THREE

"Nice to meet you

Where you been?"

———

Dorothea wasn't going to fall asleep.

After closing her last table, she'd taken an 11:27 R-train to Astor Place, then walked east to her apartment on St. Marks. A shaky, uneasy feeling had taken over her limbs as she traveled down the darkened street. There was also a faint smell of marijuana drifting from an unknown window that had met her senses with unusual strength. It was strange because she'd always had such a horrible sense of smell (One of the reasons she had crossed culinary school off the list - not being able to tell if food was spoiled wouldn't have exactly been a great start). But the powerful scent of weed that she was suddenly able to detect had her wondering —once again— if It was to blame.

Now, Dorothea was sealed in her bedroom, wide-awake, with Oliver laying at her feet. She hadn't even glanced at the living room when she entered the third-level apartment, certain that the sight of the green-striped couch would make her sick. For the past couple of hours—perhaps more, she had no idea—she'd laid on top of her sheets, still wearing her work clothes as she stared at the shadows on the ceiling from the moonlight hitting the blinds.

As Dorothea's mind raced, tripped, stumbled, and then raced again, she subconsciously kept her hand resting on her abdomen. As though that would protect the innocent thing inside of her from her complicated, fearful thoughts.

Who would she tell first? She'd decided on the subway ride that it definitely wouldn't be Nick. She then thought about telling her good friend and former college roommate, Sophie. But Sophie was always so busy; busy using the degree she'd finished to save the whales or find a way to stop hurricanes from wiping out vulnerable populations. What Sophie was involved in was much more important than picking up the pieces of Dorothea that shattered from her mistakes. And she'd done plenty of that already.

There were her brother, sister, and mother, but they were all in Texas, so it'd have to be over the phone. She winced at the thought. Her mother had always been vocal about her disapproval of Dorothea's choice to go to college in Manhattan. And when she'd dropped out of NYU two years into her degree, her mother's negative opinion became a permanent element in every conversation. It certainly didn't help that the woman absolutely hated her personal-trainer, borderline-alcoholic ex-boyfriend, either.

She definitely couldn't tell her older brother, Dean. His first reaction would be towards Nick, and it'd be volcanic (even though she was partly to blame, because she'd very willingly agreed to sex and —very regrettably—enjoyed it). Dorothea knew he wouldn't even hesitate to buy the next flight to JFK to personally beat the living shit out of her ex. Her brother had only been waiting for a reason to do so ever since Nick had cheated on her the year before.

The cheating.

The memory of that alone made her feel nauseous and like an absolute fool. She didn't want to think about it.

That left her older sister, Maeve. Maeve was always the easiest to talk to, but it would be hearing her disappointment—an Oh, Thea-type reaction—that would bring Dorothea to involuntary tears. It didn't help that her sister was happily engaged, holding a degree and nearly done with med school, on her way to become an OB-GYN. The irony.

But Maeve was her best friend, and even though she'd be disappointed, Dorothea knew that her concern was always out of love. Which was exactly what made it so hard to pick up the phone. Maeve would answer right away—no matter what time it was—and the sound of her soft-spoken, silvery voice coming disembodied through the receiver across time zones would instantly send Dorothea into a blubbering, dry-heaving spiral.

Dorothea suddenly sat up, sighing in frustration. She needed to talk to someone, regardless of his or her reaction. Being alone with the knowledge of It made it feel like her bedroom walls were caving in on her. Hell, it seemed easier to run out of her apartment and onto the sidewalk and shout it to the entire block. Scream it out into the darkness for the ears of perfect strangers. I'm pregnant! There is a human child growing inside of me because I fucked my toxic ex on New Years' Eve! And yes, I'm telling you before him!

Dorothea leaned over and grabbed at the strap of her purse on the floor, causing a flutter of minty-green bills to scatter across the hardwood. Hundred-dollar bills. Nothing of that value had ever touched the century-old floors in her apartment; her bed frame was found next to the dumpster behind the dorm she used to live in.

The money on the floor didn't even seem like it belonged to her. It looked like what would be left on the sidewalk if one of the strip clubs on Park Ave opened up their doors on a windy day. But leaving it on the floor didn't seem right, either. Leaving Taylor Swift's money on the floor.

Dorothea reached and gathered the crisp bills, neatly stacking them over one another, then opened her nightstand drawer and tucked them beneath an issue of Vogue. She suddenly felt exhausted, yet still wired, so she took her phone from her purse and sat back against the pillows.

Dorothea's face lit up against the blue glow from the screen as she scanned her apps. As if on autopilot, she tapped Instagram and watched a series of recent photos jump to the top of her feed. She mainly used the app to look at fashion. Designers, trends, art, runway photography; fashion was the reason she'd moved to New York City. She had dreamed of being an editor or photographer for one of the top fashion magazines ever since she was eleven, when her Nana bought her her first copy of Vogue. Something at that moment had lit up inside of her; the colors on the glossy pages, the confident models, the bold patterns and striking fabrics.

