Taste of Commitment (Whisky and Risky #2)

1. Taylor

Taylor

Taylor

Might fuck around and move to Ireland.

Camila

Have you been watching P.S. I Love You, again?

Taylor

….

Leap Year. But that’s not the point.

Camila

Then what is the point?

Taylor

The point is I keep saying I want to travel and I never do. Plus I don’t have anything stopping me right now.

Camila

Okay but MOVE?!

I reread the text a few more times, and between the piles of clothes crowding around me and not having a clear idea of how to respond, I start to feel overwhelmed. I need a new start. Like in Eat, Pray, Love. Except I never had a husband, a successful career, or anything even remotely resembling stability. Other than that, it’s the same thing.

I push up to my knees, reach over a mound of sweatpants, and grasp onto the handle of my suitcase. My suitcase that likely still has a bikini in it from that last trip I took. I sit back down with my legs crossed and my shoulders hunched over, and a full three minutes pass before I realize I’m having a face-off with a large aluminum rectangle. Unfortunately for me, the two minutes I took to text my best friend has now completely thrown off my flow of packing.

Pack, shower, eat. You got this. It’s humiliating that I need to give myself a pep talk to get the simplest shit done, but starting a new task can just be so burdensome for me sometimes. I have a mental list of things I need to get done but rather than start chipping away at my to-do list, I let its weight knock me back into a stack of jeans and begin doom-scrolling.

Fuck. I forgot to text Camila back.

Taylor

Okay maybe not move… That sounds dramatic.

Camila

And we both know you would never be dramatic about anything.

Taylor

Exactly. So let’s call it an extended vacation.

Camila

Okay?... For how long?

Taylor

Come over tomorrow morning. We’ll chitty chat about it all then.

Camila

I’ll be there bright and early with coffee.

I start typing that bright and early isn’t necessary, considering I loathe mornings, but I know it’s pointless. Camila is likely festering in worry enough as it is.

Okay. Get up and take a shower. Do something. I groan as I find myself in this seemingly never-ending cycle of being unable to start the simple task of getting in the shower, even though I know I won’t want to get out once I’m in. I’ve already let too many things get away from me this evening, I can do this one thing. I pull myself from my bedroom floor and clear the four feet of space it takes to get to my bathroom. My phone buzzes in my hand before I can set it on the nonexistent vanity and I hold it up, smiling when I find a picture of Jonas chugging a beer with one hand and flipping the camera off with the other.

“What’s up, Jo bro?”

“Annie Oakley. What are you doing?” he shouts louder than necessary. “Scratch that. Better question, why are you not here already?”

“Here where?” I ask, leaning against the sink.

“I’m at The Local . Come down.” I bite my thumbnail, smiling at the memory of Camila and me choosing this exact apartment for no reason other than its close proximity to one of the best bars in town. We could have gotten a two-bedroom a little further out of the city in a neighborhood surrounded by some pretty nice homes, but it felt like a right of passage to live in this seven-floor walk-up with a lock you have to shove the key in a certain way and shake a little before turning in order to open it.

“Sorry, dude. I still have to pack.”

“Pack tomorrow. It’s criminal that you thought you could text me this morning saying you were leaving for a month and didn’t think I would demand one last hang out.” I gnaw at the inside of my cheek, considering this as an excuse to put my shit off a little while longer. “Taylor Grace Nova.”

“Uh oh, pulling out my government name.”

“When the situation calls for it.” I can hear his charming smile through the phone and I can’t resist.

“Okay, one drink,” I say firmly with emphasis on the one.

“Cool. We all know you’re a shots kind of girl anyway.”

“Jonas!”

“I’ll order the first round now. Get your ass down here!” he quickly shouts, before the line goes dead.

I momentarily regret this decision when I have to strip from my sweatpants—and not just any sweatpants, but the sweatpants. The holy grail of sweatpants. They’re perfectly worn in and feel like a warm hug on a cozy raining evening. If the hug was on your ass. I don’t let myself dwell on it. I quickly swap my sweats for a pair of jeans, throw on a little black tank top, and grab my keys from where they hang on a middle finger-shaped hook.

