It's a Love Story | TNT Short Stories

With every guitar string scar on my hand

February 24, 2024

Sydney, Australia

***

"Okay, I think that should be everything." He glances around the room, as if a forgotten t-shirt is going to jump out at him from under the bed.

Travis had spent the past five minutes rushing around the hotel suite shoving his things back into his duffel bag. A silver lining of the trip being so short, less than 48 hours, was that his stuff didn't have time to spread beyond the master suite. They'd woken up late, and he was now in a rush to get everything together and make it to the airport on time.

Well, they hadn't woken up late exactly, but they'd certainly gotten out of bed late. Then again, who could blame them? They were trying to make the most of his super quick trip to Sydney, before being relegated back to opposite sides of the globe.

"If you find anything else on your way out, can you just pack it with your stuff and I'll get it from you in Singapore?"

But the question never lands across the room, where Taylor is picking through the little pile of things he'd emptied from his pockets after the show last night. Wallet, gum, guitar picks.

"Watch it, Kelce." She looks at him with a smirk on the corner of her lips that has him thinking he might miss this flight after all. "You start collecting things with my face on it and I might think you're obsessed with me or something."

"Huh? I mean, I kinda am, but... what?" He's a bit lost, he realizes, blaming the post-sex haze. He wants to bite that smirk right off her lips.

His plan is foiled by her outstretched arm, handing him one of the guitar picks. But now her smile is softer. More contemplative.

"I... thanks? There should be a bunch more of them around here somewhere. Your dad gave me a whole bag of them to hand out. I'm actually not sure where they ended up. Do you think he needs them back?"

Now that he thinks about it, he's not sure that there are any others left. The fans had been going absolutely nuts for them, and once word had spread that he and Ross had the picks to give out everyone seemed even more excited about getting one than trading bracelets.

Taylor is still anchored to the ground next to the dresser, light bewilderment etched across her features. "My dad gave those to you?"

"Uh...yeah?"

"My dad. Scott Swift. Gave you guitar picks. To hand out."

"And Ross, yeah," he repeats, feeling like this conversation isn't really sinking in on either side.

"It was actually kinda great, because as much as I love the friendship bracelets, obviously," he says with an exaggerated waggle of his eyebrows, "once I get too many they're really tight and then they get caught on my arm hair, and let me tell you, that is not it."

"Travis!" She cuts off his ramble. "That's a big deal. A huge deal, maybe. This is a whole... thing."

He opens his mouth a couple times to try to reply, but isn't sure how to return the volley. She seems incredulous. Distressed, even. Instead he pulls her against his chest in a loose hug, cheek pressed to the top of her hair. "Tell me why it's a huge deal? I want to understand. What's the whole thing with the guitar picks?"

"He's been giving these out on tour forever. Since before I even had tours, really. Back when it was talent shows and gigs at community centers and stupid shit like that. When he'd gotten them made up legitimately for advertising because nobody knew who I was and we were trying to get my name out there."

He's distracted by a mental image of a high school aged Taylor, all unruly curls and twangy voice. Eyeliner and low-rise jeans. It's a picture that he'd convinced her to show him after a wine-drunk duet of Teenage Dirtbag snuggled up around his fire pit in Kansas City. His childhood friends had laughed and assured her that there had only ever been one teenage dirtbag in their relationship, and it most certainly wasn't her. Eyeliner or otherwise. But he'd had a crush on her almost as long.

C'mon, Kelce. Focus.

"Now we get them printed for every tour and event and era, and it's become a whole thing." Her voice pulls him back. "Dad never leaves the house without a pocketful, and the fans are all in on it now too. They'll ask him for one at the grocery store or out in town. But he never lets other people do it. Handing them out is his thing. He'll give a handful to my mom, maybe. Austin once or twice during Rep tour. But never anyone who isn't family."

Never any boyfriends, goes unsaid, but lingers in the air like smoke.

"I mean, I think he likes me though, right? He still wears the Chiefs lanyard sometimes, and he comes to games."

"Trav. Of course he likes you. He loves you, as if that wasn't abundantly clear. Even if the bar is literally in hell."

He presses a kiss to her temple, loves the way she's so quick to reassure him, never fanning the flames of his insecurities.

"He's just not a big words guy. Not all gushy and... bombastic. He leaves the love songs to his favorite daughter. But this stuff? Giving you picks to hand out, and making sure you're the first one I see when I come off stage? That's his way of showing it."

A lingering pause, then "Not to put too fine of a point on it, but... I think that's his way of giving his approval. Kind of gearing up to pass the torch, or whatever."

"Oh." Oh.

Suddenly it all makes sense. The way the the fans had been absolutely freaking out, but it didn't really seem like it was about the actual guitar picks, per se. Taylor's bewildered gaze when she saw the little pile of picks. The way Scott always seemed to wordlessly disappear into the tent right as Taylor was walking out. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, then to her lips.

"Alright, mister," cutting him off. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you are officially very late."

"Okay, okay. I'm going!" He throws his duffel over his shoulder, then stuffs his phone and gum in one pocket, handful of guitar picks in the other.