40. Liability （Reprise）
LORDE
By the time he’s done—start to finish, childhood to the week before he met me, from Mrs. Robinson through ten years of never saying no—I’m staring at him,
empty bottle clutched in my fist,
trying to swallow down pissed-off tears,
but it’s only making my hands shake.
And I fucking hate him.
I hate that he let any of it happen.
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.
“And I hate you for it. For all of it.
“I can’t fuckin’ stand you right now.”
Wine’s supposed to take the edge off.
Not throw me off one.
I try to let it go,
to think about something else.
But he’s still here,
in this hot-tub-hell of truth.
“Serious question,” I say,
glancing over my shoulder.
He has an elbow propped on the ledge, hand raking through snow flurries melting in his hair. He’s watching me, eyes heavy-lidded, moon reflecting off the stupid gold, mothersucking chain.
“You obsessed, Drew?
“Addicted? To pussy.”
His fingers freeze mid-rake,
and he grips the ends.
He’s probably heard it all before.
Even counted on me asking this question, but hoped I didn’t.
The steam rises off his chest and shoulders. December’s trying to lay its fingers on him, but heat from the tub keeps pushing it back.
Not even the month can touch him.
“Lemme put it like this—” His elbow slips off the edge, and he skims his palm across the water. “Some guys keep playin’ ball, not ‘cause they like it, but ‘cause they’re good at it, and it became the only thing people ever want from ‘em.”
He looks down at the water, watching the city’s reflection in the ripples.
“Crowd loves ‘em. Coach counts on ‘em. And they think—fuck it, guess this is who I am now. You’re either this, or you’re nothin’.
So nah. Just ‘cause I kept doin’ it doesn’t mean I wanted it.
Only means people kept wantin’ it from me. ”
His head lifts, eyes finding mine.
“And so I just… kept fuckin’ playin’.”
I’m not sober enough to find the answer in the metaphor. “So… was that a no? Or you dodging the question?”
He cracks a tired smile.
“Nah, I ain’t addicted.
“Didn’t like doin’ it.
“Didn’t hate doin’ it either.
“I only did it ‘cause they asked, and I was that guy. After a while? It’s like any another part of a body. An arm. A leg. Skin. Pussy. That’s it.
” He shrugs. “Was somethin’ I learned how to do before knowin’ how to feel about it.
Like I wore it out in my head before I ever got to want it.
So call it what you want, Allison—weak, pussy-whipped, no spine, whatever.
You forget that I had nothin’ worth sayin’ no for, so I didn’t fuckin’ care. ”
He reaches across the water, arm slicing through steam, and snatches the smokes and lighter off the ledge.
He flicks a cigarette loose,
and points it at me.
“I never once asked for pussy.
“Never chased it. Never got off on it.
“Never even touched my dick.
“That shit was charity, not sex.”
He sticks the cig between his lips, cups the end, and lights it like he’s done this in storms, in fights, in worse nights than this.
His tipsy eyes settle on me.
“Then here you come,
“with that smart-ass mouth,
“that fuck-you attitude,
“actin’ like you don’t need nobody.”
He lifts his palm.
“And now look at me.
“Look at me.”
He shakes his head.
“Fuckin’ gone.”
He blows smoke out.
“So addicted? Nah. Maybe to the feelin’ of bein’ worth a damn, but that died off a long time ago.
“And if you’re askin’ if I’m obsessed?
“If we’re bein’ honest?
“Layin’ it all out?”
He pauses a beat,
steam climbing his neck.
“Yeah. I am.”
A breath.
“With you.
“And it ain’t healthy.”
He chuckles, stunned, still having no idea how I got him like this. “God—I think about eatin’ you more than I think about eatin’.” He squints through the smoke. “That’s a problem, right?”
That smug-ass Jersey smirk creeps in,
his eyes scanning my face.
“Ain’t only ‘cause you’re the best thing I ever tasted. Or ‘cause’a the shit I’m feelin’ when I’m with you. But ‘cause of the way you get lost in me, too.
“When it’s you and me,
“no one’s takin’ or givin’ nothin’…
“We’re just ours. And it feels… good.
