Page 222 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

None of them like hers.

Seventh time’s a charm.

The timer screams, and I click off the burner, snatch the pinot noir off the counter by the neck, and chug it down with a demon glare on the pot, a little intimidation for lump-making.

Heat hisses back at me,

the wheat bubbling up with a plop.

I step forward.

Lump up, you little shit.

Don’t be soft. Fuck up right for once.

Give me her. One fucking time.

It’s her birthday, I almost cry.

I lower the ladle into the last pot, my last shot, and I hate how desperate I am for something this stupid.

I stir, dip, then taste it⁠—

creamy, melting on my stupid-ass tongue, trying too hard to live up to its name. It tastes exactly how it’s supposed to taste, when it was supposed to turn back time.

It’s not hers.

And it never will be.

The lump hits my throat instead.

Behind me, the slasher’s playing dead-girl music. An eerie violin-whine right before the knife.

And I’m standing in the middle of it all,

wheat on my toes,

wine bottle empty,

bleeding from everywhere

and missing her.

Tears threaten to slice hot down my face,

emotion warning that it’s about to rip.

I’m gonna cry, I’m gonna cry.

At least I’m alone.

It’s past midnight.

Ben’s still at the gym.

Honor’s asleep.

Andrew’s—