Chapter Text
She’d had a feeling.
Had known; the location, the groom, the fact that Taylor would not fucking stay home, had been parading around the city all weekend with her stupid boyfriend. The chances of her being there were high; higher than normal, and Karlie had dressed appropriately – though, she’s not entirely sure what counts as appropriately when you’re about to see your ex-girlfriend of five years for the first time in five years. Up close. Where she’ll maybe, or maybe not, speak to you.
But she’d held out hope – or maybe it wasn’t hope, maybe she’d wanted Taylor to go, she’s not sure.
And then she’d received a text, Derek’s stupid poop-memoji, a guest list, Karlie, jesus christ.
Now she’s on her bathroom floor, wondering if it’s evil to call out sick for the wedding of one of her best friends. Whether they’ll be able to tell, whether she could pull off a stomach bug and not a I don’t want to see your husband-to-be’s guests.
They’d see right through her. They always do.
She’s not one to panic, but she’s alone in her house for the first time in forever and she still has an hour until she has to leave and it just hits her, hard and fast, and she has to keel over on her hands and knees so her tears don’t stain the dress she’s picked up.
The car comes for her, twenty-five minutes later, and she wipes her face, takes a breath, and walks with her head high.
Taylor is drunk.
This in itself is unsurprising. Taylor’s drunk a lot, these days.
Or so Karlie hears. She doesn’t spend a lot of time with Taylor anymore. Drunk or not.
But this had been unavoidable. She wasn’t one to ruin someone else’s night, especially if that someone else was one of her closest friends. It didn’t matter that Taylor was there, because Karlie was going to swoop in and out, make her rounds, and claim exhaustion, be home before midnight. Taylor didn’t phase her, and neither did her macho man weirdo fucking boyfriend, and it definitely didn’t phase her that Taylor looked – off.
So she hasn’t had eyes on her all night. She hasn’t been distracted once, almost spilling champagne down her front. She has not kept glancing back over, swallowing a wince whenever she met Travis’s eyes. None of that has happened, because Karlie doesn’t care.
Except she does. Except Taylor has puffy eyes and this far-away, lost sort of look on her face. Except Taylor’s hand is clutched in Travis’s and he just leads her, and Taylor follows him like a lost little cat, and Karlie does care, very, very much.
It’s not her job to care. Not anymore.
She’d like to scull her champagne, but she has a little poise, more class than her drunken counterpart, swaying unsteadily on her feet across the bar. She watches, hidden, as Taylor downs another shot. Swallows. Turns back to the person she’s having a conversation with, says sorry, what was that?
Taylor finds her an hour later.
Karlie’s waiting in the bathroom line; her bladder isn’t quite so good, not after two kids. She has eyes on her phone, checking on said children, when there’s a crash from within the bathroom, a muted fuck, and some rumbling.
She raises an eyebrow. Waits.
Another crash, a much more obscure curse word, and then the door flies open and Taylor falls against her, phone flying from her hand.
“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry, I’m so – let me grab that for ya, let me just, yeah, get it, get it…”
She’s bent, and she sways, and Karlie wraps a hand around her elbow and steadies her, her face flushed as she comes back up, phone clutched, a victorious here!
The phone turns on, screensaver Levi’s little face, and Taylor’s face drops.
“Oh, god,” she says, gurgling. “Oh god. Oh god.”
“Hi,” Karlie says carefully, tugging at her phone. “That would be mine.”
“Oh, god.”
Those eyes, blank all night, lost and empty – turn up to hers, and Taylor Alison turns, drops her phone, and throws herself back into the bathroom to throw up.
Karlie is very aware of this practice.
She steps in behind, tugs sweaty curls off a warmer neck, and says – “Maybe we lay off the drinks, hmm?”
“Nah.” Taylor wipes her mouth, back of her hand, grimaces as she stands on wobbly feet. “’M… so good. Boot ’nd… rally.”
“Rally home, maybe.”
“Psh. No. Trav – Trav wants to, uh, to go out? And then – I don’t know. You don’t care. Hey, why are you – oh, god, I was trying so hard, and I failed.”
Karlie helps her over to the sink, her hands brushed off. Taylor clutches at porcelain, very steadily not looking at herself in the mirror, lights casting gaunt shadows across her cheeks. “Trying to do what?’