“Real good.”
I bite the inside of my cheek,
warmth crawling up my throat.
Great. Now I’m blushing like a fucking freshman.
But then my thoughts start to spiral.
He says he’s not addicted, but I wonder if his body still is: girl walking by, skirt riding high, and his jaw still aches, mouth watering for a taste.
“You still doing it?
“Still got a problem with saying no?”
He huffs a bitter laugh,
cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
I pluck it from his fingers, taking it for myself. “Say some girl comes up to you, sad eyes and all, says she needs you, asks real nice, you’d say?”
He reaches for the pack again and pulls out another, eyes not leaving mine. “I got no problem tellin’ girls to fuck off.” He lights the cig. “If you’re askin’ what I think you’re askin’—I ain’t touchin’ nobody else,
“ain’t goin’ down on nobody else.
“Only thing I want?”
He looks right at me.
“You.”
Andrew takes a drag from cigarette number four—
“Alright, here’s a little unrequested honesty for you, on the house.” He ashes, holding my gaze, making sure I’m still with him. “If a song hits me hard? That kinda song? I tell nobody about it.”
He shrugs. “Won’t even say the title out loud. Fuck that. It’s mine. I’ll only play it alone, let myself believe no one else ever heard it. That maybe it was only made for me. ‘Cause the second someone else loves it? Connects with it? Relates to it? It ain’t mine no more.”
I fight to keep my eyes from wandering to his tattoo.
He brings the cig to his lips again.
“I know. Selfish as hell. I’m the worst kind of fan and a terrible consumer. ‘Cause if I love it? I ain’t talkin’ about it.” His eyes catch mine, that crooked grin coming back to life. “Spotify finds out? Yeah. They’re cancelin’ my ass.”
I glance at him with a side-eye. “What about the one across your ribs?” My eyes lower to his tattoo. “Don’t mind showing that one off.”
His hand drifts to his ribs as if I aimed a dart at it.
“Some songs you hope are yours. Then there’s ones you just know are yours.
” He puts the cigarette out in the snow and strokes the tattoo with his thumb.
“This song? Mine. We’ve been through it together.
She carried me through heavy shit, now I carry her. Bonded for life.”
I don’t usually get the after part.
I bleed ink, then let it go.
Don’t have permission to know what happens after—lost all rights.
So the way he talks about it paints a faint smile on me I can’t get rid of.
I could shatter this moment and say:
I wrote her.
Hand over the chain that would bind us forever, so he could never leave me. But that’s a ruse, not real—a trap, not truth. Chains only take away choice, and I don’t ever want to take from him.
“When I find a song I like,” I say.
“I listen to it obsessively.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If it hits? It becomes my whole personality. And I’ll play it to death, wear it out before it can turn on me.
True story.” I shrug. “I don’t move on, I burn through.
So I got you. I’ll keep racking up streams, so you can keep calling your favorites yours.
My obsessive personality balances out your possessiveness. ”
The moment hangs—
the words, the stare we’re locked in.
His grin climbs,
and mine tags along behind it.
Second bottle—
Slice. Twist. Pop.
“Why’d you leave that mornin’, huh?”
He takes a swig,
then passes it over to me.
My foot’s in his hand,
both propped on his thigh,
thumb kneading slow into the arch.
“You slipped right outta my arms.
“Had me thinkin’ it was all a dream.”
The wine slides down easy, tasting like something ancient crawling through a winter forest.
I lift of my shoulder, handing him back the bottle. “Woke up. Felt you breathing on me. Then I imagined the one morning I wake up, and you’re not breathing on me anymore. Suddenly I’m planning your funeral in my head…
“Standing at your grave…
“And then the thoughts wouldn’t stop.”
I cup water into my hand,
watch it slip through my fingers.
“Next thing I know, I’m laying under you, trying not to cry so I wouldn’t wake you. Then I figured I’d rather leave than bury you.”
My tongue’s wrapped in that dumb fuzz, making everything taste sluggish. I don’t feel pain in my face anymore. It evaporated between the drags and sips.
“Allison,” he says with disbelief.