora's box. Dorothea swallowed, the dryness scratching her throat. "Nick?"

"That's you in that photo."

"What?"

"I know it's you. I recognized the fucking Balenciaga boots I bought you for your birthday last year," he grilled. "What the fuck, Dorothea Madison?"