by Gina Azzi
And then she opened her eyes. They slammed into me, and I recognized her instantly. Taylor Clarke. The girl who is limping around the block, clutching the arm of her friend to stay upright, taking small, steady steps to practice walking when she should be strutting down a runway.
Jesus. What the hell am I doing asking her to have coffee?
What the hell am I doing, thinking about how it would feel to run my fingers through her long, silky hair? Or graze my knuckles over the soft skin of her cheekbone? Or bring my lips down to cover hers?
What the hell am I thinking? Taylor has already suffered because of my stupidity; I don’t need to make it any worse.
Pacing back and forth in front of the only house with the blue door on the street, I wait for her. My nerves ratchet up with each passing minute as I question myself, doubt my motives, and try to figure out why she even said yes.
When she comes into view once more, my breath literally catches in my throat and I cough, pounding my fist against the center of my chest to remind my heart to beat. It's stupid how intriguing I find her. She’s a real-life angel. With a limp just because her path crossed mine.
She stops at the driveway, her friend leaning closer to say something.
I see her nod, her eyes sliding over her friend’s head to connect with mine. A beat passes between us before she tears her gaze away to look at the girl, the same friend who sat with her in the hospital, and presses a quick kiss to her cheek.
The girl rolls her eyes, but a grin passes over her mouth before she turns toward me, narrowing her gaze. She walks to the end of the stone pathway where I stand and eyes me suspiciously.
"I don't know what your game is," she starts, her voice harsh, surprisingly so given her petite size.
I hold my hands up in surrender. "I don't have a game."
The girl rolls her eyes again, and I realize she's older than I first assumed. "Men always have a game when it comes to Taylor."
My eyes find Taylor's again and the blue of a clear sky slams into me once more. Curiosity along with uncertainty burn just around her irises and I feel a surge of protectiveness to put her at ease.
"I don't. I just want to apologize. Again. For... everything."
The girl crosses her arms across her chest, staring at me for nearly a minute, as if sizing me up. "That better be all you want."
"It is."
"Good. She deserves your apology. You and your drunk friend who got off on rehab," she says this in mock shock, her eyebrows rising as if it's a big joke, "cost Tay her career. You cost her everything. So make sure your apology is a damn good one this time." She stalks past me, walking up the steps, and slamming the blue door closed behind her.
I blow out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. This was a stupid idea.
"Oh, come on now. She's more bark than bite," Taylor teases.
I look up and see her shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She’s still dawdling at the end of the driveway, her eyes guarded, her expression unsure. She's wearing tight purple yoga pants that hug every curve and an oversized white T-shirt that keeps slipping off her right shoulder. Her hair is long and wavy; so long I could fist it and wrap it several times around my wrist.
"You still want to get a coffee?" She shuffles again, and I realize I've been gawking at her like a high school freshman.
"Uh, yeah. I'd like that. There's a place a few blocks from here that has great coffee. And donuts. Kindred Spirits, have you heard of it?" I walk toward her.
"Oh, I love that place. I can drive." She nods toward an X5 parked on the street.
"We can walk if you want." I rock back on my heels, digging my hands into my back pockets to have something to do with them.
"Oh." A strange look passes over her features before she nods slowly. Her spine straightens. "Okay." She holds out a hand awkwardly. "Do you mind if I sort of hold on to you? I—"
If I could shoot myself right now, I would. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think. Of course we can drive. I can drive. Or you—"
She bites the corner of her mouth, her eyes softening, halting my rambling speech. "It's okay. I'd like to walk. I'm just really slow at the moment."
"Slow's good."
She wraps her arm around mine, her fingers clutching my wrist. We shuffle forward a few steps, my pace in sync with hers to make sure I'm not rushing her at all. "I'm Taylor by the way. Taylor Clarke."
"Carter Kane."
"Thank you. For coming to the hospital. To see me. And for the apology.” She says sincerely, glancing at me from the corner of her eye.
