The Only Living Boy in New York

NINE

Van

Taylor stood in the middle room of my first floor and looked around slowly. It seemed awkward watching her, so I excused myself to the kitchen where I put on the kettle. I could still see her from the island, but I tried not to make it too noticeable, only glancing at her for short moments while she stepped around the room slowly. It looked to big with her standing in the center of the room like that. The walls were too high and bare and the corners were too empty.

Her face was twisted into a look I didn't have a name for as she assessed my living space. Boxes of things still sat in piles and my living room rug was rolled up in a corner near the first floor bath. The lamp on the floor was probably the bit that made her most displeased.

"I thought you unpacked?"

I waited for the kettle to whistle and dug through the cabinets for a couple mugs. "I did...somewhat." I smirked at her over my shoulder as she sauntered to the island.

"How do you want your tea?"

She tapped her nails against the quartz countertop and I shivered at the motion. "Don't judge me. Milk, sugar. I like it sweet and light in color."

"No judgement. I like mine fairly sweet, too. We don't form opinions over tea the way you Americans form them over coffee." I smiled as I poured the water over the tea bags and let it steep for a moment. She kept her eyes on mg movements as I worked, I could feel it more than anything. I could feel her gaze burning my skin, sending a white, electric heat coursing through the tips of my fingers, begging me to reach out and catch the sparks of her. But I stayed composed, busied with doctoring up the tea as my Mum called it, and slid it across the countertop to her.

I took a long sip of mine, smiling at the flavor.

"It's not too hot. The milk helps to cut the heat. Try it."

She brought the mug to her lips and sipped slowly. She smiled afterwards and nodded at me. "Not bad."

We stood in the silence of the room for a moment, sipping our tea and waiting for one of us to break it. I cleared my throat and reached into my silverware drawer, sliding a fork to her across the counter and nodding toward her dessert.

"You should eat that before it's ruined."

"I will. Where do you write?"

My eyes traveled toward the staircase. I wrote in a spare bedroom upstairs that had a ton of windows and a lot of space. It was the only room in my house that had been unpacked and decorated. Even my bedroom wasn't that put together yet. "Let me give you a tour."

I led Taylor through the first floor, showing her the downstairs bath and a guest room behind it with not a single thing inside of it. She wrinkled her nose at that and shook her head. The upstairs opened into a large living room with another bathroom off of it. I had some furniture up there but nothing in a specific place. There were two bedrooms. The one I used for a studio and the master, mine.

I slowed as we walked through my bedroom, scanning the floor for any clothing or anything I'd left lying around. She stepped through the room and peaked at the bathroom and sighed.

"Id kill for a bathtub like that." She motioned toward the oversized, claw foot tub under a long, horizontal window.

"Haven't used it."

She clicked her tongue. "Don't waste it."

She left the room and pointed to the studio door. "Is that where you write?"

I nodded. I didn't let many people into the creative side of my life. I didn't want to give away any secrets of why I wrote the things I did, and how they decided to part with me. Or how they decided to make themselves known in this world. A few people knew, a few people had seen it in action, and out of those people, I only really still talked to one or two of them. It was almost sacred letting someone in like that.