Page 272 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

the next,

I’m cracking and spilling over,

the world becoming a blur of motion until I’m crashing into the heat of his back.

My arms wrap around his waist, my hand clutching his shirt, and I press my face between his shoulder blades.

The warmth of him instantly relaxes me.

I breathe him in,

the faint scent of his cologne, his skin.

For three heartbeats, he’s a statue.

Then, he hangs his head

and sinks back into me,

his weight settling against my chest.

The mug is abandoned, and he begins to stroke my arm—slow, soothing. It’s the first thing that’s felt like relief in a week.

For a while, there’s only the sound of the coffee machine, the slow drip of coffee into the pot.

“Aight,” he says, throat full of gravel.

“I take it you’re still not talkin’.”

Neither of us move.

We stay where we are,

my arms wrapped around his middle,

his hand gripping my forearm.

“I know you went to my place yesterday. I know my moms asked you about a date.”

His shoulders flex,

and he shakes his head.

“And, hell, I don’t know… maybe that’s why you had that motherfucker here. Fine. Whatever. But listen to me,” he says,

dragging his palm up my arm again.

“That night I drove out to Toms River, went to my uncle’s place. Asked him if he’d step up and be a donor. Didn’t want Ma knowin’. They don’t talk. Haven’t in, like, twenty years. Some family drama bullshit. But I had to try,” he explains. ‘Cause it’s her last shot.”

He slips my hand under his shirt, then guides it across his warm stomach to his scar. “I already did the transplant once,” he says, sliding my palm over the raised scar with his. “Can’t do it again. Even if I wanted to.”

He breathes out,

body melting into my hold.

“That’s it, Allison. All it was.”

There’s still fifty grand under his bed.