Page 390 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

His hand dives into his pocket.

The second phone slides out.

It hits the pavement before the door slams shut.

And his heel drives into the asphalt, shattering the glass and plastic with a crunch.

He rips off his hat, forcing a frantic, white-knuckled hand through his hair before shoving the cap back on. He paces, then stops. His hand hangs off his hip bone as he stands there, head bowed, staring down at the murdered phone.

I don’t know what that was⁠—

a confession,

a tantrum,

a gesture?

Maybe he’s mad that I found out.

Maybe I accidentally made him to choose something he wasn’t ready for.

I don’t fucking know.

It’s the loudest Andrew has ever Andrewed.

The back door flies open, hinges groaning, and he grabs the bat bag, the duffle, the folding chair bag.

One by one, he slings them across his chest and over his shoulder.

He looks into the car. “You coming?”

The answer is obviously no.

So I open the door and follow.

Soon as we enter, I’m greeted by the roar of blower fans, the smell of stale sweat, and a long line snaking away from the sign-in table. Andrew stands next to me, but his attention splinters off into every direction.

Each time the door behind us opens, and a rush of winter chill blows through, his head twists back, expecting to see Hunter.

Except for this last time,

someone else makes him freeze.

“Fuckin’ kiddin’ me…” he mutters, gaze fixated, adjusting his grip on the bags strapped against his chest.

I turn to look over my shoulder, following the line of his gaze, when my eyes lock on a man standing a few heads back.

He has one hand buried in the pocket of his black puffer, the other dangling a blue Gatorade.

He’s late twenties, maybe.

A thick gold chain lying on his chest.

Baseball cap flipped backward.

He catches me looking,

then spots Andrew next to me,