Taylor

I end up doing more research into the mysterious guy with the really great kissing skills once I'm in bed. It's pointless, and I'm just torturing myself, but I can't help it. My stomach is alive with butterflies at the mere thought of seeing him again, let alone doing anything more with him. But my eyes keep fluttering shut and I keep dozing off. Which is logical since I've been up for nearly thirty hours now. So I finally let myself fall asleep.

I'm harshly awoken what feels like minutes later by my phone ringing. The sun's blinding me as I grope for it, noticing it's nearly ten.

"You were really unfair to me, Taylor," Henry says as soon as I pick up. "That text was meant for you. It was meant to be romantic. I thought you’d understand that."

"But you haven't touched me in weeks," I mumble, my mouth and brain not really in synch yet.

Or maybe they are. Because my brain is a denial laden mess, and yes, I did hear a woman in the background last night, and no, Henry has never sent me poetic, romantic texts before.

"You've been so cold and distant. I wanted to be with you, but you were downright frigid the whole time you were here," Henry complains, sounding like he believes every word he just said.

"I was not," I say, but it comes out more whiny than angry. "Come on Henry. For once, treat me like a grown up."

"How can I, if you're always acting like a child?"

I sit up and brush the hair off my rapidly heating face. "You were working on your book all day every day, wouldn't even take Sundays off to be with me, and you were too tired every night. I felt so needy and invasive just trying to have a conversation with you."

"That's all on you though, how you felt," he says.

"It isn't! We’re supposed to be starting a life together, a family. Don't tell me my feelings are worthless!"

I don't even know where all this is coming from. I usually start to smooth things over once an argument gets to this point. But I'm not about to take all the blame for our failing relationship. No way. Enough is enough.

"You're the one who can't hold down a conversation," Henry says, speaking right past what I just said. Like he always does. "And I'm so sorry for having an important book to finish on a deadline. I thought you would be more understanding of that."

Me not understanding? Where does he get off?

"Well, I hope she's more understanding," I say.

"She? Are you insane? What are you talking about?"

"The woman that text was really meant for…whoever she is." There's a twinge of panic and hurt at the thought of our relationship crumbling buried somewhere deep in my heart, but it's very faint. Too faint. Maybe it's because I still need at least ten hours of sleep to get my brain back to normal. Or maybe it's because I don't really feel what I should for Henry anymore.

"There's no other woman, Taylor. Stop saying that!"

"Fine, OK. I need some time to think," I say, my voice more level now, because denial is creeping back in. What will I do without Henry? We've been together for almost four years. Of course, I'm not all butterflies in the stomach into him anymore. But I should be able to trust him. And after that text, I can't.

I do need to think. And I need to do it alone, so he won't be able to put thoughts into my brain.

"I'm going to visit my grandparents for a couple of days," I tell him. "I'll call you when I get back."

"Wait, Taylor—" The rest of his sentence is cut off as I hang up and turn my phone off.

I'm not going to visit my grandparents. I'm going to the cabin upstate, to start writing my own book and look for whatever else might happen there. I made up my mind about that last night before I fell asleep.

Even if I never see that guy again in my life, at least I'd have tried. For once, I'll do what my heart is telling me and not what is logical, normal, expected of me. And if I do run into that guy, I'll talk to him. Ask him to kiss me again. I'll say it just like that, and proper be damned.

* * *

Dad looks at me over his Sunday paper when I enter the living room. "Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Mom's sitting on the sofa, solving a Sudoku puzzle drinking her first margarita of the day. Or maybe it's already the second, or third. Who's counting? Certainly not her, and according to her none of us should be either. I’m no longer mentioning it to her, since she yells at me whenever I do.

"Yeah, thanks," I say, and Dad goes back to reading his paper.

I wander into the kitchen, biting into a croissant as I pour myself a cup of coffee. Claire comes in to refill her own cup.

"You sure you want to be eating that?" she asks. I shrug and turn away.

