Sweet Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  “And you have to keep your girlish figure,” I say, throwing one of his favorite lines back at him.

  “Exactly,” he says with a wink.

  We continue to clean up while Mumford & Sons croons out of an iPod dock in the corner of the room, and my mind starts to wander. It still amazes me that I find myself here. That I am working with Avis Phillips is shocking enough, but the fact that Taylor has been my biggest cheerleader is even more unbelievable. In all the weeks I’ve been coming here to borrow his kitchen, he’s been here every single time, ready and available to taste-test or cheer me on or make me super-spicy eggs (which I am beginning to suspect is the only recipe in his arsenal). I know from Landon that he never lacks for female companionship, so it strikes me as odd that he never has other plans when I ask to come over. No matter what I do, he ignores my grouchiness and sidesteps my bad moods, and I am utterly shocked to realize that Taylor has become one of my best friends.

  Taylor has become one of my best friends?

  It’s true. He has become one of my best friends—the best friend, if confessing my secrets to him counts for anything. And honestly, there is almost no one I’d rather hang out with now than him.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  I let out a maniacal laugh, which makes him look at me in confusion.

  I’m sure I sound like a psychopath, but seriously, when did this happen?

  “Something funny, Jennings?” Taylor says as he divides the silverware up by type.

  “Yes. No, not funny, just . . .” I look for something to say that will sound less crazy. What comes out only reaffirms the loss of my mental capacity. “You should go away with us this weekend.”

  It probably would have been better as a question, but somehow it comes out as a command.

  He doesn’t turn in my direction, but I can see him fighting a grin.

  “To your parents’ house? For the Fourth?” he asks casually.

  Wait . . . should I not have asked that?

  Maybe I shouldn’t assume that he doesn’t have plans already. I mean, just because he’s been hanging out with me constantly doesn’t mean he is without a life. Taylor is a social butterfly, and I’m sure there is a long list of parties he could attend this weekend.

  “Yeah, I mean, there’s plenty of room and everyone is going.” I scrub at the whisk in my hand hard enough to take the top layer of stainless steel off. “Landon, Miko, my siblings, my parents—”

  “You want me to meet your parents?” he teases. “Jennings, that’s so junior-year prom night of you.”

  There is no way he could know what a big deal it is for me to even have a male friend, let alone invite one to go away for the weekend. But his dismissal stings just the same.

  “Never mind.” I reach for a bowl. “It was just an idea.”

  Taylor grabs the other edge of the mixing bowl and holds it suspended between us. When I won’t look at him or release the bowl, he shakes it gently, forcing me to pay attention to him.

  “It’s a great idea,” he says softly. “I’d love to come.”

  “You don’t have other plans?”

  “I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be,” he replies.

  It isn’t really the answer to my question, but it is a good answer just the same. I have worked nearly seven days a week since I started at Dolci, and since I am working even harder on the menu for the Balmain party, Avis is letting me take a few days off. I am already excited about getting the time off for the holiday weekend, but knowing Taylor will be with us makes it more exciting. Now I just have to figure out how to tell my parents he is coming without everyone being weird about it.

  Forty-five minutes later the kitchen is pristine once again, and all my odds and ends are packed back up. Taylor insists on escorting me to my car, which is ridiculous since it is just a short walk across the lawn in one of the safest neighborhoods in Los Angeles. I argued with him over it the first few times I came to his house, but his chivalry is deeply ingrained and he won’t be budged. Now I secretly look forward to that short walk. He never does anything other than load my bags into the trunk and wait until I drive off to head back inside. What he doesn’t know is that this simple act is the most I’ve let someone take care of me in years.

  I watch as he drops the two bags inside my trunk and closes it. When he turns back my way, I freeze in place. Even with just the distant porch light illuminating his face, I can see that he wants to say something. I touch my bracelet nervously.

  “You nervous?” he surprises me by asking.

  My stomach flips over.

  Good grief, what had I expected him to say?

  “Honestly?”

  He nods.

  “Of course.” I push a hand through my hair. “I’m out-of-my-mind terrified of screwing this up.”

  His eyes fill with understanding and he smiles kindly, a look that completely sums up his character. That’s the thing I’ve learned in the last couple of months, something I think few people realize because they focus on his humor or his big personality, or the fact that he is sort of stupidly, ridiculously handsome. But I know that Bennett Taylor is utterly kind.

  That gaze continues to hold mine for one breath, then two, and then I am in his arms with no knowledge of how I got there.

  I am completely overwhelmed.

  Besides an occasional playful shoulder bump, Taylor and I haven’t touched at all. It’s like he could sense that I couldn’t handle even so much as a handshake from him, and he would have been totally right. I haven’t embraced any man other than those I am related to in more than five years. So when I find myself enfolded in his arms, my brain shuts off.

  It has been so, so long since I let someone hold me. I’d forgotten that it gives you a ridiculous sense of safety. I’d forgotten how it could nearly overwhelm you and make you believe that the arms around you would hold you up, even hold you together, if that’s what you needed.

  I drop my forehead to his shoulder. I breathe in clean laundry and sawdust, a smell that never really leaves him.

