I hear a knock on my door, then a voice. "Can we talk?" Red knows she doesn't need to clarify who's speaking; I can identify the voice of each person in this house without needing to see their face, and I can determine their mood just from the sound of their footsteps. It's a talent I picked up in just my first few months here.
Do I want to have to sit through the next few unbearable minutes of conversation with Red? No, not at all. Do I also desperately want company despite also wanting to be left alone? Yes. So I tell her to let herself in and she does, closing the door behind her.
"I'm sorry for earlier," She says, standing uncomfortably by the door. I glare at her, watching as she takes in my room. I don't see the disgust on her face—she hides it well, I'll give her that—but I know it's there. What else could she possibly think, looking at the clothes overflowing from the hamper, the half-empty bottles littering my dresser from before she tried to get me to quit, the Post-Its haphazardly stuck to my walls, the pile of books dumped by the side of my bed?
Though we're friends, she's never stepped foot inside my bedroom before. I've always been too ashamed to show it to her, but right now, I can't care less. I already feel fucking terrible. How much worse could this make it? My dingy room compared to her bright, clean one. The walls a nice red, honouring her name; posters and paintings of her and memories of her era hanging evenly on the walls; her bed crisply made; the floor pristine and visible. I nearly roll my eyes at the thought of it.
"Is that all you came to say?" I ask, venom woven into my tone. I don't mean to be so prickly. She's my friend after all, probably the only person here who genuinely gives a shit about me. Except for maybe my sister. But she's seemed exhausted of me recently. But listen, I don't like acting this way, contrary to what I know the other albums think. It's just my defence mechanism; let people see the bad side of you first, that way they're not disappointed when you let them down, because they should've been expecting it from the beginning. If only more people had learned to do it. Would've saved me a lot of heartbreak.
"I mean it, Evermore," Red says. She looks at my bed nervously. "Do you mind if I sit?" My eyebrows quirk up. Do the utter chaos and disarray of my room not abhor her? Make her weary of my mental state, afraid to get too close? This is certainly different. I shake my head. Red slowly stalks towards me, avoiding the assortment of things cluttering up the floor. When she finally reaches the end of my bed, she climbs on without hesitation. How brave of her.
"So," I say, staring at her nonchalantly. "You apologised. What more?" Though my friend is one of the most patient people I know, I'm fully expecting her to give her eyes a hard roll, having been in my presence for less than a minute yet somehow already exasperated with me, but she doesn't. Surprising. What's her secret to being this calm? Maybe I should take notes.
"That wasn't a full apology. I truly am sorry for hurting your feelings. If I had known that Taylor would've chosen a photograph—"
"It's fine now. I've had time to mull it over and I was completely wrong. You had no way of knowing. Just, the alcohol combined with the heat of the moment... makes a good combination for an angry rant." Though I make light of the situation, I feel as though she somehow sees through me and knows that I truly am sorry. That's one of the things I like about her.
"Happens to the best of us," She says, shrugging. What bullshit. "The best of us" are six albums that are capable of living their lives perfectly fine, without the need for alcohol to weaken their pain and act as a crutch for them when they desperately need it. Their rooms are tidy and the surfaces probably glisten with sheen, just to illustrate how truly pathetic I am. Like I don't already know.
I must've slipped up and accidentally displayed my thoughts on my face because she backtracks, correcting herself. "Okay, it doesn't happen to the best of us, but I was trying to say that I understand your anger. I mean, I'd be pissed too if 1989's album cover had been from one of my photoshoots. And you've told me before how much you hate being pushed to the side. This must've felt like salt in the wound, right?"
I cut my gaze to her, blatantly eyeing her up. I don't know why I'm so upset. I don't want to push her away. Nonetheless, I feel a sudden surge of annoyance ripple through my veins. I want her out of my room, goddamnit. I want to mope around all pathetic like by myself, indulging in comfort snacks while hiding away in my bedroom, not drain my social battery even further by prolonging this already stretched-out apology.
But I don't tell her any of that, because I know she's actually trying and I know she doesn't deserve it. So all I say in return is a simple, "Yeah, it did."
After that, it seems neither of us know what to say to each other, so we just sat there awkwardly, Red choosing to continue examining my room, her eyes shifting from object to object as I chewed at my nails. Did I know it was a bad habit? Yes. Would l continue to do it anyway? Duh.
While we would hang out, silences weren't unusual, but the awkwardness that permeated this one surely was. After another minute of not knowing what to say, I finally break the stillness. "Okay, well. Thanks for apologising," I say, getting under the covers, signalling for her to leave. Red catches the hint and unfolds her legs from the pretzel she had tucked them into, stepping carefully onto the floor and cautiously crossing it all the way back to the door.
And because I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest as I hear her feet pad across the wooden floor—after all, here she is, actually trying to make things up to me—I mumble a quick "Thank you," hoping my voice had carries loud enough for her to hear.
Red exits the room and I hear a click so I know she left the door closed—just as it had been before she entered—and I mentally thank her as it seems that the others don't know how to do even that.
I'm glad that there's at least one person in this saltbox house on the coast who's more tolerable than the rest of them.
=+=+=+=+=+=
Author's Note: I may or may not have inserted some of my mental illness into this chapter so if any of this is relatable to you... that's probably because we both have issues 😝😍🥳 Also, people like this book apparently so my ego is off the charts currently 🤩
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The Last Great American Dynasty
Fanfiction"But that's not what the announcement read." What if Taylor Swift's albums were people? What if they had personalities and relationships and lives? In this book, that's exactly what happens. Told from the perspective of each album and filled with so...