The Local is just as busy as I expected it to be, even taking into account it’s a Tuesday night. I push myself past a group of people crowding the front door and spot Jonas at the bar with a petite blonde—likely laying on a thick layer of his charm.

Her smile widens and I know she’s falling for his allure. I don’t blame her in the slightest though, it’s hard not to get sucked into his charm. If I was the relationship type or someone who wanted something long-term, I could see myself going for Jonas. We have fun, get along well, and neither of us takes anything too seriously, but I rarely let anyone get within range to even be considered friends let alone close enough to want a romantic relationship. I had a therapist once—literally once because I never went back to her—allude to the fact that my lack of ability to let people in isn’t my greatest trait. She didn’t say it in those exact words, but it’s what I took from the conversation. However, jokes on her because that’s one trait I’m okay with. I live by the rule: if you don’t let anyone get too close to you, you can’t get hurt when they inevitably bail. And yes, I’m aware of how cynical that sounds, but it is true. Everyone will eventually leave at some point.

“There she is!” Jonas flashes all his teeth at me as he lifts an arm and pulls me into a hug.

“Still in your J. Crew, I see.” I lift the lapel of his suit, and he scoffs.

“Please, don’t offend me, Blondie. This is Tom Ford.” He runs one hand through his perfectly coiffed, dirty blond hair and the other down the front of his broad chest.

“Alright, James Bond.” I resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I make a big show of rolling my eyes.

“Anyway, Taylor, this is my new friend, Stephanie. Steph, can I call you Steph?” He looks over at her and she nods enthusiastically. “This is Taylor.”

I smile and wave. “Nice to meet you, Stephanie.”

“You, too.”

Jonas looks at me to his left, then back to Stephanie on his right, then back to me again. “Shots? ”

Roughly four tequila shots and three ranch waters later, my hair is stuck to my face and my sweat-soaked back, and I’m not sure but it looks like Jonas’s tie is missing. At some point during the night, we took over the dance floor and the DJ blessed us with dive bar anthems one after another. I thank him by blowing a few air kisses in his direction every few songs.

“Wait. Where’s Natalie?”

“Who?”

“Natalie. The little blonde.” I hold my hand up to my shoulder, and his eyes squint like he’s trying to make sense of what I’m saying. “No. Melanie?”

“Ssstephanie,” he says, swaying forward.

“Stephanie, yes! Where’d she go?” I spin around, looking behind me and immediately hate myself for it. The liquid sloshing around my stomach threatens to creep up and I turn back to rest my hands on Jonas’s Tom Ford-covered shoulders. “Bad idea. Spinning.”

“The time has come, Blondie.”

The moment we step outside The Local , I hungrily suck down the frigid night air. It’s likely a lot cooler than I believe it to be, but the inside of my body is cooking right now.

“Here,” I say, handing Jonas my key ring.

“Which one is it?” He holds it up, and I look at it. The cowboy boot and bead bracelet keychain Camila gave me jingles against the single key on the loop.

“Use your big lawyer brain. I bet you can figure it out.” I laugh while opening the building door, and like two drunk turtles, we climb the seven flights of stairs.

By the time we make it to my floor, I’m convinced it’s morning. “Home sweet home,” Jonas says, fitting the key into the lock before throwing his shoulder into my door. “For another few hours, at least.” His voice trails off and his eyes find mine. His normally happy, gleaming baby blues are downturned and red.

“Thank you, Jonas,” I whisper, and the alcohol is starting to feel like weighted bricks in my stomach.

He leans against the doorframe—a movement I’m sure is to keep him upright—and hands my keychain back to me. “Are you sure you got to leave, Blondie?”

I pause and focus on the little beads, sliding them back and forth. I’m glad he’s questioning me. Someone needs to. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” My words slur together but the point is made.

He nods his head in understanding before stepping up to me. His hand grips the back of my head, fingers getting stuck in the tangles of my hair and he pulls me in close, planting a soft kiss to the side of my temple. I close my eyes to stop any tears that might get the wrong idea that it’s okay to fall. I made this decision. An impulsive one, yes, but it’s done, and I’m not changing my mind now.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he whispers against my skin.

When he pulls away, his eyes are somehow more red than before. I bite down on my lip and we share a forced smile before he heads back down the stairs. I close the door and fall pitifully onto my couch.