Dear Rory,
I'm sorry about what I said.
I'm leaving for LA in two days.
Can we talk before then, please?
We can just drive around as usual.
I don't know how to do this if
you're upset with me.
Call me please. I'm staying at my
parents' house...
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———
I wake up the following morning to two new messages. One from my agent and one from Cas.
I open Cas's message first.
Cas: Yo, new postcard from your obsessed fan. Ur Nana just sent it
I roll my eyes as I type a quick text.
Rory: She's not an obsessed fan. Just a pen pal at this point.
To my surprise, Cas is still awake and texts me back immediately.
Cas: a pen pal you never write back so... how are you pals?
Rory: You're right. We're not pals. I don't know why she sends them still. Shouldn't you be sleeping though? It's like 2:00 a.m.
Cas: Sleep is for the weak, Ror. Keep up !! why does Taylor still send them
Rory: Dude, your guess is as good as mine. I haven't written back in years. Go to sleep!
Cas: no
Then, my phone starts ringing. Cas, requesting to FaceTime.
I roll my eyes but smile amusedly as I accept the call.
"Morning, sunshine!" They start in a chirpy tone. "How's my favourite underground indie author doing?"
"Not technically underground when my last book sold over a million copies," I remind them, maybe a little cocky but Cas laughs anyway.
"Yeah, but you use a pseudonym. Like, everyone knows it's you but no one really knows it's you. It's— the whole vibe. It's underground indie. You don't get it."
"It's literally my vibe. I get my vibe. That's not it!" I shoot back with a laugh, tossing my phone on the bed so that I can change my clothes.
I slip on a pair of linen trousers and a plain white t-shirt before heading to the bathroom to fix my hair, bringing Cas with me and leaving my phone on the counter.
"Aye, you look good! Those pants are doing your ass justice," Cas exclaims and lets out a whistle that has me giggling.
"What, this ass?" I turn around, giving them a better view of my butt in these dark green trousers. "This flat thing?"
"Doesn't look flat in these pants," they reassure me, nodding enthusiastically. "Find a hot Italian person and hook up with them. Please. You deserve it."
"After what happened with Francesca? No, thank you," I chuckle, running a brush through my hair before tying it up in a pony tail.
"You can't swear off all Italians."
"I can and I will," I say, rummaging through my toiletry bag until I find the tube of sunscreen. "Should I call Francesca?"