“Not run into you!” A small huff, mouth swished out. “I was doing so good, right? Didn’t even, uh, come find you, didn’t – I wanted to, kinda, I wanted to come say hi ’cause I didn’t think you’d actually come, and – I really need another drink, Karlie, do you wanna come get a drink with me?”
“I’ll come get you water, yes.”
Taylor glares at her, soft and youthful, lets her put a gentle, guiding palm over the small of her back until they exit the bathroom, and then she’s off, twirling forward, unsteady on her toes.
Karlie hurries after her, catches up at the bar. Orders herself a cosmo, because fuck does she need it; Taylor a glass of soda water that she promises has vodka in it (it most definitely does not).
“Hey,” Taylor says, loopy, draping herself across the bar as Karlie takes the seat beside her. “You think someone’s gonna be mad we’re – here?”
“At the bar?”
“Noooo. Together. At this, this wedding. Oh my god, remember when you got married? That was crazy, Kar, like, truly. Um, Tree wants me to marry Travis. I don’t want to, though, because I don’t actually super like Travis? But I do a little bit. He’s like, my little fun – thing. Maybe.”
“Your little fun thing is coming our way,” Karlie says, sipping her drink. “Does he know?”
“About – hi, Trav, this is Karlie, Karlie’s my, um, my – I don’t know what Karlie is, but she’s married.”
“Hi, married Karlie,” Travis says, fist bumps her. “Whatcha drinking, Tay?”
“Vodka,” Taylor says, her voice low, raspy, vodkaaaa. “I love vodka, Travis.”
“I know, babe,” he says, kisses her head (Karlie almost spits her cosmo out). “Do you wanna head soon? One of your friends was saying they’re going to this private club, after, a little party?”
Taylor turns to her, eyes bright. (Empty). “Karlie,” she says, “you wanna go clubbing?”
No, thank you very much, she does not. “I think I’m almost done,” she says carefully, because it’s not her job to say Tay, you should not go clubbing either. “Big week, you know?”
“Oh! Yeah, fashion week, Travis. Karlie’s a model. Did you know?”
Travis shrugs, swallows his beer, taps Taylor’s ass. “That’s cool. I’m going to find a bathroom and then we can head out, yeah?”
“Okay!” Then Travis’s lips are on Taylor’s, and Taylor beams at him, and he’s gone, and Taylor looks at her and grimaces. “I hate his moustache, Karlie. It tickles my nose. Also, this really doesn’t taste like it has vodka in it.”
She knocks on the bar, and then her nice plain sparkling water actually is a vodka soda. Fuck.
Karlie sips again, and Taylor eyes her for a moment, tilting her head dramatically, elbow on the sticky bar, check smushed against her hand. “You know,” she says, “that dress is pretty.”
Karlie’s mouth quirks. “Thanks, Tay.”
“And your hair.” A hand, reaching, fingers curled in it. “I like it. Dark. Pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“And I really don’t want to go clubbing.” Sinking down in her chair, an overdramatic sigh. “I hate clubs, Karlie, they’re so loud. Everyone is so, so loud all the time. Did you ever think maybe I don’t want my ears on? They’re just – I just want to turn them off. Do your ears feel like that?”
“You know,” Karlie says, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t have to go clubbing.”
“I do, though. Cause Trav wants to, and I’m meant to do everything he wants to do. Cause he fucked up this week, did you see? Tree had, like, a million meetings, and now we’re maybe getting married, and there are all these weird documents circulating and it’s all Travis’ fault because his publicist isn’t as good as mine. It’s like, like, so weird, so now we’re – I had to go to Missouri, and then – then last night we were out and tonight we’re out and I’m actually so tired, Karlie.”
“That sounds like a lot.” This is not her job. She should not be worried. “Maybe clubbing is a bad idea?”
“No, but I have to.” It’s a whine, the rest of her vodka swallowed as Travis walks out of the bathroom. “Ugh. I gotta go. Good to see you, Kar, take care, bye.”
And then she’s gone. Because that’s how it works.
And Karlie sips at her cosmo, watches the cameras flash as Travis pulls Taylor outside, and definitely doesn’t think about empty eyes and sculled vodka and a hand on a soft back, leading her home.
“Tequila or vodka?”
Karlie startles, almost falling off her chair. “What?”
