40. Liability （Reprise） #2
“What the hell… You were cryin’?
“While I was sleeping?”
He hits me with sad eyes,
as if I’m a tragedy he wants to hold.
“C’mon. Why didn’t you wake me?”
My hands sink into the water. “You ever seen me cry?” I ask, raising a brow. “I’m not talking happy tears. I mean the gross ones.” He hasn’t, so he says nothing. “I don’t let people see that shit, especially men. I don’t give anyone that power over me. I do it at home. In my car. My shower. Alone.”
Tears make you two things to anyone who sees them: breakable and ownable. And neither’s safe. They’ll either pity you, punish you, or play God with it.
Andrew’s eyes are rimmed red from the wine, the cold, maybe the way I said alone.
“Hey,” he says, softer. “For real. Don’t ever do that shit again, aight?” He brings the bottle to his lips. “Breaks my fuckin’ heart.”
He takes a long swig and sets the wine on the edge. “So that’s the logic, huh?” He nods slow, trying to accept it but can’t. “Your mom dies… Your dad dies…Then I show up, alive, breathin’, givin’ a fuck about you, and I get punished for it.”
He pauses to collect himself before his voice gives him away. “‘Cause either I’ll leave or drop dead. No in-between.” He gestures to me. “And you think that’s protectin’ you? You think that’s makin’ Allison happy?”
He says it as if I don’t already know how fucked up this is. As if I picked this life for myself out of a catalog.
Self-sabotage, size medium.
“Yeah, well… never said it made sense.” I sink into the seat, tip my head back on the concrete ledge, and close my eyes as the snow falls on my face. “Told you upfront. You’re the one still here.”
The words pour warm, red, easy.
Like wine. Like blood. Like a sunset.
Like things that only end in darkness.
And right now, I don’t care if he sees this side of me anymore. “Don’t blame the fucked-up girl for actin’ fucked-up.”
My eyes open to the night sky.
I watch the snow come down on me.
“That’s what I do.
“Beg you to stay…
“but don’t get too close.
“Leave me alone…
“but don’t go too far.
“Fight for me…
“but don’t you dare keep me.
“Hold me… but don’t ever touch me.
“Love me…” my whisper breaks.
“Even if it kills you…
“Even if it kills me…
“Even if I kill it…
“But never fuckin’ say it.”
My pulse panics in my bare throat—
steam off my skin, cold on my face.
It’s the closest I’ve come to feeling
everything and nothing
at the same time.
Naked,
floating,
gone.
“Would’ve been a beautiful funeral, though. Allison Taylor—mourning the only boy she let in,” I barely get out. “Didn’t have enough time together. Never would’ve had enough time together.
“I’d wear black.
“Hold your stiff hand,
“whisper ‘I’ll see you soon…’
“be there for you
“the whole way through.
“Bury you without the chain.
“Sneak it off
“while kissing your cold lips.
“Throw it at Mrs. Robinson.
“Sit alone in the back.
“Get drunk after.
“Fuck a nobody just to stop feeling you.
“Still feel you anyway.”
One tear slips out.
It races down my temple, into my hair.
“Same shit I do while you’re alive.”
There’s a beat. A long one.
“Jesus Christ…”
His hands reach for me under the water,
slide up my thighs,
grab me by the hips.
“C’mere.”
He pulls me across the steam
and into his lap.
Water sloshes up around us,
and my legs fall open, straddling him.
There’s nothing between us.
We’re skin to skin.
His palms smooth down my sides,
and he pulls me in
‘til my nipples brush his chest,
‘til his cock’s caught thick between us,
‘til my pussy’s dragging across his shaft,
and a shiver shoots through me.
It feels so good I want to cry.
Which means I hate it.
He grips my hips tighter,
throat bobbing.
“You devastate me,” he murmurs.
I look sideways.
Down at the water.
“Uh-uh,” he bites. “Eyes on me.”
My eyes crawl back up.
His are the color of midnight now,
and they’re drifting between mine.
“This the wine talkin’?”
His forehead almost touches mine.
“Or you sayin’ it ‘cause you’re scared?”
I reach for the wine bottle sitting on the ledge and drain the rest. “Trust me.” I set the empty bottle behind him. “You’d know if I was drunk.”
(I'm drunk.)
(Drunk and scared.)
My gaze falls to the chain lying on his collarbone. A souvenir from a woman who fucked him up and made him believe his worth lives in his hands and mouth, not his chest.
That he’s a no one
unless he’s bleeding for somebody else.
And the chain, it keeps laughing at me, the witness to all the times they passed him around like a goddamn lighter at a party.
And he let them—
out of fuel,
still being struck,
still used,
still empty.
And he’s still wearing it.
I light up my fourth or fifth cigarette
and lean back against the edge,
ankles floating up, weightless.
My eyes close as I pull in a drag,
the nicotine burning in my lungs.
Then my voice leaves,
husky, thick, and deadly serious.
“I want garlic knots. Garlicky. Buttery. Burn-your-fingers hot. Piled in that greasy foil bag. With the see-through napkins that don’t work.”
Andrew groans,
unlit cig hanging from his lips.
“Shit...” He lights up his next after I pass him the lighter, and blows out a cloud.
“I’d commit a felony for a bacon egg n’ cheese burrito right now.
