Page 227 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

sees the spatula,

and he collapses into his spine.

“Allison,” he groans, dragging my name through his hand with a yawn, throwing me a middle finger as he drops his head into his knees.

The song’s so loud it forgets it’s sad,

every lyric ricocheting off the marble.

He lifts his head again,

peeking over his knees.

And yeah, I’m still here, mid-performance, slumping back against the doorframe, hand to my forehead, sliding down after being shot in the heart by a Celine Dion lyric and relatability, where even her tear ducts throw in the towel.

Theatrical? Yes.

Excessive? Also yes.

Necessary? Absolutely yes.

But when the beat kicks again, I’m up, moving back into the living room, marching to the beat. Something between a Buckingham guard and a stomping Bieber.

Ben’s in the kitchen, searching the cabinets, mumbling curses—chest flexing, frustrated and miserable.

I hid his fancy blender.

He opens the freezer.

Closes it.

Checks his fruit basket.

Idiot.

Honor’s throwing a tantrum in the hall,

arms flailing madly,

eyes throwing bullets,

shirtless, sweatpants,

mouthing something about

murder and morning hours.

I catch “five” and “you’re not normal” before the music devours him.

And he’s right.

I am five and not normal.

Andrew steps into view from the opposite hallway corner, still in his creased bellhop dress pants, dress shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, arms crossed, hair crushed to one side, another stupid sleepy yawn breaking through.

Ben explodes from the kitchen, cupped hands over his mouth. “YO. WHAT’D YOU DO WITH MY VITAMIX A-THIRTY-FIVE-HUNDRED?!”

Honor turns to Ben,