𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 [t.s, t.k]

THIRTEEN | TAYLOR

THIRTEEN | TAYLOR
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"Wait," I announce, staring out the window. "Where are we going?"

Travis either doesn't hear me, or chooses to ignore my question—his eyes focus on the road, and he extends his arm out to turn up the radio's volume.

I turn my head to his side profile, and he turns his to mine. I stiffen my neck, flailing my arm ahead of his face. "Hello," I bitterly blurt, waving my hand ahead of his eye view. "I asked you a question, didn't I?"

"I'm fully aware," he says. "If you enjoy the beautiful view and stop asking me questions, you might find out sooner."

How dare he, I think to myself, ready to shoot daggers out of my mouth. But man, I'd really like to know where we're going. And, Travis is a man who sticks to his word. So, if I don't shut up and leave him alone. I may never find out.

So, I curled up against the window and yank my phone out of my sweatpants, shutting up. I scroll brought Instagram, but I'm subconsciously enjoying open fields of New York like I was told to. I'm think about a lot of things—like I'm hungry, like I should call my mom and fill her in on a few very significant details that have happened in my life recently that she has yet to know about—but I'm calm. For once.

Travis pulls into what looks like a food truck by a lake, though I don't pay much attention to it. I catch myself staring at him as he searches for a place to park. A place to park that won't be swarmed with ratty individuals pestering me for an autograph at seven-thirty on a Thursday evening, where we won't be photographed and whispered upon. I gawk at him, dissecting both the features of his face and what I think is being written in his mind.

He's tired—physically and mentally. Bags carry his red-rimmed greens, drooping his miseries around with him wherever he goes—I'm not even sure he sleeps anymore. Which is ironic, because he rots away in his bed most days, refusing to associate with any part of himself or others—that I find unusual given Travis's extrovertic persona, his outgoing one. He doesn't even say much to me, thankfully. He drinks a lot, too, and that's never been a habit that Travis supported. Really, he just wasn't the man I left behind five years ago. And, it wasn't my business, but I couldn't help but wonder why he felt this way.

He drives me out of my trance with the snap of his fingers, literally. "What are you staring at?" He mumbles, unbuckling his seatbelt.

I shrug, looking around.

"What do you want?" He suddenly asks me.

"What?" I utter, glaring at him. "I don't want anything."

He sighs. "We're at Rita's, Taylor. What do you want from Rita's?"

"Oh," I breathe, a little embarrassed. "Strawberry coconut frozen custard," I tell him as I begin to step foot out of the car.

He gently clutches my wrist, pulling me back in. "You're not going anywhere," he says confidently. I turn to him, my lips pursed together, my eyes squinting. He notices immediately and further explains, "There are a fuck ton of people out there. We don't have proper security with us. And, with everything going on with you right now, I'm trying to protect your image. If we go out together, people are going to start talking."

I nod. He is right. "Strawberry coconut frozen custard."

He nods. "I'll be back," he mutters. "Call me if you need me."

He hops out of the vehicle, hurrying towards the site. Meanwhile, I'm admiring the sun sink under the hill on the lookout, its reflection shining on the lake below me. My mind ponders among a list of commonly-thought-of curses put on me. Joe—I wonder who he's with right now, where he's at, what he's doing. Part of me wants to give him a call, to check in on him, but maybe I shouldn't. The list of reasons of why I shouldn't is miles lengthier than why I should birth a conversation with him. He wasn't at Cornelia today when Travis and I dropped by to pick up a few things of my own. I think I might sell that apartment because I quite literally do not want to walk Cornelia Street ever again.

The door slams next to me, and I'm jolted out of a paralysis. It's only Travis, and he looks at me a little worried that I'd jumped so startled by his presence. I reach out for the yogurt as he plops down beside me, handing me my request. I forage for his. "Where's yours?" I ask, gliding my tongue over the cool subsistence.

He pauses. "I didn't get one."

That's another thing, too, I consider. He doesn't eat often. "Why?"

"Because I don't want any," he says plainly, spiraling his key out of the ignition. "M'not hungry."

My mouth hangs open, jokingly. But, not jokingly. "You literally never eat. You've got to be hungry. Why aren't you hungry?"

"Because I'm not," he grumbles. "I eat," he defends.

"Dude, when?"

"When I feel like it."

"That's not right," I tease.

"That's rich coming from someone who had an eating disorder."

I stumble back in my seat, laughing. "Damn," I cackle. "Low fucking blow." I point to him, "Who's the one with the eating disorder now?"

That wasn't funny, Taylor.

He snickers, but it feels forced. Agitated. "I don't have an eating disorder, Taylor," he says firmly, folding a rag in his lap. "I just lack an appetite sometimes."

"Why," I giggle. "Are you sad?"

He's still looking out his driver window, nor facing me. I swallow my self-respect, realizing I may have teased the wrong question to the wrong person. I know better when he doesn't respond, but he clenched his jaw. Not as if he were frustrated with me, but because he was dealt with something he didn't want to confess to—something he didn't want to remember. For some reason, as I finish my cone, I continue to ask stupid questions. I don't know why. I'm not trying to piss him off, I'm definitely not trying to get under his skin. But, the questions keep on coming. They've been piling up for a while now, and they're getting too heavy to avoid setting free. "What happened with Maya?"

The color drains from his forehead, and his cheeks flush. There's something he's not telling me, but that's not Travis. That's not the Travis I know. He tells me everything. Why isn't he speaking? What isn't he telling me? He exasperates a sigh below his tongue, and I get the message that he's done tolerating questions like these. I take the hint that something bad has happened, and it's not my time to know about it.

So, I change the subject. "Why'd you get me this?"

He's looking ahead of him, out into the lake. I just now notice that he's wearing sweatpants and a tank top. Even his sense of fashion is gone. "I overheard you talking to Blake the other night. You told her you haven't been to Rita's in a minute and you missed their frozen yogurt."

I gasp dramatically. "Were you eavesdropping on my conversation?"

He chortles. "Call it what you want."

I smile. "You remember that song?"

"I remember a lot of things. Ready to go?"