36. My Body Is a Cage #3
Obviously the text isn’t the biggest problem. But it’s something I can blame that’s not myself.
I rake my hand through my hair, looking back up at her.
“Didn’t bother askin’ how I was doing after takin’ six and a half inches into my poor, defenseless vagina.
Celie, I could’ve ruptured a lung. I could be internally hemorrhaging.
I never texted him back, and has he bothered to check back in?
Nah. Not even a lil’ ‘you alive?’ Nothing.
I could be lying face-down, deceased in my penthouse.
Man’s out here sendin’ thank yous while I’m almost two days deep into rigor mortis. ”
She winces, face scrunched.
“Were you on top?” she asks, pointing to her neck. “Did you do that chin to chest thing you do while ridin’ him?”
My hand falls to my side.
“Don’t say stupid shit like that—”
I stop.
Go silent.
Glance off to the side.
“Wait.”
My muscles go stiff.
“Did I?”
My stomach’s dropping
and dropping,
and now I’m picturing myself as that Hills Have Eyes extra. “No, but—fuck. What if I turtle’d hard, bro?”
Celie’s trying to keep a straight face.
I lean over and grip the table, my heart in my throat. “What if I double-chinned him to death and he’s too polite to say it?” I ask, and a laugh bursts out of her. I smack the table. “Celie, be honest. Do you think I’d know if I did it? Like… would I feel it? A chin-to-chest tuck?”
I tuck my chin to my chest to see if I can feel it.
She's still laughing,
and it takes her forward,
tears in her lashes.
I roll my eyes.
“Whatever. I don’t care. I’m chill. If I weren’t chill, he’d know it by now. I’d be knocking on his door with a knife. But I’m not.” I gesture around the room. “Got shit to take care of. A business to run. Hot mouths to grind up on. So. Yeah. I’m not mad. I’m not sad. I’m chill as fuck.”
Celie mindlessly types away on her phone, her laughter fading.
“Not textin’ him don’t prove nothin’ except you’re in your feelings.” She stops and glances at me. “You wanna act like he ain’t shit? Text him ‘Appreciate the stuffin.’ Real monotone.” She lifts her shoulder. “That’s peak I don’t give a fuck.”
“Alright.” I reach for my cell. “Yeah, I can do that. No biggie.” I smirk. “Not a dang thang goin’ on in this brain,” I sing, tapping out the sentence. “Appreciate the stuffing. Capital A. Fully spell-checked. Correct punctuation and pure indifference.”
I hit the little blue circle.
“Monotone murder, bitch.
“Cold-blooded, left no prints.
“Real serial killer shit.”
I show her.
Today 3:16 PM
973-555-0194
Appreciate the stuffing.
“You poor girl.”
She clicks her tongue with pity.
“Deleted his contact and all.”
I go to drop my phone on the table,
ready to bite back
when it fucking rings,
vibrating in my hand.
I flinch,
and the phone fumbles in my hand.
My eyes jump to Celie,
wide and surprised.
“That’s him,” I whisper, as if he can hear. “The fuck do I do?”
“Please don’t make me slap you,” she mutters. “Answer the phone.”
It rings again.
I’m paralyzed, staring at his number lighting up the screen.
She snatches the phone from my death grip, hits green, and shoves it back.
“You evil fuck,” I hiss under my breath, then reset myself. “Allison Taylor’s phone,” I say, flipping my tone neutral, bored, not at all invested.
“Allison Taylor, huh?” A smile in his voice. “Sounds hot. She available?”
His voice alone breaks open cocoons and lets out all the butterflies.
Ugh. I miss him. I hate him.
“Depends.
“May I ask the reason for your call?”
“Oh word, she takin’ calls now?” He laughs.
“Thought she still out here pretendin’ she don’t feel shit.
” A horn shrieks in the background of him, long and pissed off.
“Tell her I ain’t tryin’ to talk to the version of her that acts like she don’t care.
” His voice dips lower. “I want the Allison who said Ti voglio tanto, Andrew into my fuckin’ mouth. ”
“I’m not pretending anything. Must’ve been a slip. Meant to say ‘Ti voglio tanto, Zabaglione.’ Whole different context.”
He half-laughs, half-sighs.
“You’re so cute it kills me. Go on, keep talkin’, Sonny. Tell me again how you ain’t pretendin’ nothin’.”
I hear the hum of baggage wheels against pavement in the background.
“Nah. Just been busy.”
“Aight, cool. Then if you’re not avoidin’ me, come through tomorrow. Giants game. Bar in Midtown. I already told my boys I’d go, but I ain’t tryin’ to spend a night off work sittin’ there wishin’ I was with you instead.”
I look at Celie.
She’s nodding, encouraging.
I mouth, No.
She nods harder, eyes big now,
her neck a bobblehead.
I turn away from her. “You want me hangin’ out with you and your friends?”
“I want you in my lap, talkin’ shit about the Eagles, and stealin’ my fries.”
The line goes quiet before he says, softer,
“C’mon. It’s not gonna be Vice again.
“I’m not lettin’ that happen.”
“Text me the address.” I sigh.
“Not making any promises.”
“Already did.”
I glance at my phone. It’s there.
“Aight,” he says. “Gotta get back to work before someone throws an overnight bag at me.”
“Yeah, okay.”
His voice drops into a murmur,
“You missin’ me yet, Sonny?”
“No.”
A low laugh slips out of him.
“Tell me you’ll think about tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”