“You.” A pointed finger, right between her boobs. “Need to be much drunker than you are. So what’ll it be?”
“I’m fine, Derek.”
“You’re making, like, an active pouting face at the door. She’s not coming back.”
“I don’t –”
“Vodka or tequila, Karlie.”
Rolled eyes, hand held out. Derek taps the bar, two shots, then four, then – “Derek, no.”
“You’re pining, Karlie. We need to be drunk.”
“I’m not pining,” she smacks his arm, grabbing the glass. “I’m just…”
“Pining.”
She glares at him, throws the shot back, and swallows. “Worried.”
“Because you’re pining.”
“I am not pining.”
“Okay!”
The other shot is pushed towards her, and she’s not, really, but she does appreciate a good vodka shot, so she takes it anyway. Clinks it against her best friend’s, scowling as he winks at her.
“We could go,” he says innocently, when she’s swallowed the next one. “You know. To Bond.”
“We are not going to Bond.” A yawn, fake, received terribly by Derek. “I’m going to go home. And pass out.”
“Kids have made you boring as fuck,” Derek says, which is probably meant as a challenge, one she’s not quite willing to rise to. “I’m gonna go to Bond.”
“And I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” She doesn’t mean to be snippy, adds a quiet smile to the end of her sentence, feeling her lips stretch. “Sorry. Tonight’s been… a lot. I need to, like, pass out.”
Derek shoots her a look – usually teasing, a little satirical – tinged with sadness, now, what might be a hint of pity.
“Fuck off,” she tells him kindly, dropping a kiss to his head as she stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s late, and she should definitely be asleep.
She’s doom scrolling. Well, that’s what her therapist would call it, but it’s actually making her giggle, so it can’t be that bad.
She hadn’t actually set out with the intention of walking, head high, down the middle of the street outside the studio. She’d meant to duck in and out of the wedding, under the radar, only be rumoured to be there, never confirmed.
The vodka had hit her.
But she’s home now, safe in her bed, and watching the internet fall to shambles is more than a little bit entertaining, even as she scrolls past tweet after tweet praising Travis for not letting Taylor step in a puddle, as if she’s a fucking child.
(Sometimes vodka makes her angry).
This is the first night in a long time where she has the house to herself (and empty) and while she’s aware she should probably sleep, it’s been so long since she’s had a night alone, let alone a night alone where she has very few commitments the following day. She deserves to stay up late and sleep in tomorrow. She’s earned this.
Out of bed, barefoot, a quest for wine. She pads downstairs, pours a glass of deep red, curls on the couch, lights low. Feet under. Giggling, again, at the sheer reaction to her dress. Fucking Maroon.
Then she keeps scrolling. Hoping, stupidly, for a glimpse of Taylor. Of Travis. Of something, some proof that she’d imagined the off look in Taylor’s eyes, the tremble in her step.
There are, concerningly, absolutely no photos.
The time passes through sips and low-sinking lights, the moon bright outside her window. She presses her face up against it, half drunk. Watches the little people below on their late-night walks, trapped inside their own worlds. If she looks far enough, she’d probably be able to see Taylor.
But she doesn’t. Because that. Is not. Her job.
Not anymore.
The door buzzes, and she almost falls off the windowsill. Surely she’s not drunk enough that she’d ubered pizza and forgotten about it. Surely the wine hasn’t hit her that hard.
Again. Again. Again.
She slides off the windowsill, presses the buzzer by her door and peers into the little video cam. “Tay?”
“Karlie,” Taylor says, swaying on her feet, security rife behind her. “I am very drunk.”
“Right,” she says, nodding very normally. “Okay.”
“And…” A giggle. “I forgot to look for paps, so can you pretty please let me inside? Tree might shoot me if I get seen here and I just, um, have some things to do.”
Some things to do?
She opens the door, because Taylor worries her but the wrath of Tree Paine worries her a lot more, watches, almost shell-shocked, as Taylor disappears from the screen.
Stands. Still. Until there’s a slippery thud at her door, half of a knock.
She opens the door, and Taylor falls inside. “Karlie!” she says, smile bright, breath very much tequila. “Oh my god, hi.”
“Hi,” hesitant. They’re still in the hallway. “Uh. Are you –”
“Y’know.” Taylor’s shoes come off, a happy sigh floating from her lips as the heels hit the ground. “Fuck, I hated those. Anyway. Y’know, like, the entire night I was looking at you?”
