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Fall Out Of Love ft. Carlie Hanson by Salem
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THEN
six days ago.
T. MCKESSIE, VP
The gold plaque reads.
TAYLOR ANN MCKESSIE.
Her growing pile of bills are stamped.
TAYLOR ANN DANFORTH.
The words printed at the top left corner of the silly piece of paper scream up at her, like it's mocking her almost. She had forgotten all about it, had pushed all thoughts of her impending divorce out of her head over the last eleven months as she focused every ounce of energy into becoming Vice President to the company she slaved away countless hours, blood, sweat, and tears for since she was twenty-two. But there it was, the sole tie to her former life with Chad Danforth. It was no shock that he refused to sign again, probably because he hoped that after some time apart they could salvage their relationship, but Taylor was getting along just fine without her soon-to-be ex-husband. She lived in a charming two-bedroom Spanish style home in Corona, which she paid for all by herself thanks to her thriving career, and more importantly, she was happy—so much more than she ever was during the five years she and Chad were married, hell, during the nine years since they started dating. She thought back on how good things had been in the beginning, how sweet and naïve their relationship started out as, but even back then she'd had this . . . feeling . . . things wouldn't survive once they graduated high school. They were polar opposites, Taylor so serious about life and knowing the exact direction she wanted to take, while Chad was literally undecided by the time graduation rolled around for what he wanted to do for college, but at least he had his basketball scholarship to help get him through finding himself at the University of Albuquerque. Her mother had warned her. Kelsi, her own best friend, was surprised they even lasted more than a few months but never outright showed her . . . annoyance of Chad. Even Sharpay had given unsolicited advice.
But Taylor wanted to prove them wrong, every single person who doubted her relationship with Chad. Including herself.
(and look how that ended)
She'd been so absorbed in angrily glaring at the unsigned divorce papers, unwillingly reminiscing about the time she spent with Chad, that she hadn't heard somebody knocking on her office door. When she did finally look up, she saw none other than Sharpay Evans herself standing in the doorway, her arms folded loosely over her chest, with an eyebrow raised—her brown eyes flickering between Taylor and the papers in hand, a knowing smile toying at her lips.
"Don't say it," Taylor groaned, hastily tossing the papers onto her desk and leaning back in her chair.
"Say what?" Sharpay teased, click-clacking her way into Taylor's office, never not surprising Taylor at the way she commandeered the ability to walk in those pencil-tip-thin sky-high things she called heels, whereas Taylor herself could barely stand in anything higher than four inches. "I figured you forgot about our lunch date, so I thought I'd stop by to remind you in person."
"Right," Taylor said slowly, watching as Sharpay came to a stop in front of her desk. "I didn't forget," she added, which was a complete lie, and they both knew it. "Give me two minutes," She sighed, rising from her chair, and gathering her things so they could head down to their usual spot for lunch like they did every Monday afternoon.
It was strange, Taylor mused to herself—if somebody had told her that she would be best friends with the Ice Queen Rich Bitch of East High, went on weekly lunch dates with the same girl who tormented her for most of freshman and sophomore year, and had asked Sharpay to be the Maid of Honor at her and Chad's wedding, she probably would have laughed in their face. Her and Sharpay had been on opposite ends of the spectrum, much like Taylor and Chad—Sharpay was all about the theater, where Taylor felt comforted by mathematics and science. Sharpay was a spoiled airheaded heiress, or at least that's what a majority of their high school thought, anyway, while much like a lot of people in this day and age, Taylor's family struggled living paycheck to paycheck. She was mean to anyone who she thought was beneath her, which was pretty much everyone, but for some reason, Taylor especially. It wasn't until after they graduated from high school that Taylor got to know the real Sharpay, their paths crossing unexpectedly—she'd been visiting Chad during their first year of college, having entirely forgotten by that point that Chad and Sharpay both attended the University of Albuquerque, and bumped into her while waiting for basketball practice to end. By the end of her three-day visit, things had shifted. Sharpay and Taylor were friends. And it's not to go without saying that Taylor had expressed her doubts about being friends with Sharpay too, even after they buried the hatchet over how things were in high school, but after all these years, her surprising friendship with the actress went a lot further than her doomed relationship with the basketball player.
