Page 250 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“I know, was in the neighborhood⁠—”

Then she shouts over her shoulder,

loud enough to shake the crucifix.

“MARIAAA! WHAT’D I TELL YOU? TOLD YOU WE DIDN’T SCARE HER OFF!”

She waves me in deeper.

I toe off my boots in the foyer,

nudging them in the corner.

The TV’s blaring from the living room.

There’s a Christmas candle burning in the kitchen, cinnamon tangled with coffee and radiator heat.

Outside, somewhere near the basement door, Celie is probably crawling on all fours.

When I turn the corner, Maria’s in her chair by the window, thinner than she was at Thanksgiving, eyes still wildfire, still ‘I’ll outlive all you bastards.’ She’s wrapped in the Teddy Vale blanket I gifted her.

But Teddy’s face is melted at the corner, thread singed, like someone accidentally held it over a stove burner.

Probably Andrew.

My mind instantly drops me into the scene: Paola screaming at him as the two wrestle the blanket from each other, ‘Jealous of a crooner. A CROONER! LET GO OF THE BLANKET—LET—GO! Che cazzo—are you INSANE?’ While Maria throws whatever’s closest into the kitchen, the remote, a pillow, a pill bottle, shouting curses in Italian—‘È MIO! MIO! MIO! Leave my Teddy alone!’ Then Andrew, yanking it back. ‘I’m not jealous. It’s weird! She sleeps with that man’s face on her. YOU DON’T SEE HOW THAT’S WEIRD?! LET GO—MA, stop throwin’ shit!’ Then Paola: ‘Maria! Stop tryin’ to hit him with the remote—Jesus Christ!’

Someone on the TV screams into a pillow, and it yanks me out of my head.

One of the dating reality shows flashes across the TV, and Paola laughs, throwing her head back. “‘I’m overstimulated,” she mock-whines, rolling her eyes. “Funniest shit. That generation don’t date. They diagnose each other. Everybody’s emotionally intelligent now, and somehow nobody’s emotionally stable. And here I am, glued to every episode.” Paola then turns to me. “Speaking of dates, how was yours with Andrew last night?”

My heart stops,

misses a beat.

Then five.

Like a drumstick slipping out of a drummer’s hand mid-solo.

I stare off, a little lost.

Date?

The—

No.

He was working last night,

at the bar,

all night,

then passed out on the couch

in his bartender clothes.

Did he lie to her?