Taylor Still Retelling StoryThe waitress returns with our beers, we place our meal orders and request two more beers. Quickly we return our attention to each other. He asks about my trip. I tell him more about Jackson and Kennedy. I talk about the long talks, the neighborhood party, and meeting his sister. As the waitress delivers the bill and clears the table, I realize I talked about me the entire meal. I’m caught off guard by the sadness quickly washing over me. It’s time for me to return home. Alone.“I don’t want to be alone.” The words jump out of my mouth before I restrain them. My hands leap to cover my mouth. This isn’t me; I’m not this woman. I can’t even blame it on too many drinks. I don’t do one-night stands with strangers.Placing his hand around my wrist, Jorge pulls my right hand from my face. “My place is nearby.” There is no smile on his face, as I allow my eyes to meet his. His look is serious. I try to decipher his intentions.As much as I want to keep the evening

Taylor Continues Retelling Her StoryI wave them off as I head to the kitchen for another water. Jorge approaches as I finish a long refreshing drink from the bottle.“Can they search your apartment?” Acknowledging the question forming upon my lips, he continues, “They want to search for drugs that John may have hidden here. They believe he may have a stash and that is why he is so frantic about entering the apartment.” Placing a finger upon my lips to silence me, he finishes, “They will not hold you responsible if they find drugs. They only want to remove them to keep you safe.”I can’t speak. The mere mention that drugs might hide in my presence upsets me. I witness the destruction they reek on the students and their families every day at school. Congenital disabilities, learning disabilities, homelessness, foster care, and addiction to drugs affect many of my middle school students. The thought of such a vile substance in my apartment cripples me. I simply nod in agreement to the se

Taylor Continues Retelling Her StoryI squint, assessing the seriousness of his question. “I lived with my grandmother on a farm in rural Missouri,” I begin. “My mom was in-and-out of my life from the age of four. I realized my education was my only way to escape my trailer-trash life. Cheerleading and straight A’s allowed me to attend college.”“I don’t see you as a goody-goody, snobby cheerleader,” he states.“I wasn’t. I made the grades with little effort, and cheerleading opened more scholarship money for me. Don’t get me wrong, I was good at it, but I lived three very different lives.” I pause, not believing I’m about to share this. I find Jorge too easy to talk to. “In school, I focused. I contributed. As a cheerleader, I was loud, energetic, and creative.” I sit up and sip from my water bottle.“And the third Taylor, what was she like?” Jorge prompts me to continue.Placing my head back on the pillow, I explain, “I partied. A lot. Weeknights and weekends. Alcohol turns off my an

Taylor“I popped the popcorn to nibble on while watching the first movie. I moved to the ice-cream after seven, when I couldn’t reach you by text,” I explain. Jackson apologizes, stating, “There was a crisis at the store. I stayed until everything improved, instead of heading home to call and email the store every few minutes.”His white shirt is filthy. I see finger trails from rubbing his dirty hands on the rib area. I assume the blue ovals are detergent or liquid soap. He has a torn left knee in his black slacks. His dress shoes are dusty and scuffed. Whatever it was, it must have been a very messy crisis.“you should go change while I prepare you some dinner,” I encourage.“I can fix my own sandwich,” he states. “I have nothing else to do,” I inform.He drags himself up the stairs as I remain in the kitchen. While butter melts on the griddle, I assemble a ham and cheese sandwich. When the butter hisses, I place the bread in the pan. I quickly grab a fork to assist with flipping t

TaylorAn hour later, I’m on social media in my room.Kennedy as she lurks just outside my bedroom door.“Hey,” I greet.“Can I come in?” She asks. “Of course,” I reply.She joins me at the head of the bed, sitting with our backs against the headboard. “What are you doing?” she asks, peeking at my screen.I show her my Pinterest Boards and new pins I just discovered. As I explain, I find her too distracted to truly see the addiction that is Pinterest. “Spill the beans,” I tell her.“I have yet another favor to ask of you,” she nearly whispers.I search Kennedy’s face for any clues. She’s not sad or mad, stressed maybe.She continues, “I hate to even ask. You already agreed to be our surrogate and egg donor. I fear we’re taking advantage of you.”I place my left arm across her shoulders to pull her in a for a side-hug. “I’m here for you. You are my best friend. You know I would do anything for you.” I close my MacBook, placing it beside me on a pillow. I release Kennedy and turn to f