"You're coming over this weekend," Sharpay decided, interrupting the current conversation they'd been having about the mundane things happening in their lives, once they were tucked away in their usual corner table and their lunches were brought out, absently picking at her Cobb salad—the tone she used making it clear there was no room for argument or negotiation or any type of discussion.
"I—uh, what? Why? Is everything okay?" Taylor spluttered, surprised by the invitation(?). She stabbed her fork at the marinated Atlantic salmon filet on her plate, the prongs spearing into the chunk of fish and flaking away with ease, but she didn't bring it to her mouth. Just in case. Sharpay never asked (told) her to come over out of nowhere.
"Of course," Sharpay answered lightly, but the corners of her mouth were slightly turned down, and there was this . . . this look in her eyes that tugged at Taylor's heartstrings as she mumbled, "I just want to spend time with you, is all," in between bites of her salad.
Taylor wondered if this had anything to do with Sharpay's newest relationship with a basketball player of her own, Troy Bolton—she fleetingly remembered him from high school, the captain of numerous school teams—the Golden Boy, the guy everybody loved because he was the good-looking star athlete, having scored multiple scholarships to different colleges, people were always inviting him to parties and wanting to be his friend, showering him with attention that never went to his head. He was also the coach's son. Sharpay had tried to get him to sing with her in their junior year's winter musical and at her family's country club's talent show when they'd all worked there the summer before senior year, but Troy rejected her both times. The only reason Taylor knew that (at the time) was because Troy was Chad's best friend since they were five years old, and from the way things looked on Troy's end, Sharpay had acted out maliciously—but after hearing Sharpay's side of the story, two years later, she only reacted favorably because of the way Troy was towards her. His actions at the time proved that much. She wondered what changed Troy's mind to give Sharpay a chance now, it was something her friend had never shared with her, and she felt weird reaching out to ask him about it since she and Chad were no longer together, thus effectively ending any communication between them since their 'friendship' only existed because of Chad.
"Okay, I'll be there," Taylor promised softly.
NOW
There is a woman standing on the far side of the grand parlor, her body shifted just so that she is both turned towards the room and also gazing out the floor-to-ceiling window facing the backyard. She is wearing an all-white outfit, her pencil skirt clinging to her curves and the quarter-sleeve blazer she wears over a ruffled blouse looks like it was ironed within an inch of its life—a stark contrast against her tanned skin, her coffee-colored hair that tumbles over her shoulders in wild and unruly curls that could never quite be tamed, and the sharp wing of her smoky almond-shaped eyes that allows her to resemble a caged animal threatening to break free.
The other guests have elected to ignore her—but the speculation is fairly obvious in the set of their mouths, in the way they are sneaking a glimpse of her out the corners of their eyes more than they are paying attention to the man at the front of the room.
Taylor McKessie is fighting the temptation to twist around in her chair to stare at the woman head-on in order to determine whether or not she is somebody that belongs there, choosing to twirl a loose thread from her sweater around the tip of her index finger until it begins to turn purple before unraveling it and starting all over again.
Troy Bolton is otherwise staring adamantly at his hands in his lap as he listens to the man drone on and on, not bothering to hide the obvious fascination on his face every time he happens to peak over at the raven-haired female.
Chad Danforth is half-asleep where he lounges on the other side of the room, his head occasionally lobbing backward before jerking forward again as he catches himself from nodding off entirely. He could really care less about all of this, it's written all over him, from the lack of expression on his face to the way he made himself right at home, comfortable enough to nearly falling asleep as soon as he stretched out on the leather chaise. But yet, his attention is piqued when he finally notices the newcomer hiding at the back of the parlor, just not enough to make himself more presentable, otherwise.
Kelsi Nielsen is perched on the edge of the ottoman she's sitting on, her left leg jiggling up and down, her nails tapping rhythmically against the side of the cushion to a composition piece she'd started working on a few days before, but the slight tilt of her head, the curtain of light brown curls falling around her face, gives her a decent view of the unknown woman, allowing her to observe her from afar without being caught for staring so intently as she tried to work out the kinks in her brain—wanting to figure out where she knows her face from, but ultimately coming up short.