Well. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And I was like, mm, I really wanna go see Karlie.”
“You told me before that you were very purposefully ignoring me.”
Taylor frowns. “What? No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t ignore you. You’re, like, my best friend. Remember when we were best friends, Karlie?”
“Yeah.”
“I wanna go back to that, that was way more fun. If you were my best friend you could come with me, tomorrow? I have to go to the tennis. Kar, why’d we stop being best friends?”
Her mouth opens –
“Wait, it was definitely because I always wanted to kiss you. Hey, hey, Karlie.” Voice dropped. “I wanna kiss you now.”
Right. Okay. Jesus fucking Christ.
She steps away from the hall, finally, away from Taylor. “How about we try some water first?”
Taylor shrugs. “Okay. Hey, wait, no. That’s not fair. You have wine! I want wine.”
“I finished the wine,” Karlie lies, and Taylor steps past her and holds the still-full bottle up victoriously, her mouth spread into a smile.
“No, you didn’t. Have wine with me, Karlie, please…”
Her eyes aren’t so empty anymore. They’re pleading. Youthful. Excited.
Karlie wants to say no. Would’ve, five years ago. But if Taylor wants to have wine, it really is not her place to stop her. “One,” she concedes, handing her glass over. “A small one.”
Wine poured, hand taken, a long body leant over the couch. “Look,” Taylor says, gesturing at her dress. “It’s wrinkled! That’s so bad, Karlie, I did not want my dress to be wrinkled. Travis said – ugh, Travis said – wait, Karlie, Travis is totally in my bed right now.”
Karlie takes a long, long, long sip of wine. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And I really don’t want to be in my bed while he’s in my bed, right? Which is bad. If we’re gonna get married, we’ll probably have to sleep in the same bed. Do you sleep in the same bed as Josh?”
Well. “No.”
Taylor beams. “Oh, my god, this is the best news I’ve gotten all night. ’Cept when they told me you were going to – to the wedding, but I also kinda had a panic attack about that. Oops.”
Jesus. Christ.
She can’t even form words. She takes another sip of wine, raises her eyebrow as Taylor looks at her, waits patiently. “Um.” What doe she even say to this? “Are you okay?”
“So fine, really.” Wine splashed, a mark on her dress. “Oops, fuck, anyways. Didn’t want to sleep beside Travis because he’s, like, weirdly hot? And I also remembered that I had more things to say to you. So I came here! Can I sleep in your bed?”
“I have a guest room, yeah, but – Tay, you have a guest room.”
“Yes.” A look, as if she’s stupid. “Didn’t come here to sleep in your guest room, Karlie. Came to sleep in – your bed.”
“Why?”
It appears she’s lost the ability to say more than one word at a time.
Taylor looks at her again, softer now, delicate. “I think,” she says thoughtfully, “that the last time I slept properly was in your bed. So. I have a – a hypothesis.”
“Oh?” More than a word, Kloss, come on. “What’s your hypothesis?”
Taylor looks at her, once again, like she’s a fucking idiot. “That I’ll sleep,” she says, slow and careful, like she’s talking to a child. “In your bed.”
“My bed.”
“Yes, Karlie.” Taylor’s fingers reach for her, poke at her arm. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes flutter. Lidded. Taylor’s finger is so warm. Her face is so warm.
The wine was a very, very bad idea.
“Karlie,” Taylor says, shifting, on her knees, leant over – “You don’t look great. Which is crazy. Because you normally look, like, super pretty.”
Oh god. Oh fuck.
“Taylor,” she says, voice tight. “I think you need to go home.”
Above her, lips curling into a pout. “I don’t want to, though.”
“I think you – need to.”
Taylor’s brow furrows, a hand on her neck, holding even as Karlie flinches away. “Karlie,” she says again. “I don’t wanna go home.”
“I’m gonna call Tree.”
“No – no, don’t do that, please don’t.” Wide eyes, a pout. “Tree hates me right now. And I just, like, I didn’t want – normally you’re the one who doesn’t call Tree, Karlie, please.”
“Tay.” Exhausted. “Taylor, that was five years ago. I don’t – what are you doing here?”
