Page 145 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Over two strangers who can’t decide if they hate each other enough to walk away, or love each other enough to keep hating each other.

It’s funny in the cruelest way, sitting between the miserable ghosts of Andrew and me, the universe reminding me there's no win for us in the end.

We were fucked from the start.

The husband notices the tear,

and he frowns. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah, nah.” I take out an AirPod and swipe at my face. “The song’s diggin’ up some old wounds.”

Except, when the talking dies down,

the leak from my AirPod betrays me.

“…we nasty, classy, trashy—balls clap n’ make that pussy happy…”

They both blink at me.

I nod, clearing my throat.

“You just had to be there.”

Five hours later, the plane wheels descend and cabin lights flick on. Time change has me drunk without the drink. It feels like my organs are three hours ahead of my skin.

One foot's in New York ready for lunch, the other's lost in palm trees in LA, and my brain’s still stranded somewhere over Kansas.

A Bentley idles out front, the driver holding up a sign with white gloves.

We slide in, doors shut, and Celie dives head-first into her phone, long nails clacking out a text. “Mhmm. Told Malik we landed. It’s happenin’ tomorrow night. Your girl’s ready.”

My head falls back on the headrest,

and I shut my eyes.

Her phone pings again.

I open one eye.

She’s stomping her feet,

hoops swaying,

giggling at her own filth.

Then she sets the phone face-down on her thigh and sinks into the leather, smug painting her smile. “Malik’s down. Tomorrow night’s official. Don’t even ask.”

Her eyes crawl to me with a devilish grin, dying for me to ask.

I sigh, long and tired. “What’s official?”

Her brows jump. “Anal, bitch.”

I groan,

laying my head back on the seat again.

“Yeah,” she nods, “this pretty little asshole’s losin’ its virginity to the NFL’s finest running back. ‘Cause you know they always be findin’ the gap.”