I nod briskly, hating that she’s thanking me for anything when I feel like I owe her so many apologies. "So, how are you?" My shoulder brushes against hers, and I step away, a zap of energy flowing between us.
She winces slightly as she trips over an uneven edge in the pavement, and I catch her elbow.
"Healing," she admits honestly. "Each week I see a bit more improvement. But it seems to be taking forever."
I nod, a flare of anger, part fire and part ice, roots in my chest. First Evie and now Taylor. When am I going to stop destroying the lives of incredible, strong women?
"Has this completely ruined your career?" I can't stop myself from asking the question, and Taylor's head whips to mine, surprised.
"You know I'm a model?"
"Yeah," I say, sliding my fingers from her elbow and letting my hand hang at my side. "My sister told me. We didn’t really get to talk that day in the hospital. I was thinking about how to get in touch with you, make sure you were okay; I never expected running into you randomly on the street."
“Small world.” She offers by way of explanation and one side of my mouth tugs up in response. Ashby County is definitely small.
We walk in silence for a few moments and I study her profile. High cheekbones, a gentle slope to her nose, the delicate curve of her neck. God, she's beautiful, but it's more than that. She’s gutsy. Agreeing to have a coffee with me, owning her limp with each step she takes. She must be feeling so lost, so adrift, with her life drastically changing just last month and yet here she is, walking next to me with an openness I didn’t expect.
Obviously, I never expected to run into her on the street; I know that this is just a coincidence. But what if it's more than that? What if it’s something else? Like fate or destiny or whatever the hell it is that Daisy is always spouting off about in her romance books? Meant-to-be?
"Um, are you still modeling?" I ask after a long stretch of silence.
"Yes."
I breathe out in relief. At least I didn't ruin her life as much as I feared.
"But not like before," she admits, pausing for a moment to bend and smell some sunflowers in someone's front garden.
I slow my pace and wait for her to straighten, so she's forced to meet my gaze. "What do you mean?"
"I lost a bunch of accounts. I was, um, the face for Adriana Rose."
"And you still can't be the face?” I ask, my voice harder than I intend it to be. What the hell? She can't be "the face" when her face is still the most beautiful one I've ever laid eyes on? That makes no damn sense.
She visibly cringes at my words, her fingers brushing over her forehead. I note the small curved scar that disappears into her hair and I bite my tongue.
"I can't really do the swimsuit shoots," she says instead, pointing to her abdomen, where I imagine a scar lurks from her surgery. "Or the fashion show." She sweeps her arm low, to encompass her legs and limp. “Or pretty much anything in New York during Fashion Week.”
My eyes close, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Jesus." Forcing my eyes open, I look straight at her, feeling the anguish and regret bubble up my throat. I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. I cost this girl so much, too much, and for what? A few beers and a BBQ with friends from high school? "I am so unbelievably sorry for everything I caused, Taylor. I am truly sorry for what you're going through because of me."
She shrugs, looking down at the ground
, and I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction, waiting for the blame she should pile on me. "It wasn't your fault. You weren't even driving."
A bark erupts from my throat, hard and angry. I shake my head, rolling my lips in between my teeth. "Does it even matter? I was still drinking like Gunner, was still wrapped up in a conversation instead of looking at the road. And now," I say, waving a hand in her direction, "you're suffering like this because of it. Because of me."
She should hate me. I've cost her her career. The way she supports herself. Hell, it could even be her passion. I don't know much about modeling, but I do know who Adriana Rose is, mainly because Daisy is obsessed with her clothes and spent an entire week staring at an advertisement for one of her gowns during prom season.
She reaches out and places her small hand on my forearm. I flinch at the contact, my eyes zeroing in on where her fingers clasp my arm.
"It's okay.” She huffs out a breath, shaking her head. “Okay, it’s not okay. I’m angry and resentful and feel like shit every time I look in a mirror. The entire thing sucks. Big time. But I’m not angry with you. Honestly. I’m angry at the circumstances, I’m angry with Gunner Scott for drunk driving. I’m angry with myself for being more upset over my scar than is logical. But not at you. You, I forgive.” Her voice is low, but her words are steady.