After thirty terse minutes, the man excuses himself, and an almost stunned silence fills the room—save for the crackling flames gnawing at the burning wood in the marble fireplace. Nobody knows where to look, so their darting eyes are roaming over every crack and crevice to avoid meeting the eyes of one another, unsure of how to break the uncomfortable quiet. It had been so long since they'd all been in the same room without wanting to rip each other's throats out, and this was certainly no exception. Taylor accidentally let her gaze flicker over to Chad's slumped form, and her blood is burning with an anger she didn't even realize had been lying dormant after all these years—but could she really be surprised? She swallowed thickly, averting her eyes to now stare at the embers floating up through the chimney with the plumes of smoke. Kelsi has moved from her spot on the ottoman to browsing through the endless supply of first edition novels that fill the shelves of the grand parlor, honestly expecting nothing less from the wealthy family that had invited them all here, but still, her gaze continues to slide over the mysterious woman that has not strayed from her corner—so to speak—by the window.
Finally, the silence is broken.
The door is creaking open, nobody moves as it reveals Ryan Evans to be entering the room.
"I'm really grateful to have you all here," he clasps his hands together, a sad smile on his face. "even if it's under such unfortunate circumstances."
"Of course, honey," Taylor croons, standing up from her chair—her knees cracking as she gets to her feet from sitting in the same position for so long. "We wouldn't want you to be alone during a time like this."
"I really appreciate that." Ryan said earnestly, but his blue eyes aren't focused on Taylor, rather he is staring straight at the woman in the back of the room, it is no mistake when their eyes meet—it isn't out of confusion or wonder, he hones his gaze with a crackle of electricity, full of recognition and almost . . . understanding. But that light has flickered out as quickly as it arrived. He softly clears his throat before continuing. "It pains me to have to do this, but, the real reason I asked you all to meet privately is because I have somebody I'd like for you to meet—" he gestures with both hands towards the woman, who is now slowly striding toward the blonde, her movements graceful and elegant, full of purpose. "This is Gabriella Montez, she is a private investigator that I have hired, because, as everyone knows, my sister was murdered and the police have proved to be incompetent time and time again, especially when it comes to the deaths of people like Sharpay."
Troy's jaw drops, Taylor's mouth opens and closes as she flounders like a fish out of water, like she's grasping to find something to say, but it is Kelsi who exclaims, "you can't possibly think one of us did it, do you?"
"I don't know what to think," Ryan shakes his head, shuttering out a deep sigh, and runs his fingers through his short blonde hair. Kelsi notices, then, that this is the first time since they met in kindergarten that Ryan isn't wearing a hat. "But I do know that my sister is dead and there are only so many people who could have possibly had the means and access to do so."
It wasn't that his tone was exactly accusatory, but the implication, the way it was delivered, had Troy wishing he possessed the ability to turn invisible to hide away from the knowing glances from Kelsi, the pursing of Taylor's lips and the startled choking sound she makes. Ryan didn't even have to look at him for Troy to know the underlying meaning to his words.
After all, isn't it always the boyfriends and husbands and scorned lovers that are always the prime suspects?
THEN
Later that night, Taylor was padding bare-foot into her kitchen with her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, chatting idly with Kelsi as she reached into the cabinet for a glass and plucked a bottle of wine out of the mini wine fridge installed into her island counter. She poured herself some Merlot, swirling it around a little in the glass before taking tepid sips in between sentences—then every other word. Kelsi was in the middle of telling her about something that had happened at work, she worked as the music teacher for a prestigious private school in New York City, when she heard the tell-tale beeping of an incoming call threatening to interrupt their catch-up time. She let it ring, nuzzling the side of her face against the screen to try to ignore the call—but then it started up again. And again. And again.
