Page 117 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He steps in slow,

setting his clothes on a chaise in a daze,

eyes soaking in the skyline.

The view’s spread wide,

lit up, dripping gold.

And tonight,

it’s crawling into bed with us.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, half-laughing. “This is—” He crosses the room stunned. “This is fuckin’—I mean, Jesus. Look at this.”

But it’s the view of him standing there that makes me ache in the chest.

‘Cause he’s in my bedroom.

The first boy to ever be in my bedroom.

The boy from Type No. 45.

The stupid Jersey boy,

with the swag lean in his hip

and the pretty mouth.

He's standing in front of my window,

back turned,

boxers slung low on his hips,

hair damp,

water beading down his bare shoulders,

dimples kissing the base of his spine,

surrounded by all my things.

Like this view has always been his too.

And suddenly

there’s something tight in my throat.

It’s not emotion.

(It’s always emotion.)

When he turns, his eyes hit mine.

It only lasts a second,

but it makes me feel exposed.