Ghost Bird Fanfiction: Sang's Lyric, The Story of Sang Sorenson's Mother

Laundry

This one is for je11ybean262, because she asked. 

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Taylor stared at me a moment as I struggled to pull myself together.

"Lyric," he said seriously, and I realized that was the first time he'd said my name.

I looked up at him and took a deep breath.

"This is all on him," he continued. "Just let him be, and he'll come back right as rain and like nothing ever happened. That's just Kell. You'll learn to roll with it."

I nodded, wishing I had known what I'd done to set him off. Taylor sighed, as if he could see the direction my thoughts had taken and wiped the crumbs off his hands.

"Now," he said, taking my hands and pulling me out of my chair. "Didn't Kell promise you could do your laundry?"

"How did you..." I asked.

"Magic of technology, Crash," Taylor joked. "He sent a group text. Let us know where he was taking you."

Taylor led me through the kitchen and up a back set of stairs. They creaked as we walked, the only light from a stained glass window on a landing. These must be servant's stairs. I laughed to myself. I'd read about them, but never been in a house where they existed before. Everything here screamed money, while everything about me screamed, no money. 

At the top of the stairs, Taylor opened another door to a bright sunny hallway. I could see the large curved window at the front of the house letting in the afternoon sun. We walked down the hall and Taylor went into a room. He emerged a moment later.

"There are some clothes laid out on the bed for you," he told me. "Then I'll show you where the laundry is."

"Thanks," I answered, biting my lip and putting my finger there before walking into the room.

I sucked in an amazed breath as my eyes roamed around the room. I babysat for one of the teachers at school, and she got a ton of home improvement magazines. One of them was called House Beautiful, and every page showed a more gorgeous place than the next. 

It reminded me of this house.

Every step I took in this house, I thought to myself, this is the most beautiful thing ever. Then, no, this is the most beautiful thing ever. But this room? This was the most beautiful room ever. It had large French doors that opened onto a balcony. I didn't open them, but I peered through and could see ocean in the distance. Of course, I can, I thought. The room was painted blue and trimmed with white. There was a vanity in the corner with curved legs and a small stool. Perfume bottles and silver backed brushes sat on the table. The bed was huge and covered in thick sheets and blankets. I thought of my sleeping bag and walked to the bed, putting my hand on it and pushing down. My hand sunk into the blanket at least six inches deep. What would it be like to sleep in a bed like that?

Taylor put a pair of sweatpants on the bed and a t-shirt that said, "Gettin' lucky in Kentucky." 

I rolled my eyes, even after just getting to know Taylor today, I was sure this must be his.

I changed quickly and smoothed my hand over the comforter so there was no sign of me. I folded my dirty clothes and left the room.

"Ready?" Taylor asked from where he lounged against the wall with his arms crossed. I recognized the posture from earlier today, while he waited for me at my locker.

"Do you have anything that needs to be washed?" I asked, worrying my lip,."I could put it all together."

"Nah," Taylor answered, "I'll do it later. I don't want you to see my boxers."

"I wouldn't mind," I answered quickly before I realized what I've said. Shoot.

"I mean," I added, my words tripping over each other. "I wouldn't mind doing your laundry."

Taylor bit the inside of his cheek as he struggled not to laugh. "That's okay, Crash. Let's just get yours done."

We walked down the hall to the large staircase that is the main focal point of the entry way. I trailed my fingers along the bannister as I walked down the steps, imagining what it would have been like to walk down the steps in eighteenth century dress. This stairway was made for a dramatic entrance.

Taylor grabbed my bag from the foot of the stairs and walked us to another door; this one with steps leading to the basement and the washer and dryer. I quickly pulled my dirty clothes from my bag, along with the clothes from earlier and stuffed them in the washer, adding detergent and starting it.

"Now," Taylor said, "since that's taken care of, what should we do next?"

I think about it. "Homework," I answered.

"Homework?" Taylor said, his eyes wide.

I nodded my head. After my laundry was done, I had to get to my babysitting job. It would be dark when I got home, and depending on my mother and Tim's state of inebriation, I might not be able to complete the reading I needed to do.

"Dr. Zhivago," I told him, pulling out the book and showing him the cover.

Taylor smiled. "I have an idea," he said.

I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. "We're not watching the movie," I told him.

"You're no fun, Crash," Taylor laughed, "but no, a three and a half hour movie wasn't what I had in mind. Come with me."

Taylor took the book from my hand and pulled me up the cellar stairs and then the main staircase. I kept up, but when he opened the door to reveal a third set of steps, I groaned.

"Come on," he told me, giving me his dimpled smile. "It'll be worth it."

I climbed up behind him, and took in a sharp breath when we reached the top. The stairs led to a widow's walk, but instead of being exposed to the elements, the walk was glassed in and bench seats with soft looking pillow were built around the perimeter. I could see the town from one side, and as I walked around, the ocean on the other.

No, I thought. This is the most beautiful room ever.

"See?" Taylor said, watching me. "Worth it?"

I nodded my head, dumbstruck. "Yes," I managed to squeak out.

Taylor threw himself onto a bench, propping himself on a pillow and opening the book. He looked up as I stared at him and patted the pillow next to him. "Come here," he told me, and I sat down. He scooted closer to me, and lifted his head before laying it on my thighs and opening the book. 

If he starts to read, I'm a goner, I realized.

"Lara was not religious. She did not believe in ritual," Taylor began, his voice deepening as he read aloud. "But sometimes, unable to bear life, she needed the accompaniment of an inner music. She could not always compose such music for herself..."

I listened to the cadence of his voice, the rise and fall of his pitch, and watched his mouth move as he formed the words. He read well, not even tripping over the Russian names the way I did in my head. I leaned back against the bench and trailed my hand over his head, playing with his hair as I pictured the events he read about. Then suddenly stopped, realizing I was touching him without permission. I made a move to pull my hand away, but without pausing in his reading, Taylor lifted up a hand, took mine, and put it back on his head. He started the next sentence, but with a smile on his lips, and I continued to run my fingers through the soft strands of his hair.