Page 91 of Take Care, Taylor
“I’m serious,” I said. “She was just a roommate. An old schoolmate. Once I box up the rest of her stuff, there won’t be anything left of her for me.”
“I saw her in the parking lot this morning.”
“Why the fuck are you just now telling me?” I pushed past him toward the door, but he blocked me.
“That was a goddamn test, Taylor.” He glared. “Can you just admit you’re wrecked over her?”
“I’m fucking livid.”
“Close enough.” He stepped back. “Need help packing up her stuff?”
“I can’t believe she left me.” My throat tightened. “She just fucking left me.”
“Did she say why?”
“She didn’t say anything that made sense.”
He gave me a blank stare.
“This is the part where you tell me to forget about her and move on to someone else.”
“I could never do that—not for the girl who’s been your endgame since day one.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not repeating myself.” He sighed. “You know it’s true, and everyone who’s ever been around you two for more than twenty minutes knows it’s true, too.”
I said nothing.
“Tell you what,” he said. “If it’ll keep you from being weird at dinner tonight, tell me about it on the way to pick Mom up from the airport.”
“Are you going to judge me for being emotional about it?”
“Yeah.” He opened the door. “But I’ve been judging you since I got here, so it won’t feel any different.”
TRACK 42. ILLICIT AFFAIRS (5:59)
AUDREY
The door to my parents’ office stared at me in defiance, as if it knew I’d never walk past it. As if it could sense that I’d rather cling to the unknown forever.
Ignoring the ache in my chest, I twisted the doorknob.
Dust swirled through the air as I stepped inside—heavy layers settling over untouched manuscripts, half-empty coffee cups, and carts of unsigned books from their publisher.
Everything was frozen in time, left as if they knew they were coming back.
Tears pricked my eyes. For a split second, I almost turned around, saving this heartbreak for another day.
You’re already here, Audrey. Just keep going.
I forced myself forward. The bench where they used to let me sit between them was pushed against the wall. In its place sat a small white chair, painted with the words For our daughter, Audrey Parker.
Confused, I ran my hand across the back and stepped into their focus room—but it wasn’t how I remembered.
The shared oblong table was gone. A wall now split the space in two, each side holding a separate desk.
I went to my mother’s first and picked up a yellowed stack of papers.