  “It’s your fight to win, Jennings, right?” he whispers into my hair.

  I nod without really moving my forehead from his shoulder.

  It feels too good to stand there. I have to make myself turn around and get in the car. At the end of the block I look into my rearview mirror.

  Taylor is still standing where I left him, watching me drive away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the end, I do have to do “the thing” for Marcus Balmain and the other food deities at his table. I am pretty proud of myself for the confidence in my voice as I explain each dish, especially as the famous young chef looks on without even a hint of a smile.

  After I finish explaining the creations, Avis nods at me, which I take as my cue to leave. I walk back to Dolci’s kitchen in the kind of mindless fog that only comes on the other side of finishing a really stressful task.

  “Well?” Ram asks as soon as they see me in the doorway.

  He and Harris are leaning against a counter drinking beers they pilfered from who knows where.

  “I think they liked it?” I say, fully aware that shouldn’t sound like a question.

  “Well, that’s probably the most you can hope for,” Ram says good-naturedly.

  “Exactly,” I agree with him, and reach out to grab the bottle he waves in my direction.

  Pedestrian or not, nothing has ever sounded as good as a beer does right at this moment.

  “On the contrary, they more than liked it,” a deep voice says from the doorway behind me. “It was exceptional.”

  I turn around to see Marcus Balmain walking towards us. His deep-hazel eyes seem to scrutinize everything in the room, including, and maybe especially, me. But when he reaches out a hand to introduce himself, he doesn’t seem quite as intimidating as that hard gaze initially made him appear. Not that he seems friendly, mind you. Even with the overly long auburn hair that curls around his face and the lashes that are so long tha
t they would seem feminine if they weren’t attached to chiseled, almost harsh features.

  I shake his hand by rote.

  “Thank you”—I swallow—“for coming over to tell us.”

  Balmain nods once and lets go of my hand.

  “Avis mentioned you were a rare talent.” He looks me over again. “I look forward to seeing what you’ll work on next.”

  This moment just gets weirder and weirder. The fact that Avis mentioned me to him at all is only barely eclipsed by the fact that he’s left his party to give me a compliment. Since when did a fledgling sous-chef rank high enough to garner the attention of someone like him?

  Whatever the answer is, he won’t be sticking around long enough to give it. He nods to the two men behind me, gives me a tight smile, and then leaves the kitchen.

  “What the—” Ram starts.

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  It isn’t until I am walking to my car an hour later, bone tired but so grateful to have made it through the dinner party in one piece, that I remember what Balmain said.

  Avis told him I am a rare talent? Avis thinks I am talented?

  I am so elated that I don’t notice the man propped against the hood of my car until I am right next to him. Oddly enough, discovering him there doesn’t even startle me, as if on some level I knew I’d find him waiting for me.

  I smile, and it’s not a little smile or a shy one or even a smirk. This is a big, Holden-ate-the-canary, all-is-right-with-the-world, ear-to-ear grin.

  Taylor’s answering grin is just as big.

  “Did you do the thing, Jennings?”

  “I sure did,” I say, opening the passenger door to toss my bag inside. “What are you doing here?”

  He covers the short distance to where I stand.

  “I wanted to see how it went,” he answers.

  “You could have texted.”

  “But then I wouldn’t have been able to take you out to celebrate,” he says, pushing both hands down into the pocket of his jeans.

  “And you’d like to?”

  “Yes ma’am.” He nods. “Anywhere you’d like to go.”

  “Anywhere?” I ask.

  “As long as they serve alcohol,” he agrees.

  I am tired and elated and wound up and emotionally spent, and there is only one place I want to be. But before I can take him there, I need some dinner.

  “I have two places in mind,” I tell him.

  “Lead on, lady,” he says.

  “This was a perfect choice,” Taylor declares between bites of his chicken taco.

  I nod happily and grab for another chip.

  “I know, right? Hugo’s is my all-time favorite,” I agree.

  I smile up at the tiny taco stand we’re sitting next to. Latin music drifts into the hot summer air around us, and people from all walks of life sit enjoying the Mexican food. The seating area has a mix of groups who are either just starting or just ending their night, and the line of cars clogging up Coldwater Canyon out front just adds to the ambiance.

  “Really?” He sounds surprised.

  “Really.” I nod. “We used to live not too far from here. Well, actually, it was Van Nuys, but the food is so good that my mom would make the trip on special occasions.”

  His raises his brows.

  “Wait, when did you live in Van Nuys? I thought you grew up in Beverly Hills.”

  I take a big bite of my taquito and have to finish it before I can answer him.

  “We moved to BH when I was nine, right after my mom married my dad. Before that we lived in different places in the valley. Deep in the valley,” I say dramatically. “But most of them were in and around Van Nuys. Mom was a flight attendant for the private airport there. It’s how they met.”

  Taylor reaches across the table and swipes a chip from my container.

  “She was working on his flight?” he asks before popping it into his mouth.

  “Yep.” I grin. “So cliché, right?”

  He grins too and takes a sip of his soda.

  “Ah, I bet they’re not cliché at all.”

  I shake my head and wipe my greasy fingers on a paper napkin before I answer.

