A/N Hello and welcome to my Taylor York fanfic! Taylor x OC. The first few chapters are the longest due to character development and building the relationship, but don't worry, the drama soon begins. If you really don't want to read description and just want to get straight to the drama, then I suggest you skip to Chapter 5. But be warned, you may not understand certain parts, so at least try and skim read the earlier chapters. If you want chapter overviews, just message me.

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Chapter One - Callie

It's been exactly two weeks since I moved from Chelsea in London to Nashville in Tennessee, and I'm still confused by the difference between 'jam' and 'jelly'. Apparently, 'jelly' is 'jam', which just makes things ten times more confusing and uncomfortable, especially when I look at the waitress in the diner as if she just asked me if I wanted a smearing of salsa on my toast. 'It doesn't go' is what I'm thinking, then I realise she means 'jam'. She's stopped laughing along with me.

But I'm getting there, I think. I haven't partially run over someone for a few days, and I'm getting to grips with the currency, but it all still feels like I'm trapped in my own little bubble, threatening to pop whenever the going gets tough. Which is why I'm heading out again today, to line the walls of my bubble with a hardened coating.

I can feel that kind of nervous excitement roiling in my gut, sending a wave of nausea rippling up into my throat. Stepping past the threshold of my new house is an ordeal in itself. It's just beginning to feel like home, and there's a small part of me that's frightened by the idea that I might forget what home feels like altogether if I don't spend much time in my house. Yet I will myself down the pathway and into my car – a hulking black SUV that I bought when I arrived here, or rather my parents bought it. I still walk round to the right side by accident, and on numerous occasions I've slapped my hand against the dashboard as I've searched for the gear stick that isn't there.

I pull away from the curb and head deeper into Nashville, which also is more cause for nervous excitement. I don't like junctions, but the thought of actually getting to where I'm going spurs on the excitement so there's a sickly tug-of-war being played in my stomach. This is a chance to try my hand at a lot of things in my new country – currency, the postal service, etcetera etcetera. It's like being a teenager let loose for the first time on the town; you want to do everything, see everything, even when half the time you haven't a clue what's going on.

Eventually, the satnav directs me to the street I want, but as I drive down it there are no spaces for me to park. Every inch of the curb is dominated by a big car of some sort, like a tribe that's claimed its patch of land. As a result, I'm forced to drive round the neighbouring streets at a creeping pace, keeping my eyes peeled for a free spot. This is the point in time where I wish my eyes could look different directions.

Finally, I come across a space, and I hurriedly squeeze into it before anyone can challenge me. I get out and pay at the meter, faffing about with all these coins for longer than is necessary. Then I'm off back the way I came, peering round street corners to look at the signs. I'm now beyond caring what people think of me. I'm clearly not homeless, I could be a little insane, but hopefully they come to the likely conclusion that I'm foreign. Most of the time they do, asking me what my accent is, usually confusing me with Australian or South African but I don't mind. What I do mind is if people ask me if I'm alright and look at me with that nervous sympathy, as though they feel sorry for me but have an inkling that I might turn out be crazy. I've got that wherever I've gone, mainly because I'm awful when it comes to new countries. I get it a lot in Spain, more so when I was a kid and the waiters would coo over my freckles. Now they just think I'm a little weird.

Soon I stumble across the right street and halfway down it is the shop I'm looking for: 'Ziva Guitars', a small shop but apparently with a big name. I wouldn't know as it was my brother Tom who directed me to this shop. So as I step inside I feel self-consciousness seep into my limbs. The shop is narrow yet long, like the Victorian terraced houses that are small on the outside but huge inside. Kind of like the TARDIS. But maybe I shouldn't mention that. The walls are lined with guitar after guitar, a mix of bright colours and shapes, contrasting to the hazy sunlight that filters in through the window, and the drab beige of the walls themselves. There are a few customers already in the shop, but I don't pay attention to them. I wander further inside, scrutinizing the guitars like I know what I'm doing, when in reality I'm just wondering which shape or colour Tom would like the most. The guitar is a present for his birthday and to keep an element of surprise he asked me to pick the guitar myself. Bad move.

"The Gibson Les Paul is a safe choice," someone says beside me.

I turn, a little startled, and see a young man pointing at a guitar the colour of maple syrup. The guy has short hair with the hint of curls trying to reach their full potential. His hair is a deep, dark brown while his skin is fair. His nose is snubbed and ever so slightly turned up at the end, but it's a nose I'd describe as cute. He has almond-shaped eyes set with thick eyebrows. He isn't tall, but then he isn't short, just of average height. And he's wearing a plain white t-shirt, a navy zip-up hoodie and skinny jeans.

I tear my gaze away from him and glance at the guitar, my cheeks going a little red. I hope he didn't notice I was staring for a little bit too long. I recognise him from somewhere, but I can't think where.

"You think?" I reply about the guitar, aware that I just lost my cool 'I know what I'm doing' exterior.

"Yeah, you know it's a great guitar. You can't go wrong." He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed himself.

I peer closer at the price tag glued to the wall beside it. I gasp involuntarily. "It's also quite expensive," I comment, laughing a little.

The guy laughs too. "There is that."

I look at the guitar again and wonder if Tom would like it. I can't really think of anything else to get him, and this guy has suggested it to me. Why ignore his advice?

"Well," I continue, "I can afford it. And I don't want to buy a rubbish guitar; my brother wouldn't be happy about that."

"The guitar's for your brother?" the guy asks politely. He's fiddling with the zip of his hoodie.

I nod. "I'm sending it back to England for his birthday."

