Page 146 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I groan even louder.

Her palms rub together, scheming.

“Jordan’s ride-or-die team anal.”

My head snaps. “Jordan?”

Her New Orleans model friend?

“Yeah, she pullin’ up tomorrow for Sunset Decay.” She slaps my thigh with the back of her hand. “We gon’ tag-team 'til your bougie ass folds for backdoor penetration.”

Great. Two models out here manifesting dick for my colon.

She smirks at her reflection in the tinted window. “On the West Coast? Anal’s a lifestyle. LA don’t got zip codes. They got moans—mine-oh-ohhhh.”

I choke on my tongue,

coughing out a laugh.

She shoves her cell screen in my face, the zip codes pulled up on Google. “Tell me that nine don’t look like a dick about to slide between two ass cheeks.”

I sink lower, burying my face in the glow of my phone, wishing I could rise to Celie’s smile, but it’s been sixty hours since I heard his voice.

I’ve held out longer, but this one burns.

I wanna text him that the plane landed.

That I made it, that I’m safe.

But that’s not how this works.

He walked.

If he cares, he’ll ask.

If he doesn’t?

Then that says everything.

I’ll bite my tongue bloody before I’m the first one to crack.

I click out of our dead text thread

and open a web browser.

My thoughts are still on the miserable married couple, and I need a statistic to confirm Andrew’s always been a bad idea.

I type: what are the odds of your first relationship failing?

The answer pops up fast: 70% of relationships don’t make it past the first year.

Wonderful. It doesn’t matter what he swears, what he promises, the odds already packed his bags for him.

“Yo—uh-uh. Don’t even. Lookin’ like a calculator threw up on you.” Celie shoves her shades on, shaking her head. “Don’t start doin’ that math-nerd shit. You always bug out when you do.”

I black out my screen and spin my phone in my palm, glancing over at the Hollywood sign, the sky rinsed blue. Outside, the gray freeway slides past, billboard after billboard.

“Allie, you stubborn ass.