” He tips his head back on the ledge next to mine, eyes to the sky.
“Too much hot sauce so it drips down your wrist while you eat it in the car like a fuckin’ animal. ”
I turn my head to face him.
“How ‘bout a Chicago dog?
“Vienna beef on a poppy seed bun.”
His eyes snap to me.
“Relish. Sport peppers. Onion.”
I nod. “With a side of an Italian beef—
“dipped in gravy…
“Topped with giardiniera.
“A Hank’s Root Beer.
“And a bag of Red Hot Riplets.”
His head lifts.
“You say Riplets?”
He squints.
“Where the hell you even get those?”
“I know a guy.”
Andrew throws his head back and laughs, throat-deep. “Jesus. I could seriously go for it right now.” His hand floats under the water, brushing my thigh. “Sloppy, greasy-ass, coma-after food.”
I blow out another cloud of smoke.
“With a Gatorade. Purple.”
I shrug.
“Or blue if they’re out.
“But you gotta act mad about it first.”
“Exactly. Team Riptide Rush—Yo,” he interrupts himself. “You ever eat so fast you don’t even taste it? Just inhale?”
I’ve known this pain in all my lives, and add, “Then get all mad at yourself for not enjoying it?”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Shit fuckin’ sucks.”
“Happens at every damn diner,” I mutter. “My favorite place.” I bring the cig near my mouth, my eyes swinging to him. “Full menu, all hours—breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert.”
He nods. “Like Ikea. For food.”
My smile hits. “With a cook named Dex hookin’ it up in the kitchen, sweatin’ through his tank top, every plate slappin’ like he loves you—full-course meal for ten ninety-nine.”
“Mad underrated,” he agrees.
“Take me to 1993,” I spiral. “‘Bed of Roses’ playin’ from the jukebox, all hungover and heartbroken and on my third cup of coffee, waitin’ for my French toast, a pile of buttery scrambled eggs, a melt with jalapenos and onion rings…
Freshly baked pie. At like 1:45 a.m.” I scrape my thumbnail against the filter of my cig, seeing a buffet in my mind.
“You can only get that shit all at once at twenty-four-hour diners.”
He pulls my leg over his.
“I’ll take you to a diner.”
I lift my head. “You will?”
“Yeah.”
“In a 1982 Firebird?”
I tip my head sideways.
“Gotta be an ‘82 Firebird.”
He laughs. “Yeah. In an ‘82 Firebird.”
I snap. “And I want a sandwich with stacked cold cuts from a bodega wrapped tight in white paper, Sharpie bleeding through.”
His thumb brushes my thigh. “Bag of Doritos on the side, no reason. You don’t even eat ‘em, they just need to be there.”
“And buttermilk pancakes the size of a steering wheel, fluffy and thick with the crispy edges. Butter that’s halfway melted and warm syrup bleeding off the edge of the plate.”
“Fuuuckkk.” He squeezes my thigh. “You’re actually tryna ruin me right now.”
I roll my head until I’m facing him again. “Wanna DoorDash?”
He looks inside the penthouse.
Then the elevator.
Then back at me.
“Do we gotta get outta the hot tub?”
He’s so serious, it’s cute. “One of us would have to get it from the lobby.”
A long, tragic pause.
“Or….” he drags out with a smirk.
“We could ask Ben.”
A laugh bubbles up inside me.
His grin slides darker.
“Think he’d do it?”
“Guess I could threaten him to.”
His laugh breaks through the smoke.
“And if he don’t go?”
“Then we kill him.”
Third bottle—
Blade hits foil.
Screw hits cork.
Noir hits tongue.
He strokes my scalp, gentle,
his lips catching the spot behind my ear.
“You use a rubber?”
I’m back in his lap,
pressed up against him,
his breath warm on my throat.
Under the water,
my nails trail down his sides.
“Yeah, of course I did.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping,
as if a worry’s been lifted.
Then he’s dragging me closer,
no other questions.
Only a nod and,
“Aight.”
Third bottle’s halfway drained.
Our boundaries are sinking with the wine. Our hands are lingering on each other’s skin.
Outside this tub, the city’s freezing.
Inside, the heat’s rising, the two of us surrounded by stars and steam.
“You’re the only reason I’m touchin’ myself. You got me thinkin’ about you when you’re gone, then I can’t fuckin’ help it. Deadass, like, I don’t even got a body unless it’s wantin’ yours.”
His palms slide up my thighs again,
gripping both hips.
“But it feels wrong in a way. ‘Cause I’m cheatin’ on the real you with this fake you in my head. Then other times… it makes me sad as fuck… ‘cause I miss you. So yeah, you got me all fucked up, homie.”
I tip the bottle to my lips and swallow,
listening as he continues.
“And now when I nut?
“Shit don’t even hit the same.
“I’m all, where the fuck do I put it?
“On my stomach? Boxers?
“Don’t even wanna come no more if it’s not inside you. So I’m sittin’ there, lookin’ down at my dick like—what’s the fuckin’ point?
“You’re not on me or under me.
“You’re not with me, grippin’ me tight.
“So I’m just spillin’ it into my fuckin’ hand for no reason? And I feel stupid—cum dryin’ on my thigh, breathin’ heavy. ‘Cause I came for a girl who ain’t even in the room.”