Ross POV
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Two subways and then I'll be home, dumping my briefcase on the wooden table and devouring noodles by the fire. I look up from my desk and smile taking in the skyline. Buildings that once seemed domineering are all places I know. The book I've been editing sits open before me, my office is what Taylor would call swanky. Large open fire with tall bookcases. Windows that stretch from floor to ceiling showing you the entire skyline. The sun slipping beneath the tall buildings and the light filtering through my blinds colouring the room a warm orange hue.
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I grasp my phone, flip it open and dial in Taylor's home phone number. I need to hear her voice, I know that they will be in their farmhouse, potentially with Rachel and Chris. It has been months but I haven't forgotten. It's Henry's birthday and I will be there. The dialling tone ensues as the receptionist ducks her head around my door smiling before continuing to walk the halls.
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"Hello" she answers and my heart melts imagining her sweep her hair back and look upon me with kind eyes.
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"Tay" I say softly and she gasps audibly.
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"Ross" she gasps crying and I shake my head slowly.
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"You're okay?" She asks instantly and I hadn't realised the worry she would feel by my lack of contact for so long.
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"I'm actually in my office, you would love it there's lots of books" I smile and she giggles slightly as I imagine her wiping her eyes.
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"I wouldn't miss it for the world" I say softly when she continues to sob down the phone.
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"I'll be there shh how are you" I say and she gathers herself together. Deep breaths before she answers.
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"I'm okay ready to pop. I just... wow I'm shocked because I haven't heard from you. How are you, how is New York" she asks me and I smile continuing to tell her all about all of the food I've eaten and the subway. The book and how I'm close to publishing.
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"I missed you" I whisper and I can feel her embrace even though I'm nowhere near her. Sitting in this office gazing at the sun setting and deciding I need to make a move in order to make my plane that I've booked.
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"We all missed you" she whispers and I smile, we speak for a further twenty minutes before we say goodbye until tomorrow. I leave the office, with a spring in my step. Bounding to the subway as I board the first train, standing in the aisle due to the amount of people on the train. An older couple sat in the seats just in front of me, the lady clutching the man's old wrinkled hand as he holds onto her. It's clear that they are a married couple from the rings upon their engagement fingers, I clutch onto my briefcase and stop myself from slipping all over the subway. Years of skating has tightened my core and I usually have wonderful balance.
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Walking through the subway and up the steps to bay ridge. A smaller neighbourhood in Brooklyn, I had picked it initially due to its affordability, because although I can afford high prices it fits my needs entirely. The houses in their rows are quaint, all matching with steps up to the large doors. Arched windows that have incredible bay window views once you’re inside. It’s a small place which I felt was appropriate since I would spend so much of my time in the city. Lost within the tall buildings only to come home to a place that would soon become familiar, a home.
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My home is surrounded by flowers and shrubbery. My neighbours are a small family with young children, they've even invited me to their family BBQ's which I couldn't help but to wish I had a date for the occasion. I had invited the receptionist to one, purely as a friend however now she seems to check on me throughout the day in my office. It's beyond annoying, courteous as I am I would never tell her just how much she aggravates me with her clinking heels and blonde hair.
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I gaze over at the large trees that line the clean streets and smile imagining holding the hands of my children one day when I pick them up from school. Amber and green leaves glowing in the late sunshine, a soft breeze sweeping through them. My children would skip along the clean streets as I watched over them, their protector. All of these things that I dream about are things that I find I can write about. Weaving those dreams into the narrative that belongs to somebody else means that in some ways those dreams take form and become reality in a work of fiction.
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With my key in the door and the sound of the neighbours boy kicking a ball in the yard I open up and walk into the vast wooden hall. A large grandfather clock stands proudly and I take in the time realising that I have an hour max. Pulling off clothes and chucking them into the seperate laundry room, I pace up to my bathroom and stand under the shower. Some people, I think to myself, have to have somebody to complete them. As I listen to the utter silence of my home and feel nothing but peace I reflect on everybody else’s absolute need to be with somebody. Through all of life's obstacles. Till death do us part. I, myself, have written Taylor over and over again. Until she is mine and she exists in my mind no matter the circumstances or our reality.
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Pulling on some chino shorts, Italy is warm, I sit looking at the oak wardrobe and gaze upon the shirts that Taylor likes. Slipping a blue one off of the hanger and placing it on as I button it up thinking of her smile and how she will place her hands around me when she sees me. My suitcase that is already packed, zipped up by the door. I take it down the wooden steps and set it by the grandfather’s clock.
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I suppose had I of decided not to be so lonely, or self sufficient as I call it, I would have the receptionist from work here to talk too. However it’s terribly self centred to keep people around in order to fulfil your own need to not be alone. Perhaps I would be eating more than noodles too, I think idly as I sit by the fire which isn’t lit. The grandfather clock chimes interrupting the silence of my home and I rise from my chair and dump the rest of the noodles in the trash. Grasping my bags and listening to the silence, realising that there is nobody to say goodbye too. I settle for looking for a dog or a cat to adopt once I return. Before I slip out of the door and set on catching the next subway to John F. Kennedy international airport. The cool air hits me, pulling my sweater over me before I tell myself that Italy will be warm and more importantly I’ll get to see Taylor. The woman that has made me a successful writer, who enchanted me, compelled me to be an author.
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One day, I chuckle as I look up at the adverts on the subway, best selling novels that are in all of the stores. Hopefully soon my novel will be on one of them, or perhaps somebody will be reading my book on a train.