"It'd be a shame to ruin your diet. You lost some serious weight over the summer," she continues, pouring milk into her coffee.

I catch my reflection in the window, and realize she's right. The tank top I slept in isn't bunching up anywhere over my stomach, but my breasts are still too large, and I'll never be skinny. Not like Claire, with her size 2 at 5 feet 7. Or her long blond hair and blue eyes. I got brown for both, though at least my hair spills down my shoulders and back in thick waves, the likes of which she can never achieve. But that's my best feature, while Claire could be a model.

I put the half eaten croissant down and leave the kitchen to sit next to Dad at the dining table.

"I was thinking I'd go upstate for a week or so, to work on something," I tell him.

My mom perks up on the sofa.

"Work on what?" Dad asks. It's subtle but I can just hear the silent, Not a novel, I hope, in his voice.

"I did some research over the summer, and Henry thinks it might be a good idea to put it into a book," I say instead.

"I thought you and Henry-" Claire starts, but shuts up abruptly when I turn back to glare at her.

Dad puts down the paper, and adjusts his reading glasses. "Well, that would be something. What's it about?"

"The role of literature and the arts in developing a civilization," I explain vaguely.

"Oh, the fairy tale stuff," he says and picks up the paper again.

"What does that mean?" I ask, maybe a bit too angrily.

He shrugs and flips the page of his newspaper noisily.

"Your dad thinks you should be applying yourself to more worthwhile pursuits," Mom explains from the couch. And I'd be just fine if she didn't say it. Because then I could still interpret Dad's dismissal differently, let denial take over.

"But I think you should do whatever you want, even if your dad doesn’t," Mom adds, though that’s just her way of arguing with Dad through me, something they both do all the time, and I’m not getting into the middle of it now.

"Well, would it be OK?" I ask, tears riding my voice. "You didn't have any plans on going up to the cabin, right?"

"Oh no, honey," Mom says. "The cabin’s all yours if you want it."

We used to go up there every weekend when I was younger, as a family. But that ended a few years ago. I'm don't even remember the last time I was there. Maybe senior year of high school. Five years ago? But no, that can't be.

I did go once after that with Henry. But he got too spooked by all the nighttime noises, so that only lasted a day and a night.

"Alright, I'm going then," I say and get up.

"Have fun," Mom says and goes back to solving her puzzle. Dad doesn't even look up from his paper as he wishes me a safe trip. Taylor, the big fat disappointment everyone would rather just forget about. I should be used to it. But I still want to cry.

Claire follows me into my bedroom, sits on the bed while I pack.

"I suppose you'll be taking the car," she says and I just nod, my throat still too clenched from trying not to cry.

"So, did you talk to Henry today?" Claire asks.

I nod again, turning away from her as I transfer some of my clothes from my suitcase into an overnight bag. I hadn't unpacked yet from my trip to France, and it occurs to me that I could just take the suitcase, and get out of here that much faster. Before my resolve fades. Before I call Henry back and tell him that yeah, I was just being stupid. PMS-ing most likely.

"Won't you get scared up there all alone?" Claire asks. "I know I would."

"I'll be OK," I tell her and stuff my computer into a backpack, along with some notes and books.

"Fine, be that way," she huffs and storms off.

"Like how?" I call after her.

"All secretive and acting like you're so superior," she says, stopping in the doorway. "Go ahead, that's what you're like anyway, you can't help yourself."

My head’s spinning by the time she finishes her tirade and stands there waiting for a reply. But I have no energy right now. I just want to go before I lose my nerve.

"That's not what I'm like," I say anyway.

"Yeah, right!" she slams the door shut to punctuate it.

And maybe they're all right. Maybe I should be studying worthwhile subjects, eat less, believe when my boyfriend tells me he's not cheating on me, stay quiet, and take the criticisms.

But I'm not doing any of that right now, I'm not even thinking. I'm just going Upstate where there's a slim chance that I'll have fun, maybe even get kissed again by a hot guy who doesn't yet know just how short I fall by everyone's standards.