  “They’re not, no,” I tell him. “They’re pretty great, actually.”

  “And what about your biological father?”

  What started out as an easy conversation is quickly drifting into a heavier territory than I can handle after the day I’ve had.

  “Oh, that’s the most cliché tale of all.” I try for nonchalance. “Ran out on us when my sister was born and I never saw him again. It’s OK, though,” I say when I see his face fall. “It really is. I mean, it’s embarrassing to admit that your parent ran away from home, but Charlie is truly the only dad I’ve ever known. I don’t think we could be any closer, even if we were really related.”

  Taylor looks chagrined.

  “I’m sorry,” he tells me after a minute. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  I make sure he sees it when I elaborately roll my eyes.

  “Yes, you did.” I smile at him.

  He chuckles. I love that sound. It makes me as happy as if I’d made it myself.

  “You’re right. I did,” he tells me. “Not because I wanted to talk about anything uncomfortable or upsetting; I just want to know more about you.”

  I straighten up and take a sip of water.

  “OK, what else do you want to know? Astrological sign? Birthday? Hobbies?”

  He leans back in his plastic chair and folds his arms across his chest. The kaleidoscope of artwork on his skin is no less dazzling even in the dim light.

  “I know all those things already,” he says finally. “Tell me about your mom.”

  I consider him for a moment. He probably does know little details like my sign and my birthday. Taylor isn’t the kind of person who treats people casually. He pays attention, he asks questions, and he always seems to remember the littlest detail, even if it is something I only mentioned in passing. He remembers it all, but he also guards my secrets as well as I do. For all those reasons, I once again find myself telling him more than I should.

  “My mother is wonderful and kind and supportive”—I play with the cap of my water bottle—“and a fixer.”

  I look up into his dark-brown eyes. He nods for me to continue.

  “I love her more than anyone I know.” I shake my head ruefully. “And she also drives me insane a good majority of the time.”

  “She worries about you?” he asks.

  “Constantly,” I agree. “And I don’t remember if she was always this way, or if it was just something that happened after I was diagnosed. But she’s been hyperfocused on my health for as long as I can remember.”

  “And that’s why you still don’t feel like you can tell her about your job?” he asks gingerly. “Even after all this time?”

  His face is carefully blank, and it occurs to me what he’s doing.

  “Is that where this whole conversation is leading? You’re getting around to telling me that I need to fess up to everyone.”

  I don’t know why I expect him to deny it. Taylor is always up-front with me.

  “Well, yeah,” he says with a gentle smile.

  It feels a little too much like something one of my brothers would tell me, and that pisses me off in more ways than I can count.

  “Are you trying to manage me now too?” I demand.

  “Jennings, calm down. No, don’t look away from me; listen to what I’m trying to say.”

  I sigh and force my face to relax out of a scowl.

  “You have worked so hard for months, and you killed it tonight. Do you realize that? Do you know how incredible you are, or how few people could have actually pulled this off?” He’s so sincere that it makes my heart hurt. “I’m so proud of you, Jennings. I just thought that they’d be so proud of you too, if they knew. I just want you to have that.”

  I have to put both hands down in my lap to keep from reaching for him. It’s one of th
e kindest things anyone has ever said to me, and I’m not sure how to handle all of the things it’s making me feel. If we keep this up I am either going to cry a little, or cry a lot. Either option would officially ruin the buzz from my night’s achievements and the calorie-fest from my favorite taco stand. Time to segue into something new.

  “Are you ready to hit up that awesome bar I told you about?” I ask him.

  He grins and lets me change the subject.

  “That’s where we’re going for drinks, right?” He stands up and dumps our plates and napkins into a trash can nearby.

  “Yes, sir,” I tell him. “It’s my favorite place to have a cocktail lately, and you promised to buy me a drink anywhere I wanted.”

  He smiles and pulls his keys out of his pocket.

  “Just tell me where I’m headed, Jennings.”

  “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Taylor says as he hands me a vodka soda with lime and lemon inside a small mason jar.

  I toss him a wink and grab the drink gratefully to take a sip. On the carpet below me Holden rubs his head back and forth over my legs in a play for attention until I reach out with bare toes and scratch his belly.

  The gigantic flat-panel TV is set to some show with an obstacle course where contestants compete to—I think—become a ninja. It is the exact kind of mindless entertainment my brain can handle right now.

  “This is exactly what I had in mind,” I tell him honestly. “I can’t imagine fighting our way into a bar right now. It requires energy I just don’t have.”

  I take another sip and let my head fall back on the sofa behind me as Taylor sits down at the other end while simultaneously pushing a lime wedge down into his Corona. I shoot him a look, telling him exactly what I think of his choice in beer.

  “Is this really the hill you want to die on, Jennings?” He salutes me with the beer before taking a sip.

  My only response is the roll of my eyes. Taylor and I have been arguing over his drink choices for weeks. Mostly because, while his liquor cabinet is top shelf and totally respectable, he has a bad habit of drinking from an embarrassing selection of beer.

  On the TV a contestant face-plants, and we both laugh loudly. The combined decibels must freak out Holden, because he scampers off into the other room.