Page 123 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

that hurts to look at.

Then he comes to a standstill beside me.

He hesitates, probably thinking about a kiss to the forehead.

But thinks better of it.

“Yeah… safe flight, aight?

“We’ll talk when you get back.”

I should stop him.

But I don’t. I never fucking do.

It’s easier to watch the back of him

than count the knife wounds in the front.

41 / P.I.M.P.

50 CENT

// DEC 03, 11:43 AM - WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - GREENWICH VILLAGE, NYC //

Washington Square’s loud as fuck.

A guy with a sax is playing the same three notes over and over. Tourists are getting hustled at chess. Some kid’s drumming a bucket for money.

I’m waiting for Celie on our bench, the one with our initials scratched in—a broke-ass lovers’ monument—checking my phone, then shoving it back in my pocket every five minutes.

I haven’t heard from Andrew since he dipped two nights ago, drunk and broke at midnight in Manhattan.

Mickey swore he got home safe—“Made sure he got in a cab. Paid up front, gave him my number. Didn’t seem like the type to ask for help, so I didn’t make a thing of it.”

Not like I’m losing sleep over it.

(I am.)

If I gave a shit, I’d’ve gone to Jersey and checked on him. Instead I’m left with the memory of him in my bedroom, looking at me as if I murdered him, and my body was the knife.

All I did was fuck somebody else.

And now somehow, I’m the monster.

Somehow, Saint Andrew made me feel dirty for playing the same game I’ve always played.

I should’ve burned Brandon’s letter.

Only reason it survived was because it said: I fucking love you, Allison.

And no matter how much I hate those five words, it was proof on paper that someone once thought I was worth the breath wasted to write them down, even if it came from the wrong heart.

Truth is, the words felt human.

Made me think maybe I was, too.

But I’m not.