“Told you.” A hiccup, her face changing, sad again. Fuck. “I wanted to come sleep in your bed.”
“Taylor, we don’t live together anymore. I haven’t seen you in years. I don’t know what’s going on in your life anymore.”
Taylor sits up, weirdly excited again. “Right, well, I can fix that.” A grin. “Taylor update! I’m on tour, but you know that. And I have a boyfriend, kinda, but you know that too. And I’m… drunk. Which you also know. See, Karlie, you know everything!”
“I don’t.” A soft sigh. “That’s just what, like, the paps say, Tay. I don’t know your favourite song. Who you are without the cameras.”
Taylor snorts, laughs as if this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Karlie,” she says, when she catches her breath. “I don’t even know who I am without the cameras.”
Karlie’s very much about to throw up her wine.
“Oh, don’t look like that, it’s not as sad as it sounds.” A hiccupped giggle, cheeks flushed red. “It’s actually so fine, I just, like, go from game to game and stage to stage, right, it’s like a little video game.”
“That’s not –” Taylor is so, so drunk. “You can sleep in my bed. I’ll change the sheets.”
“You don’t have to, I’m not picky.”
Karlie snorts. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. I’ve changed.” The last of her wine, sculled, a sad sigh. “I have a feeling you’re gonna say no to more wine.”
“I have a feeling you’ll have a terrible headache tomorrow if I say yes.”
“I’ll have that anyway. Might as well make the most of feeling good, right?”
Karlie hesitates. “You feel good right now?”
“Yeah!” A grin. “I’m at your house. And you’re gonna let me sleep in your bed, and I literally haven’t slept for like, two nights, Karlie, because Travis snores.”
Karlie’s not quite sure what to say to that.
They make it upstairs. Somehow.
Taylor brushes her teeth, humming, gets into bed.
“Goodnight,” Karlie says, in the doorway, the same she does to Levi and Elijah. “Hope you get some rest.”
Taylor’s mouth opens. Closes. And then her eyes shut.
She’s reading, scrolling, her phone too bright in the dark. She’d tried to sleep, but her brain still runs wild. Worried, concerned, unsure how to face the next morning, when there’ll surely be a hungover Taylor Swift in her room, a world of awkwardness to face.
She has to be at the thing with Derek at 2. She sets an alarm. Turns her phone out.
Still. Forever. Cannot sleep.
The door creaks. Slowly. Hesitant. Opens.
“Karlie,” Taylor says, tears dribbling. “I don’t think it’s your bed.”
She sits up. Inevitable. “Tay…”
A sob. Loud. Careless. “I think it was you.”
She stands, because inviting her in seems wrong. Dangerous. Pads over, gentle feet.
Taylor is not gentle.
Taylor falls, whimpering, clutching tight. “I wanted it to be your bed,” whispered, muffled, damp. “I wanted it to – to be your sheets, or the mattress, or – Karlie, tell me you got a new bed.”
“I didn’t get a new bed,” Karlie says softly, lips hitting smoke-scented hair. “Taylor…”
“Hold me,” she whispers, little gasps, nails sharp. “Can’t remember – who I am.”
“You don’t like me,” Karlie reminds her, hand flat on her back nevertheless. “You don’t want this.”
“I do,” eyes, teary, up and meeting hers. A glimmering trail, salty and wet. “I do, Karlie.”
Her own eyes fill. Close. “No,” she says quietly. “You don’t.”
Then there are lips. On hers. Plump, full, tasting horribly of tequila and mint and the salt of her tears. “I do,” Taylor whispers, into her mouth, hand in her hair. “I do, I do, I do.”
Same words, said delicately not twelve hours ago, two of their friends vowing companionship. Taylor mumbles it, repeats it, louder and louder until Karlie pulls away and she sobs.
“Please,” Taylor whispers, eyes full, blank, empty. “Please, I have to remember.”
“I’m not going to let you use me.” It’s a lie. She would. She wants to. There’s a curling in her stomach and a tingling in her lips and she has never wanted something more. But Taylor’s drunk. “This isn’t what I want.”
“Please.”
“Taylor…”
And she’s kissed again, softer, now, hand tangling in the nape of her hair. Sobs whimpered, caught by her own lips, head held against her own by tired, tired hands.
Karlie really, really needs to stop this.
“Taylor,” she whispers. “You’re drunk.”
