Page 59 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“If you ever second-guess it?”

He lifts a shoulder.

“I do. I can’t bullshit us.

“That’s it. All I wanted to say.”

I squeeze his thigh. Yeah, you care now.

Let’s check back in a few hours,

see if that still holds.

He closes his eyes,

forehead tipping to mine.

“Nah, nah, nah. This shit ain’t real,” Peter says.

And that’s when I remember we’re in the middle of a bar, and the table went dead quiet, as if someone hit mute.

I glance over.

Peter’s staring at us, mouth full of fries.

“What the fuck is goin’ on right now.”

Ricky’s frozen with his drink mid-air.

“Seriously. I’m in a twilight zone.”

Andrew sends them a glare, doing that cut-it-out slash of his hand at his throat, then snatches up his drink, pretending I didn’t see him do that.

I scan the table, lost.

“What? What am I missin’ here?”

“Nothin’,” Andrew pops a fry into his mouth. “They’re just bein’ dumb.”

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, word? I’m bein’ dumb?”

He swipes a napkin across his grin.

Then he leans in, elbows on the table.

Andrew curses in Italian under his breath.

Peter waves it off. “Nah, bro. You brought this on yourself.” He points at Andrew, eyes on me. “What I'd tell you? I’ve known this guy a decade. Ten years, not one girl. Ever. And in public? He’s got two modes when he ain’t workin’: ice cold or Houdini. Walks away from tens like it’s nothin’. And drunk Andrew? Worse. Grade-A asshole.” Peter’s gaze swings to Andrew. “Only that ain’t what the fuck happened, is it?

“You went rogue tonight, bro. I had money on the classic Harding moves. But this?” He gestures wide, hands spread out. “Touchin’. Kissin’. Smilin’? The fuck is this?” He lays a hand on his chest, fake wounded. “Lost me a Benjamin, bro. I was ready to make a quick hundred, swoop in on her for you, get her off your hands, ‘cause that’s love, man.”

“Nah.” Andrew lifts his drink. “Love is me tellin' girls we ain’t close so they don’t try to fuck you just to get to me. That’s love, Petey.” He winks. “But you try swoopin' in on Allison? You’ll get your Grade-A asshole.”

“Damn.” Ricky raises his beer.

“R.I.P. to the myth of Andrew Harding.”