Page 395 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I wander to the boundary line, my fingers curling through the black netting.

On the dugout bench, a guy who looks barely twenty is hunched over his cleats, his hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows. “Hey,” I call out quiet. “Danny, right?”

He lifts his head.

“Yeah. And you’re… Allison.”

“Yeah.” I point through the net to the far side of the field. “You know who that guy is? The one in the Yankees cap.”

The kid follows my finger, squinting and sifting through his memory. “Gino,” he says, voice unsure at first. Then he nods. “Yeah. That’s Gino. He’s cool.”

Pfft. Cool. Yeah.

So is hypothermia.

“Thanks,” I say, pushing off the net,

the name still not ringing a bell.

I start to turn toward my chair⁠—

when my eyes stagger on Andrew,

and I freeze, trapped by the scene.

He’s slouched on his hip near the baseline, glove tucked under his arm, consumed by another woman.

She’s older, blonde,

with her chest pressed up against his.

My eyes can’t shut. Or blink.

But they can watch. And follow.

She's smiling up at him as she talks,

her hand crawling up his chest,

and I break out into a cold sweat.

Soon as her fingers hook the chain at his throat, he falls back a step, but her fingers have him, sliding along the gold links in lazy strokes, her knuckles brushing his bare skin.

A sick, sour taste crawls along my gums.

You Still Mine?

Yeah.

His eyes flicker to me fast.

The edges of my vision blur on him, my thoughts driving off into dark places, taking me down narrow streets I’ve never been on before.

Wrong turn after wrong turn in the middle of the night, no map, busted headlights, ninety-miles-per-hour down Jealousy Boulevard.

I know anger.

I’m familiar with the way it feels.