Chapter Text
“Fuck. Screw it, screw it, screw it.”
Taylor drops the scorching hot baking tray onto the counter, sucking in a sharp breath as pain throbs in her thumb. She rushes to the sink, letting cold water soothe the burn, and glances over at Olivia, who watches from her perch on a kitchen stool, tail flicking with what looks suspiciously like amusement.
“How do I even manage these things, huh, Olivia?” Taylor mutters, voice low. The cat merely blinks, regal and nonchalant. Taylor can’t help but laugh a little at herself. She turns off the tap and surveys the tray of steaming chai cookies. They look perfect, maybe the best she’s ever made. Good. They’re for Hal’s birthday tomorrow. Hal’s been in her corner at the label forever, but he recently helped her talk Scott round when he first heard 1989 and flipped so she thinks he deserves something a little special this year.
She can see Olivia circling in her peripheral vision, already eyeing the counter for her chance to pounce so Taylor scoops her up before paws can fly. “Not tonight, Livvy. You’ve know you’ve had dinner, and besides, these are not cat friendly cookies.” She cradles her, letting Olivia’s warmth calm her nerves, then sets her down and grabs her phone, heading for the windows.
Her apartment stretches out ahead of her in soft dimmed light, the city glowing beyond the glass. New York at night always feels a little unreal, like anything could happen. Taylor soaks it in, the skyline blinking back at her. Moving here was a risk, one she never thought she’d actually take. Nashville was easy; she’d memorised its bars and shortcuts, the faces in her lobby and the fastest route to Abigail’s. New York refuses to be memorised. Just when she thinks she’s got it figured out, the city tosses her a new café, a hidden shop, a street that’s never looked the same twice. She likes that. She likes being surprised.
And she’s surprised, too, by how much she’s changed here. She discovered herself in New York instead, a new version of the curly haired cowboy boot wearing country girl. For the first time, she isn’t waiting for someone to shift the ground underneath her feet. She’s done that herself now. She feels strong, powerful – happy, even. Most days at least.
Her phone buzzes in her hand, screen lighting the room. Olivia bolts for the sofa. Taylor checks the text. Harry. She almost smiles. Oh.
New Message | Harry Styles: ‘I’m in……’
The famous Harry Styles. Ex-boyfriend, current friend, the man who taught her how to build fences - and maybe why she needed them. Not that he deserves all the credit really. The tabloids did their part, turning her love life into a running joke. The constant lies, and stories, the fact that every eligible man she breathed in the same room as was told ‘careful, she’ll write a song about you’. She tired of being a punchline, because it didn’t matter if it wasn’t true, if the dating slideshow wasn’t accurate; Google kept score like it was. So she quit dating. She learned to be alone. She learned to enjoy the simplicity of focusing on herself.
Now, when people search her name, the headlines read like victories. No one expects her to be seen with anyone at this point, she thinks she’s got that message across now. So it feels like people care about her music, they understand that what she does is a skill. That approval matters more to her than she really wants to think about.
She shakes herself a bit and opens Harry’s message: “I’m in New York. Are you?”
She hesitates. She’s heard the rumours - Harry was in New York with Nadine, she’d seen some paparazzi pictures on Tumblr, the two of them looking cosy somewhere downtown. Taylor doesn’t know the details, doesn’t really want to. Still, she types: “Yes. At home.”
Another buzz: “Fancy a walk? Meet me in Central Park in 15 minutes?”
Her heart stutters. She places her phone facedown on the side, returns to the kitchen, and starts packing cookies into a Tupperware, hands moving slow. Meredith, perched atop the fridge, gives her a look - judgmental, as usual.
Taylor sighs. “What would you do, Mere?” Her voice is soft, almost shaky. It’s ridiculous, being unnerved by Harry. They’re friends now. That’s all. She’s sure of it, it’s been easy between them for ages.
The phone buzzes again, illuminates the dark living room. Taylor moves towards it quickly, almost involuntarily. “It’s ok if you can’t. Maybe next time.”
She grabs it, doesn’t seek Meredith’s counsel again, instead types fast: “I’ll meet you at Strawberry Fields. Don’t have your shirt undone, it’s freezing outside.”
He’ll like that. They always did have the best banter.
***
Taylor slips into her boots, pulls on a coat, moving quickly before doubt can catch her. She closes her apartment door, hood up, and knocks on the door across the hall. Her security team is always a step ahead; if she doesn’t check in, chaos follows. And frankly, the last thing she needs is an assumption she’s been kidnapped and a search party all over lower Manhattan looking for them in Central Park. TMZ would be on the scene before the cops.
Graham opens the door, one shoe on like he expected her to knock, TV remote in hand. “Taylor, hey! Heading out? I’ll call the car round.” He glances at the clock, switches off a Jimmy Kimmel re-run. “It’s pretty late. You sure you don’t want to stay in? I can grab whatever you need.”
Taylor smiles, places a steady hand on his shoulder. “Gray, go back and watch TV, it’s fine. Just letting you know I’m heading out to meet a friend”
He pauses, concern flickering in his eyes. “Well then I shou-“
“Alone” she interrupts.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says, firmly “It’s more than my job to let you go out alone and you know it.”
She drops her gaze, suddenly tired. Is this what her life is now? Permission to take a walk? Graham isn’t trying to be an ass. He’s just doing his job. Keeping her safe is literally his job and she gets it, she’s grateful for him. But she wishes it were different sometimes.
He steps into the hall, shuts his door, and gives her a small wink. “How about I wait in the car?”
Taylor exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Deal.