“Wouldn't've lasted more than a week anyway." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. “You want my advice? Skip the rap shit. Ask to meet up and say it to his face. Then you can walk out all big and bad like you been plannin’ all along.”
Sounds enticing.
But I’m still going to write the rap.
Because I’m a pussy.
Words are safer when they rhyme.
“I’ll wait it out a few days,” I mutter,
knowing it'll eat me alive.
“See if he texts me first.”
Celie sighs, floating back to the couch.
“I still can’t believe this is you.”
She tucks a leg beneath her, nursing her coffee.
“All them years, I was the one cryin’ over trash guys, and you preachin’ ‘bout havin’ a backbone. The Savage tellin’ me to move the fuck on. Now? Tables turned, bitch.”
She points between us, grinning wide.
“Straight-up Freaky Friday shit.”
I huff, but it’s weak.
She squints at me, serious now.
“Real talk though—what’s the endgame?
“You sendin’ this rap to help him understand,
“get the last word in,
“or sleep better at night?
“‘Cause, Allie—don't expect that man to be cool wit' you after this. You gotta go in for you, not for him. The truth leaves stretch marks.”
I chew my lip raw, then lift one finger,
the international sign forgimme a second to think of a lie.
“Great fucking questions,” I grumble. “Soon as I figure my shit out, you’ll be the first to know.”
The real endgame:
I just want to know if he’s hurting.
And if he is?—
if I’m the reason he’s walking around,
a bruised heart and no fucking clue why?—
then I need him to know it wasn’t all a lie.