"Ugh, hold on—sorry Kelsi, I'm getting another call," Taylor huffed, bringing her phone out to accept the call and jamming it back against her ear without bothering to check the Caller ID. "Hello?" She snapped into the receiver, now swallowing larger mouthfuls of her wine.
"Taylor!" The person on the other end bellowed a few seconds too late, loud and exuberant, obnoxious. Unwanted.
"No." She hissed between clenched teeth, ending the call before they could say anything else—accidentally hanging up on Kelsi as well, but she immediately dialed her back. The other girl answered it finished the first ring. "Sorry 'bout that, you were saying?"
Kelsi already had an inkling as to who might've been the incoming caller, and knew better than to ask, so she launched back into her story as if they'd never been interrupted. But now that he'd infiltrated her night, even for only less than a second, Taylor felt her mood dampen a little—she was no longer giving Kelsi her full attention, instead she was pouring herself another glass of wine, she didn't even realize when the first one had been empty until nothing touched her tongue, and partially worried now that Chad might show up at her house. He'd done that once before after she stopped answering his calls when she first left him, and luckily hasn't done it since, but the thought was planted in her brain forever. She wondered if he was drinking and that's what prompted him to call her, would he have brought up the divorce papers if she hadn't hung up on him? Probably. Maybe. Or not. If anything he would have just lorded that over her, how she was still stuck with him because he refused to sign, and whether she liked it or not, despite the fact that they haven't lived together in thirteen months, no matter what she said or did, she was still Taylor Danforth. On paper, maybe. But not in her heart. And certainly not when it came to her career. Her degree said Taylor McKessie, that's how she was addressed in her workplace, when she was presented on stage in front of hundreds of people, and most importantly by her friends—and that's all that mattered to her.
An hour after Kelsi and Taylor got off the phone, she was significantly wine drunk, and it made her more tired than usual. She was in the middle of watching 'Do Revenge' on Netflix in her living room, nursing yet another glass of Merlot, wrapped up in a fluffy blanket while she had the air conditioning blasting—the perfect evening in her opinion—when there was a knock on the door. She wrestled her arm out of the blanket to grab the remote and pause the movie, the timestamp in the corner reading 8:32PM—who the hell could be at her door? And then she swallowed roughly another mouthful of wine, the uneasiness that it might be Chad ebbing at her, as she slowly got up from the sofa, gripping her glass in one hand and using the other to keep the blanket wrapped around her as she walked to the front door. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered through the peephole, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in when she saw wisps of blonde hair dancing in a gentle breeze.
Taylor flipped the lock and yanked the door open, "Shar?" The female in question had her back to Taylor, didn't turn at the sound of her name, just kept her attention on the dimly lit street, but it didn't go unnoticed in the way she had her arms wrapped around her midsection, or for the first time in as long as Taylor could remember that they were nearly the same height. "Sharpay," Taylor tried again, a little louder this time, but the wine had her a little muddled—the grogginess evident in her voice—though it did get her friend to turn around.
Sharpay's teeth scraped nervously over her lower lip, her head tilted a little to the side, as she looked Taylor up and down, noting the blanket and wine glass, before meeting her gaze. "I'm not bothering you, am I?"
"Not at all." Taylor shook her head, shuffling out of the way and gesturing with her wine glass for Sharpay to come inside—Sharpay stepped over the threshold, running her fingers through the ends of her professionally straightened blonde hair as she looked around Taylor's house, quirking the tiniest of smiles when she saw what movie Taylor had been watching. "I'm surprised you would even consider watching that." She giggled softly, but the sound fell flat.
"Are you really, though?" Taylor said almost conspiratorially as the two of them walked towards the sofa.
"No," she admitted, then gestured to Taylor's glass. "Need a refill? And a drinking buddy?"
"Yes." Taylor grinned as she plopped back down on the sofa, eyes trailing as Sharpay headed into the kitchen, easily moving her way around and helping herself to an unopened bottle from the mini fridge for the two of them to share after snagging another glass from the cabinet, then joined Taylor on the sofa, who unraveled herself from the blanket just enough to throw it over Sharpay's lap as she filled up the two glasses. Taylor unpaused the movie, scrutinizing the way Sharpay purposely hid her profile behind a curtain of blonde hair, tucking herself in as if burrowing herself in her tresses, but not before asking, "Are you okay? Did something happen?"
