Page 27 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

He holds back the sound but can’t stop his shoulders from shakin’.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The bathroom door vibrates, a fist poundin’ from the other side. “Holly!” Another pound. “I know you're in there! Open this fuckin’ door!”

Guy’s pissed, talkin’ fast, city-born.

Andrew’s head pops up, eyes wide.

“Shit—” Now he’s pissed. “Lemme guess, boyfriend?” He doesn't wait for her to answer. He immediately pulls back, fixin’ his chain.

She’s breathin’ hard, not sayin’ yes or no.

Which means yes.

She grabs her panties, shaken and on the verge of tears. “We broke up,” she rushes out, then, “…tonight.”

He’s shakin’ his head. Same old record.

Another slam on the door. “Holly! Open the fuckin’ door!”

She hops off the counter and heads to the door, but Andrew stops her. “Whoa—hold up. Don’t open the door. Not yet. Just… gimme a second,” he says, reachin’ for the broken knob across the counter.

He slides it back on the faucet and turns on the water.

He doesn’t usually do this part with the girl watchin’, doesn’t want insecure thoughts goin’ through their head as he scrubs his hands, wrists, and face hard.

Next, he blows out a deep breath while slippin’ a half-used travel bottle of mouthwash from his front pocket. He throws it back like a shot of vodka, feelin’ it burn the back of his throat.

In the mirror, she’s standin’ behind him, trackin’ his every move. He faces the sink, swiggin’, garglin’, and spittin’, a blue trail spiralin’ down porcelain, then he tosses the empty bottle into the trash.

He ain’t scared. He’s mad and disappointed in himself for still bein’ shocked when shit like this goes down. He turns, scans the tile, then snatches the busted roll of paper towels off the floor. He’s movin’ fast, rippin’ off two strips and foldin’ ‘em tight.

“C’mere,” he says, standin’ in front of her. He crouches down and slides her heel off. Then lines the inside with the paper towel pad, right where it’s makin’ her blister. “Ain’t a band-aid, but it’ll stop the bite.”

He does the same for the other foot, still refusin’ to look her in the eyes.

“There,” he says, lettin’ her heel slide off his thigh. “That do it for you?”

She lets out a half-laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.” But then she doesn't make a move to leave. She only stands there, starin’ at him. He doesn’t like the way it feels, with her eyes on him. As if she wants more.

He wipes his palms across the back of his pants as he stands, ready to dip.

The third reason in his three-for-three ritual is the one he’d never admit out loud. The one that’s much simpler, stupider, sadder. ‘Cause some pathetic part of him still believes he’ll know when he finds the one.

He thinks maybe his body will recognize her from scent and taste alone. Somethin’ animal and old and buried. Somethin’ in his chest that says mine. Somethin’ that tastes like a memory he never had and feels like home.

Look. Smell. Taste.

Safety. Separate. Search.

Three-for-fuckin’-three, and he don’t even know why he still cares. What’s the point? He just had his face buried in a girl who’s got another man knockin’ on the door.

Newsflash, dumbass.

They all lie through their fuckin’ moans.

Lie even easier when they’re flat on their backs.