But she had made too many regrettable choices in the Before, and that dream had long since evaporated.

Dorothea scrolled, mindlessly double-tapping the screen every now and then. Several posts down, she stopped mid-swipe on a photo posted by Taylor Swift.

There was no location, but she knew it was taken at The Pearl. The photo was captured at their table in the Garden Lounge. Taylor was posing in the black and red gown, with her glass of champagne held to her lips. Her blue eyes were striking in the dim lighting.

Dorothea glanced down at the caption:

Baby, let the games begin 🐍.

She frowned slightly, not exactly sure what that meant. She'd only loosely followed the news about the pop singer in recent years. Dorothea knew the snake emoji represented her taking back control of the narrative that people had tried to use to tear her down. As Dorothea thought she should. Though uncertain of the exact details, she never agreed with what was done towards that woman.

The public disgrace Taylor received only seemed that much more bizarre after their encounter in the bathroom, not to mention the seven-hundred dollar tip currently in her bedside drawer. But if there was one thing Dorothea had learned about malicious acts, it was that jealousy was often the driving force.

She double-tapped the screen, causing a heart to flash across the photo.

Even though she could barely speak to Taylor earlier that night, their encounter had confirmed her positive feelings about the singer. Taylor also looked good in that photo. Really good. The image had very strong I don't give a fuck vibes, and Dorothea appreciated that. She could tell Taylor Swift was a strong woman.

It was definitely attractive.

Dorothea ended up scrolling through the singer's posts, liking a few older ones here and there; not like Taylor would ever know. There was no way she had her notifications on. Her phone would probably explode, or something. After several minutes, Dorothea felt her eyes finally start to grow heavy, and she dropped her phone face-down on the nightstand.

She decided she would listen to Reputation on the subway ride to work the next day.

———

Taylor, a sometimes-hopeless insomniac, was fooling around on the piano when her phone suddenly vibrated on the bench at her side. She frowned curiously as she picked up the device. It was almost 3am.

A direct message from Gigi on Instagram. Possibly about the photo she posted. Or maybe it was one of the klutzy, adorable cat videos she was constantly sending her from that one account. She tapped the notification and watched the app light up across the screen. Much to her disappointment, it was about her photo (she'd really been hoping for cats). After typing a quick response to the model, Taylor swiped back to the main screen, then tapped on her notification wall.

dorothea_jane94 liked your photo      2:09am

...

dorothea_jane94 liked your photo      1:47am

dorothea_jane94 liked your photo     1:46am

dorothea_jane94 liked your photo    1:46am

...

dorothea_jane94 liked your photo.   1:44am

There were several more of those notifications as Taylor scrolled. Dorothea? Dorothea! Her eyes widened with intrigue. The girl who had served them at the restaurant earlier. The girl she had run into before that, crying at the restroom sink. Her expression fell at the memory. She hoped that whatever was troubling her had maybe been resolved. But something told her the girl wouldn't have been awake that late if it was.

Taylor stood with her phone, sliding the cover over the piano keys. The blonde yawned deeply as she kept her eyes on the device and began slowly walking down the hall towards her bedroom.

She tapped on Dorothea's profile.

The blonde then read the bio beneath her username:

Dorothea Jane Madison ~ 24

DALLAS, TX ☀️ ——> NYC 🌃

Yes, I still have a southern accent.

Taylor smiled, scrolling through the girl's photos. Her feed had themes. The most recent being rows of high-contrast, black-and-white photos. She tapped on one of them and examined the image—Dorothea, and what looked like possibly her siblings and mother, posing in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree. It was a very artful, articulate photo. Between the lighting and the color, it seemed like Dorothea put a lot more thought into it than a typical tourist post.

Her choice of fashion was also a style of its own. While the people she was posing with were in neutral winter outerwear, the girl wore a striking gray, fur-looking vest over a black leather jacket, black ripped jeans and dark velvet heels. Her hair came just past her shoulders, sleek-straight and parted at the center. The neutral, slightly-parted-lips expression on her face made it seem like she was posing for a magazine, rather than a family photo.

Taylor smiled curiously as she moved the covers on her bed and slid beneath them. She swiped back to the girl's profile and looked at a couple more photos. They all had that same vibe of confidence, with outfits to match. The Dorothea on Instagram added a whole new dimension to the girl that she'd encountered by chance in the restroom and the server at The Pearl.

She suddenly wanted to know everything about Dorothea Jane Madison, in the same way that a particular stranger catches your eye, and they're all you think about the rest of the afternoon. Taylor's mind spun with interest as she swiped back to the main page of the girl's profile.

She paused for a moment, biting her lower lip. She then pressed the side-buttons on her phone to take a screenshot, turned off her phone, and put it face-down on the nightstand.