Page 268 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“He’s gorgeous, though. Like, fuck.”

Andrew’s clenchin’ his jaw so tight to keep himself from falling apart right there in the hall.

He said yes ‘cause he felt like sayin’ no would hurt ‘em. He didn’t walk out on ‘em ‘cause he didn’t want someone else takin’ advantage. He took care of ‘em, made sure they got their fantasy.

His jacket and shirt are on the backrest of the couch. He leaves them behind and slips out the front door fast.

He doesn’t wait for the elevator.

He can’t.

His legs won’t stop movin’.

His stomach’s in his throat.

He takes the stairs two at a time, his feet hittin’ each landin’ harder than the last, knowin’ that if he stands still, he’ll vomit.

One hand skims down the rail, the other clenches and unclenches. ‘Cause, fuck—he can still smell ‘em. He’s got their taste soaked into his face and their laughter ringin’ in his ears, and it makes his whole body churn inside out.

He thought she was his friend. He’d become someone she could trust.

But he never thought for one second he shouldn’t trust her.

He bites back the bile buildin’ in his throat, the sting in his eyes.

When he hits the lobby, it’s empty.

He shoves the door open and rain slaps him across the face, soakin’ his hair, slidin’ down his bare shoulders, his spine. He lets it beat down on him as he walks to the car, his throat tightenin’, bile risin’ up fast.

And just before he reaches the driver’s side door, he doubles over and vomits into the grass. His palms drop to his knees, and he retches until there’s nothin’ left.

He stays like that for a second, bare back heaving, hair drippin’, rainwater and vomit poolin’ at his feet. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth and straightens his spine, head rollin’ back ‘til he’s lookin’ up at the sky.

Rain hits his face, and he closes his eyes.

Just hit me already, he thinks. He don’t want to die. But in that moment? The sky could crack open, lightnin’ could strike, and he wouldn’t mind.

It doesn’t, so he gets into the car. He turns the engine over, turns up the heat.

Then he sits there, knees still bouncin’ while the radio plays low.

He takes out his phone to block her number.

There’s a missed call. A voicemail.

“Ciao, figlio mio… it’s your ma. Don’t worry, okay? I wanted to tell you that the appointment I had this morning, for the results? Eh. The liver… not doing so good again.

I messed up, Andrew. I slipped. I tried to stop but I didn’t ask for help soon enough.

Anyway, I’m fine. Don’t panic, okay?

I know what you’re thinking. Ma, after everything? I know. I know. Believe me, I don't stop feeling bad about it. So don’t be mad. I’m already mad enough at myself for the both of us, okay?

After what you did for me, after everything you’ve done, and I go mess it up? Che vergogna. I didn’t want to see your face when I say it. That would be worse. If I had to see your eyes? I cry and then you go into your shell and then we both be mad at me.

I don’t have the energy for that right now.

We’ll figure it out, okay?