Page 97 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Hate that he never fought for himself.

Hate that I even care this much.

I can’t even look at him.

So I turn away, arms folding across the ledge of the hot tub, the skyline hitting me in the face, letting it be the only witness to the one ugly tear that falls—a fuck-you tear.

It hits my mouth, and the salt and smoke burn my split lip. My fingers fumble when I reach for the cigs again.

I light one, a pathetic laugh slipping out after, confused, my body no longer able to tell the difference between laughing and crying.

I flick the ash, refusing to look at him,

keeping my eyes on the city—gold lights like flames, snow falling like ash, the smoldering skyline burning through December.

“You're a pussy, Drew,” I force out.

“Got no fuckin’ backbone…”

My cigarette trembles near my mouth.

“…I could never trust you.”

I have no right to judge him, but the only options I have right now are crying or lashing out. And I’m choosing lashing out.

Brooke would call it projecting.

And. Well. Fuck Brooke.

Another tear shivers between my lashes,

too afraid of me too fall.

“And for some dumb-ass reason, anytime someone takes a swing at you? Throws even a little shade? I feel it in my stomach. Like a fist through drywall in my home.”

I shrug,

a sigh leaving me in one long fuck-it.

“And I don’t get it. I really don’t. Can’t let you in, but I’d take a punch for you without blinking.

“‘Cause somehow that’s safer.

“But you? Nah. You fight for nothing.

“Not for you.

“Not for the idea of…

“hell, I don’t know⁠—”

I catch myself before going too far, step back from confessional territory I can’t stand in.

Someone has to,

‘cause he still hasn’t said shit.

“So yeah. This is all hilarious, really.