The guy nods also in a kind of approving way, trying to mask the fact that he can't think of anything else to say about the guitar.

"I'm Taylor, by the way," he says, gesturing a little awkwardly at himself.

"Callie," I add with a smile, fighting a losing battle with the blood that's trying to rush to my cheeks. Then something clicks. Before I couldn't put his face to a name, but now I think I know.

"Are you Taylor York, from Paramore?" I ask hesitantly.

"The one and only," he jokes, a grin spreading across his face. It's infectious, and I can't help but to smile myself.

I can remember seeing Paramore videos on the music channels, constantly on 'Kerrang!' and 'MTV Rocks'. Tom would try and make me skip them, and a fight would ensue about who got to watch what. However, I always won. I knew that he liked Paramore, he just didn't want to admit it because I liked them first. Because we're so close in age, he's always had this thing about putting space between us, making sure that he has his interests and I have mine. I wonder what he'd say if he knew I was talking to Taylor York in a guitar shop in Nashville.

"So, can you play?" Taylor questions, pointing at the guitar again. There's a slight hint of red to his cheeks, but nowhere near how red mine get. It's embarrassing when I try to talk to guys and all that happens is my cheeks flare up viciously like stop signs, warning them away.

I laugh a little shyly. "No, I can't play. I tried to teach myself once, but I didn't get very far and my brother refused to help me. I can play a bit of bass though, I find that easier."

"If you can play bass then guitar should be relatively easy to pick up," Taylor comments, unable to meet my eyes all the time as he talks, his eyes flitting nervously between me and the Gibson.

I scoff. "No way, I don't have to strum on the bass."

"Honestly, guitar comes naturally if you can play bass."

"Maybe for you," I retort, enjoying the playful banter. It's nice to engage in a proper conversation after two weeks of awkwardness. "I didn't say I can play bass well, I said 'I can play a bit of bass'."

Taylor laughs, knowing he's been beaten. "Okay, maybe it's easier for me."

Our laughter dies away, both of us unable to think of anything to add. Rosy red has gained control of my cheeks and I can feel them pulsing with warmth. I must look like a tomato right now.

"Anyway," I say, glancing round the shop for a shop assistant, "I had better buy this guitar then."

Taylor just stands there fiddling with his hoodie zip as I ask the shop assistant about the guitar. The shop assistant quizzes me about whether I want an array of foot pedals and amps and other things that make no sense to me. I glance at Taylor, seeking help. I feel mean saying no to the shop assistant when he's being so polite but then I don't want to spend any more than I have to. My parents are funding me until I get a job, but I still feel like a bit of a parasite after I let them buy the house and the car and the plane tickets and everything else; I don't want to feed off them even more.

"Just the guitar, thanks," Taylor says to the shop assistant, who hurries off clutching the Gibson.

"Thanks," I say to Taylor, my smile tinged with embarrassment. Nevermind that I shouldn't be sent out to purchase a guitar, I just shouldn't be let out at all.

"No problem," Taylor replies, returning my smile. "Just doing my good deed for the day."

We both laugh again, which is something we seem to be doing a lot. The shop assistant returns with the guitar in a pale leather case, 'Gibson USA' written in black and gold on it. I pay the shop assistant, opting to use my credit card so that I don't have a disaster with coins and notes. Not that I have hundreds of dollars just lounging in my purse, but still, what could be more embarrassing right now than spilling coins or getting confused between them right in front of Taylor York. Maybe I should have a roaming trap door installed for those situations, so that it just opens beneath me when everything gets too cringey.

After paying, I slide the case off the counter, but I'm not expecting how heavy it is and I almost drop it. Taylor lunges forward instinctively and helps me balance it.

"You want me to carry that back to your car?" he suggests, properly meeting my eyes for the first time. His own eyes are a warm brown.

I can feel myself getting redder by the second. "That would be great, thanks."

Taylor takes the guitar from my arms, easily carrying it out of the shop. I keep in stride beside him, squinting a little against the glare of the sun as it arcs towards midday. The sky is peppered with clouds, but none of them seem to want to cross the path of the sun.

"So how long have you been in Nashville?" Taylor asks, shielding his eyes from the sun as we walk down the street. I hope I can remember where my car is.

"Two weeks."

"Are you living here permanently?"

"Yeah. It was a bit odd at first, but I'm getting used to it."

I direct Taylor round the street corner, trying not to catch myself on the case. I think tripping and face-planting the pavement would be even more embarrassing than getting in a muddle with the currency. Why is it that when I meet a guy my coordination and just general decorum go out the window? It seems the only time I can look normal when talking to a guy is when I'm sat down just generally doing nothing.

"So where in England did you move from?" Taylor continues with the polite questions, staving off any awkward silence that threatens to settle in.

"Chelsea, in London," I reply.

Taylor nods in that approving way again.

"You have no idea where in London that is, do you?" I clarify with a growing smile.

"No," Taylor laughs, caught out.

"It's in West London, close to the Thames," I answer.

"Oh, right, cool."

We reach my car and I unlock the boot. Taylor carefully places the guitar in the back, sticking his tongue out a little as he concentrates on trying not to drop the case. He shuts the boot behind him.

"Thanks," I say again, loitering on the driver's side of the car.

"You're welcome," he replies. "I hope your brother likes the guitar."

"He'd better," I joke and we both laugh for what must be the twentieth time. "I'd better get it shipped then, so I'll see you around," I add, opening the car door.

"Yeah, hopefully, see you around," Taylor answers, stepping onto the pavement.

As I pull out of the space, Taylor waves through the window, his smile making me blush even more. And as I drive off, I can't help but think of how he said 'hopefully'.