"Don't forgive me." My voice turns harsh, my eyes boring into hers with desperation for her to understand that I'm not worthy of her forgiveness. That I deserve the worst because I'm capable of it. That what happened with the accident was the tail end of a streak of poor decisions and thoughtlessness on my part. "I don't deserve it."
She offers me a small shrug and slips her hand from my arm. Immediately, I feel the loss of her touch, the tiny jolts of electricity disappearing.
We walk in silence for a few moments as my anger recedes, and I begin to feel foolish. My apology to her somehow turned back into being about me and I hate that. I want her to understand how much regret I feel for what happened, for the accident. The air between us shifts and grows into quiet comfort. Into a normal I've never felt with a girl so soon before.
I wrack my brain for something, anything, to say.
"Do you live around here?" she asks, breaking the silence.
"Not too far. A few blocks from Raf's Bar and Grill."
She nods.
"You ever been?"
Her mouth lifts slightly, and she shakes her head, a look I can't decipher crossing her features. "No. Never," she breathes out, wistful-like.
"I'll take you sometime," I offer, mentally stabbing my eye with a fork for being so presumptuous, so casual. For acting like we're going to be friends after I was in a car that could have killed her just a month ago.
She snorts, her face wrinkling as if the sound surprised her. But it's genuine and real and the best goddamn music I've ever heard. "I may take you up on that."
I relax a little, her easy confidence, the way she owns every step, limp be damned, comforting me. This chick is a total badass and with each step we take, I want to learn more about her, to see past her physical looks and understand why she sounds wistful or what exactly made her laugh.
The realization slams into me, causing my steps to falter.
"Keep up," she chides, her tone teasing.
I chuckle, falling under her spell just a little more.
I'm known for being a charmer, a sweet-talker, a bullshitter. But damn if Taylor Clarke isn’t pulling me into her orbit. She’s effortlessly charming, genuinely honest. She’s refreshing.
Kindred Spirits comes into view. A coffee shop and bakery decorated with big armchairs, cushy ottomans, humongous windows, and a bookshelf that stretches the back wall of the place; it's a favorite town hangout. Plus, the donuts.
When Taylor and I step inside, a few heads swivel in our direction, and words are murmured behind lifted coffee mugs. I ignore them all and am pleased to see Taylor does, too, although I'm not sure if it's blatant on her part or if she's immune to the extra attention.
"What would you like?"
"Oh, that's all right. I—" She feels around her hip. "I forgot my bag." She ducks her head, the apples of her cheeks tinging a delicate pink. "So, a caffe mocha and a... donut, please."
"You got it." I step up to the counter and place our order, chatting pleasantly with the barista. Beside me, Taylor doesn't even notice. Her eyes are trained on the bookshelf across the back wall, and she goes to take a bold step in its direction before faltering.
I reach out quickly, clasping my hands around her waist, breathing hard as my hands almost wrap around her entire frame.
"You okay?"
She fumbles into me and nods. "Yeah, sorry. I forgot." She cringes and the look of desperation that passes over her face causes my chest to ache.
"Carter, your order's up," Tiffany yells out from the other end of the counter.
"Thanks, Tiff." I grab our drinks and the bag with half a dozen donuts before steering Taylor over to a comfortable corner near a window overlooking the street.
She settles gently into the armchair, propping her left leg on an ottoman in front of her and turns to me, her fingers sweeping to encompass the bakery. "I love it here. It’s so peaceful."
"Me too." I sit down, breaking off a piece of donut from the bag and passing it to her.
She pulls out a donut and bites directly into it like a little kid, brushing the powdered sugar flakes away from her mouth with the back of her hand.
I pause for a moment, watching her, enjoying her enthusiasm for something as simple as a donut.