“Yeah.” A sob, a giggle, tongue licking into her mouth. “I am.”
“And you have a boyfriend.”
“You have a husband.” Her hand drops, curls beneath Karlie’s shirt, hot and searching. “Please, Kar.”
“Taylor, I can’t.” She’s cut off, mouth falling open, Taylor’s hand trailing between her legs. “Fuck. Tay. I can’t. We can’t.”
“I want to,” Taylor whines, her thumb brushing, breath hot. “Please.”
“Mm, I – know, fuck, but – Tay, you’re drunk.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. Fuck.
She curls her fingers around Taylor’s wrist, pulls her hand away, steps back. Chest heaving. “We can’t, Tay. Not when you’re like this.”
Taylor’s lip wobbles. “I want to,” she whispers. “Karlie, please.”
“If you come back here, tomorrow, sober, then we can talk.” A long breath. “I don’t want to do this if it’s just your way of avoiding your life. I refuse to do that again.”
“Karlie…” Hand reaching, fingers brushing her hip. “I can – make you feel so good, I can make you remember –”
“I know, baby.” Her lips pulse, Taylor’s fingers hot at her side. “I know, I know. But – this isn’t good, Taylor, it’s not going to feel good in the morning.”
“I don’t care.”
“You can’t –”
“I don’t care, tomorrow’s – bad, I might not even –” Worked up, now, desperate and begging. “I don’t want tomorrow, I just – one more time, Karlie, please, please –”
“Tay.” Firm. Cold. “I don’t want to.”
Taylor’s face crumples.
“Oh,” she says, swallowing. Hand dropped, step back. “Oh.”
“I don’t want to,” Karlie repeats gently. “Not like this. This isn’t going to make you feel good. And it’s not going to make me feel good, either.”
“It would,” Taylor mumbles, but her heart’s not in it. “I should – go, I should go, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to.” It’s soft. “I want to help, Tay, something’s clearly wrong. But I’m not going to help by being your little fuckbuddy, okay? You can talk to me. You know you can talk to me.”
“No, I need to – to go, I need to go home, Travis is –” Her face drops, shudder spreading across her shoulders. “Mm, Karlie, I don’t feel good.”
Karlie darts a cupped hand out – ready, trained, motherhood – fucking useless against the torrent of alcohol that promptly spurts, projectile, from Taylor’s lips.
“Fuck,” she says, gagging again. “Mm, fuck –”
And, stupidly, the only thing Karlie can think, as she leads her towards the bathroom is thank god I didn’t let her eat me out.
She spends almost an hour in the bathroom, her eyes closing, Taylor’s hand clutched in her own. Feels her legs go numb against the tiles. Lets a blonde head curl into her shoulder, pale and shaking, tries not to think about the last time Taylor had been much drunker than she; that they’d made terrible, lifechanging decisions.
You stopped it, she tells herself, exhausted and a little grossed out. You didn’t let it happen.
She’d wanted to, though. Desperately.
Taylor falls asleep curled in a ball on the ground, Karlie’s fingers tracing her hair off her forehead. It cannot be comfortable – it isn’t. But she sleeps, her mouth parted, doesn’t wake even as Karlie flushes the toilet beside them.
Groans, when Karlie stands up. Lets herself be pulled, rag-doll, falling into Karlie with a tired, sleepy sigh.
Karlie curls them into the same bed. Because it’s closer. Easier. Obviously.
Derek texts. You missed nothing at Bond. A gif. Sad llama. Taylor left pretty quickly.
Don’t care, she texts back, almost four am. And then – did she seem okay?
Another llama gif. Laughter. He doesn’t reply.
She wakes to chaos.
“Fuck,” Taylor’s whispering, tangled in the sheets. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck, we didn’t – fuck –”
“We didn’t,” Karlie says, sleepy. “You’re fine.”
“Mm, fuck.” A barely concealed sob. “I’m so sorry. I’m leaving. I’m – fuck, fuck –”
“Tay…”
She stumbles, out of bed, out the door, a called sorry thank you bye fuck –
Whatever. Karlie had expected it.
She watches Taylor at the Open, later. Watches her drink too much. Sing. Make out with her boyfriend. Hug Brittany. Kiss Travis again.
Punishing herself, for something no one even knew she’d done.