Today, more than ever, I need her pep and sassy boldness. Because I’m about to walk into work and give my two weeks’ notice. I promised myself I would quit before my twenty-fourth birthday, which is tomorrow.
But as one of my favorite pop star’s anthems plays through my car speakers, I don’t feel the usual confidence building in my chest. Maybe I need to go back to the early Taylor days, when she was trying to break into a music industry that only wanted her songs, not her voice or her face. Country Taylor. The Taylor who wouldn’t give up and worked and elbowed and fought her way into the Nashville elite.
I pop in a new CD—yes, I still listen to CDs, thank you very much—and skip forward to one of her earliest hits. She sounds soft-voiced and twangy here. Sweet. Little did people know the lion of a woman underneath. They know now.
Sometimes, I miss this early Taylor. I’ve given long thought to the fact that the world doesn’t seem to allow for both. Pick a lane—strong or sweet. At least, if you’re a woman. Men seem to get a free pass on this.
Take my boss, Gavin, for example. He is somehow able to be a total alpha male when it comes to business, but thoughtful and kind outside the conference room. He wears both hats well, switching seamlessly depending on the occasion. I’m not even sure which one I find more attractive.
Both are ridiculously, should-be-illegal levels of hot. Which is, at least in part, why I’m quitting.
Meanwhile, I am one note. Firm, professional, dependable Zoey. According to the other women in my office, who all hate me, Robot Zoey.
At least on the outside, my inner voice says and laughs maniacally. There’s definitely a quirky, wild side to me, but I picked my lane long ago. No sense swerving now. I’d probably end up right in the path of oncoming traffic the minute I took my hair down. Figuratively speaking. Though my hair is almost always, literally, up.
My phone begins buzzing in the cupholder where I have it charging. I forgot to plug it in last night.
“Hey, Abs,” I say.
“Uh-oh. You’re Swifting again,” Abby says in lieu of hello.
I roll my eyes. I wonder what my best friend would say if she knew that I Swifted (as she calls it) every morning before work.
“Stop being such a hater. You know what they say about haters,” I say.
“Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate,” we chorus at the same time.
I grin. Maybe I needed to start calling Abby in the morning for pep talks rather than listening to the same rotation of CDs.
“Is today the day?” Abby asks. “You’re finally going to quit or tell Gavin you’re in love with him?”
“I’m not in love with him. It’s a crush.”
“Uh-huh. Crushes don’t last two years. Just throw yourself across his desk and ask him to kiss you. See what happens!”
I shake my head at my best friend, who is also my total opposite. “What happens is I would get fired.”
“Wouldn’t you get a severance package? Win-win! And then you’d get your own chapter in Sam’s book.”
“Nope.”
That’s the last thing I want. One of our best friends and roommates, Sam, secured a book deal, writing as her famous (and secret) persona, Dr. Love. For the past few years we’ve helped supply her with real (and sometimes fake) fodder for the popular dating advice column. But the book chapters are longer, more involved, and I have no desire to have any relationship of mine be immortalized like that in print.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Abby says. “You read what she wrote about me and Zane. It was very respectful. And the names were changed.”
“It’s not going to happen. Anything romantic with Gavin or having Sam write about it. Moving on.”
“Fine. What should I get Zane for his birthday? Your brother is impossible to shop for.”
I wrinkle my nose, glad we aren’t FaceTiming. I love Abby. I love my twin brother. I even love them together.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not sometimes hard to stomach their sickeningly sweet love-fest. I’d also be lying if I deny feeling the tiniest bit jealous that the two people closest to me in the whole world now hang out all the time … usually without me.
“You can always get him another tie. He loves his ties.”
“Ugh! I’m not getting Zane a tie. Are you serious right now? I’ve just gotten the man