"They have the complete works of F. Scott Fitzgerald." She juts her chin in the direction of the wall of books.
Oh.
"Even all of his short stories and letters."
"Wasn't The Curious Case of Benjamin Button based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald?" I wonder aloud.
Taylor's eyes brighten and she nods. "Yes. He published it in 1922."
"Wow." Clearly, reading is something she loves. Even though it's an awful stereotype, I expected her to be more interested in discussing fashion than literature, but the way her eyes light up as she tells me about the character arc of Benjamin Button is captivating.
"What's your favorite book by him?" I ask when she pauses.
"This Side of Paradise," she replies without hesitation.
"Not The Great Gatsby?"
"You do know he wrote more than that one novel, right? I swear, everyone is always talking about and referencing The Great Gatsby, but Fitzgerald has tons of literary works that are just as thought-provoking."
"The Beautiful and the Damned is mine." I admit, studying her expression. She shifts slightly in her chair and I catch the small scar that nicks her forehead again. I take another gulp of my coffee, glad when the scalding liquid burns the back of my throat.
She regards me, almost shyly, before taking a sip of her mocha coffee. "Why?"
I settle back in my armchair and munch on a bite of donut while I make sense of my thoughts. Taylor watches me curiously, her eyes taking on a hopeful gleam as she leans closer and waits for my response. Suddenly, I feel nervous, like I’m not sure what the correct answer is and I don’t want to say anything to disappoint her.
"Their, Anthony and Gloria's, fascination with their own past, the way they escape into it instead of living in the circumstances of their reality, really stuck with me after I read the book. Besides, the obvious themes of marriage and being faithful in marriage, and the economic aspect of living above one's means, I think one of the most important aspects of the plot is purpose. If all Anthony does is wait around for an inheritance, without any other hobbies or passions to develop him, well, of course he'll end up an alcoholic. If Gloria only has her looks and doesn't care to focus on anything but her own beauty, then of course, she spirals as time goes on. What was the purpose for either one of them? To me, I like the book because it reminds the reader that as great as the past may have been, the good ol' days and all that, if yo
u use it as an escape, then you lose your purpose and will have no chance in your current circumstances." I take a large gulp of my coffee, meeting Taylor's eyes as she stares at me, her mouth hanging open slightly.
"Wow."
I chuckle. "It wasn't that impressive."
She shakes her head and blushes, pressing her fingers to her lips. "No, it's not that. I mean, you articulated your point well. I just, I didn't expect you to say that."
"Sort of like judging a book by its cover?"
She nods. “But it’s completely hypocritical. I can’t stand it that people always assume I’m only interested in fashion or manicures, as if I have no other hobbies or thoughts.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “Sorry for being so quick to judge.”
"I'm guilty too. I mean, I didn't take you for a reader," I admit, waiting for her to snap at me for admitting that I am exactly the type of person she can’t stand, but she just snorts, rolling her eyes.
"That line of thinking is very This Side of Paradise."
"Touché." I agree, raising my donut at her. "So, why is that your favorite book?"
Her expression changes, morphing from open and amused to contemplative in the blink of an eye. "I think because Armory spends the entire book trying to find himself. Or understand himself. And he realizes pretty early on that good looks will only get you so far." She shrugs, popping another donut bite in her mouth.
But something about her words lands wrong. And I see it in the twist of her lips, the aversion of her gaze, the slight hunch of her shoulders. She sees pieces of herself in Armory Blaine. And she's searching right along with him.
Raising my coffee mug to my lips, I let the hot steam wash over the lower part of my face before I take another gulp. "What are your hobbies and interests? If you put fashion aside." I ask, teasing her, pulling her back from wherever her thoughts disappeared to.
Her face morphs again, her eyes brightening and her posture straightening. "I love reading, obviously. Especially the classics. And poetry.”
“Do you write any?”
She squirms in her chair, suddenly uncertain. “Sometimes.”
I nod, popping another donut bite into my mouth. “That’s cool. What else?”