and sex; those were the only two parts of my so-called life that I gave a damn about anymore, and the second one I’d only really showed up for recently—when Taylor came along.
Those were the only parts of my life where she fit.
Where I had a need for her.
I’d told her when I hired her that I didn’t need anything. But that wasn’t true.
I needed a distraction from myself. And it didn’t hurt that she could help me blow off steam while I was working on this album.
I’d had Bliss before, but now I had her. The sex was better, the conversation was better, the convenience was better, and anyway, I liked her.
That didn’t mean I ever had to love her.
She might’ve liked me, but she definitely didn’t know me well enough to love me. She was a smart woman.
She’d figure out that she didn’t love me, that she couldn’t love me, long before she ever got that deep.
Chapter Seventeen
Taylor
Lonely Lonely
It was Saturday evening, and Danica had been texting me every five minutes for like an hour. I’d been jogging, then showering, and when I got out of the shower to find the string of texts on my phone, I laughed out loud to myself.
Me: Can’t wait to see you! Just picking out the perfect LBD.
I sent that text and started getting ready, searching through my many little black dresses hung up in the poolhouse closet.
I felt like I hadn’t seen my best friend forever. And clearly she was as excited about tonight as I was. It had been ten days since I saw her at Little Black Hole and we went out for lunch together; I may have been a little caught up lately with my new employer-slash-lover. But for the two of us, ten days without a hang out was way too long.
Tonight, we were having a much overdue ladies’ night.
Cary would probably be working late anyway. He never seemed to take any days, or full evenings, off.
As the sun went down tonight, we’d gone for a jog together. He wore the usual cap pulled low over his eyes, and we stuck to the quiet residential streets. We barely saw another human other than the odd car driving past and the occasional couple walking a dog. No one ever bothered us on our jogs, and so far, so good. He didn’t always join me when I asked, but sometimes he did.
I was taking that as a major achievement.
Over the past couple of weeks, the routine of Cary’s life had become very clear, and I’d adjusted to it. He worked late almost every night, even on weekends, though he rarely asked me to stay late. Being in the studio, even alone, just seemed to be his happy place. In the mornings, he usually drifted into the studio a little later than I did, which worked out just fine. It gave me a little time to get myself organized, check emails and messages, make coffee, and get things ready for him to walk in the door.
I liked the idea that there was someone there to turn on the lights for him and just get things going so he could walk into a welcoming space.
During the day, we worked together and separate. We’d go over things first, usually. I’d bring him up to speed on correspondence from Little Black Hole, Brick House, whatever important emails or calls had come in that deserved attention. We’d set up a plan for the day, set goals. He didn’t really do that before I came along and he seemed to like it. He said it helped him focus on what he needed to get done that day. Of course, that part was up to him, but saying it out loud to me and watching me write it down seemed to give him motivation to stay on track.
Whenever he had headphones on and he was deep in the music, listening or working, or if he was writing, playing one of his instruments… I made myself scarce. I went into the other room or took my laptop out to the living room or the patio.
Sometimes he asked me to come in and listen to some melody he was working on on his guitar or whatever.
I loved those moments. But what could I say? Everything he wrote sounded good to me.
My feedback usually just defaulted to I love it. Can’t wait to hear it in a song.
We’d started eating together, too. Usually I ordered takeout or I threw