"I'll tell you after the movie," Sharpay insisted, curling up under the blanket and sipping at her wine.
Only, she never did.
NOW
"Mrs. Danforth—"
"McKessie," Taylor politely corrected the detective that had been ushered into the grand parlor at the Evans' family estate in Albuquerque, announcing that all of them are going to be questioned separately to try to give the police an accurate line up for the last week.
"Right," The detective gave a brusque nod, scribbling something out then poised the tip of his pen above it to jot that down. "Ms. McKessie, was there anything unusual about Ms. Evans' behavior in the days leading up to this weekend that might not have been cause for alarm at the time—"
The words were flying out of Taylor's mouth before she could even string together a different sentence, "She showed up at my house on Monday night, she never made a habit of just randomly dropping by—she always called or texted to give me the heads up because of this one time my soon-to-be ex came to my house uninvited and things went awry."
The detective started writing, his notepad angled away so she couldn't see.
"When I opened the door she was staring at the street and didn't seem to hear me when I called her name. The way she held herself, wrapping her arms around her stomach. . . it wasn't Sharpay, you know? She never did that in the entire time I've known her." Taylor continued on, sifting through the many cloudy layers in her brain as she uncovered that night, went over it again in her head. "She was never able to look at me head-on, she always kept her head to the side, and was . . . like, hiding in her hair. I asked her if she was okay but she never told me anything, the night just slipped away from us while we watched movies and drank wine."
"Did Sharpay Evans seem skittish at all?" A different voice—a female—asked, and that reminded Taylor that they weren't alone. It also was a wonder why she used Sharpay's full name, rather than simply referring to her as 'Ms. Evans' but she brushed it off.
She turned her head over to where Gabriella Montez was lingering by the fireplace, otherwise silently observing. Taylor chewed on her lower lip. "Not exactly. She did deflect a lot over the last week, it seemed like something was really bothering her but it's like pulling teeth trying to get Sharpay to open up." She briefly thought about their lunch date to follow up with, "When she invited me over this weekend, she seemed . . . sad, almost. Then later that night when she showed up on my doorstep . . . I think something was seriously wrong and she kept trying to find the courage to talk to me about it but, maybe, I don't know, she always chickened out at the last minute?"
"What can you tell us about Ms. Evans' love life?" Gabriella was strolling over to where Taylor and the detective were seated, coming to a stop just a few inches away from the wrought iron coffee table between them, and took a seat on the ottoman Kelsi had previously been occupying.
"She was seeing Troy Bolton, but I think maybe they broke up, or were about to. . . This weekend it's like everything was flipped on its head." She shook her head, letting out a heavy breath, and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I never saw them fighting but they also didn't seem as in love as they used to."
"I see," Gabriella nodded. "Is there anything else you can tell us about her relationship with Troy—er, Mr. Bolton?"
"Thank you for your time, Ms. McKessie." The detective said gruffly, pointedly ignoring Gabriella and her question, as he added, "Can you send in Mr. Danforth, please."
"Actually, I'd like to speak to Mr. Bolton, seeing as he was the deceased's boyfriend. Not Mr. Danforth." Gabriella cut in, though not unkindly.
Taylor stands up, swiping her hands over her skirt to smooth it down, and gives a small nod, exiting the grand parlor.
"You're up, lover boy."
Taylor had blurted it out in passing, choosing to rope Troy into talking with the detective rather than being forced to go seek Chad out or go through the trouble of finding somebody who could relay the message to him, but it wasn't until Troy was already disappearing around the corner to meet with the detective in the grand parlor that something clicked in her brain, quite literally causing her to stumble over her own two feet as she scrambled back down the hall, slipping into the next room and slowly, carefully, closing the doors behind her before going up against the wall adjacent to the grand parlor, cupping her hand around her ear as she strained to listen—despite knowing fully well that this was probably extremely illegal.
But this was about Sharpay.
For her.
So yeah, it was worth it.