40. Liability （Reprise） #4
“You don’t get it. I—I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” He looks down at me, eyes glassy. “There’s red wine on the stone, Allison. Red wine. You want that shit settin’ in the grout?”
Snow taps against the glass as we stand there. I take the corkscrew from his arms. “You’ll get sick if you do.”
“I know, but—”
He motions to the hot tub,
towel-drying his hair.
“I’m sorry, Drew.
“You don’t have a choice.”
We’re tracking water everywhere,
dripping all over the marble floors.
His hair’s curling at the ends,
shoulders hunched.
We’re both dizzy, shivering,
stupid, flushed,
stumbling into my bedroom
like two drunks in love,
laugh still hanging off our lips.
And when I open the bedroom door—
he stops,
not expecting New York
to crash back into him.
The entire wall’s glass, as if someone carved a corner out of Manhattan and dropped it into his hands.
He steps in slow,
setting his clothes on a chaise in a daze,
eyes soaking in the skyline.
The view’s spread wide,
lit up, dripping gold.
And tonight,
it’s crawling into bed with us.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath, half-laughing. “This is—” He crosses the room stunned. “This is fuckin’—I mean, Jesus. Look at this.”
But it’s the view of him standing there that makes me ache in the chest.
‘Cause he’s in my bedroom.
The first boy to ever be in my bedroom.
The boy from Type No. 45.
The stupid Jersey boy,
with the swag lean in his hip
and the pretty mouth.
He's standing in front of my window,
back turned,
boxers slung low on his hips,
hair damp,
water beading down his bare shoulders,
dimples kissing the base of his spine,
surrounded by all my things.
Like this view has always been his too.
And suddenly
there’s something tight in my throat.
It’s not emotion.
(It’s always emotion.)
When he turns, his eyes hit mine.
It only lasts a second,
but it makes me feel exposed.
He drifts to the shelf. To the photo.
The one of Mom, Dad, and me.
His fingers hover before pulling back slow, thinking maybe he has no right to touch.
He scans the rest—books, CDs, old cassettes, vinyl that still smells like Dad’s old studio.
“Yeah,” he says, taking it all in. “Makes sense you keep this room off-limits.” His eyes find mine again. “This is your whole heart.” He steps closer. “And you’re lettin’ me stand right in the center of it.”
I look away. ‘Cause he’s not wrong.
The rest of the penthouse says
‘don’t get comfortable.’
This room says
‘please don’t leave.’
His hands come over my face, and he looks at me—heavy, stripped, eyes all bedroom and warm. “You lettin’ me stay here tonight, Sonny?” He tips his chin toward my bed. “Like… in your bed? Next to you?”
I nod.
He opens the towel I have clutched around my shoulders, and he pulls me into him, my naked body melting into his warmth. “You gonna let me make a soaking mess outta you?” he murmurs, his mouth near my ear, hand sliding down my waist. “Remind you who you’re supposed to be with?”
I grab his wrist, slide his hand off me.
“No.”
He freezes, trying to process it. “No?”
“I’m gonna grab us waters.”
His hands fall to his sides.
“Wait, just so I understand—‘cause I’m drunk as fuck—you’re really tellin’ me I can’t eat your pussy all night?”
“Correct.”
He huffs a laugh.
“Damn… okay. And why not again?”
“Because I wanted to please you,” I say. “And you’re not gonna cheapen that by thinking you gotta return the favor.”
He eases back to look at me.
“But I want to. I fuckin’ crave it.”
“You go ‘head and stand there all heartbroken. I’m gettin’ us waters.”
His grin spreads stunned.
“Fuckin’ rude, honestly.”
“Mhm. You gonna be alright, tough guy,” I call over my shoulder.
Every light’s still on in the kitchen.
We left a trail behind,
puddles of us all over the floor.
I rip the drink fridge open,
grab two waters.
When I round the corner again,
my gaze drifts up to where he is—
And I slam to a stop, standing paralyzed in the doorway of my bedroom,
towel still clinging to my shoulders,
with the two bottles slippery in my grip.
Andrew’s sitting on the edge of my bed,
with Brandon’s letter in his hand.
He’s reading it. All the words.
It’s killing me… staying this close to you and not being allowed to touch you… or hold you…. or sleep next to you… or tell you what you really are to me. I’m wanting things I ain’t allowed to want…
Shit I know you’ll never give…
I fucking love you, Allison… Always have…
And if you ever feel anything close to that for me, you know where I’ll be.
My heart’s pounding violent,
every fucked-up beat of it.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
His hand’s shaking. He drags it down his face as he looks over at me.
I pull the towel tighter around my shoulders. “You read that?”
My voice fractures in spite of me.
I should’ve never kept the letter.
I don’t even know why I did.
Andrew’s speechless, staring at me with this hurt in his eyes that’s splitting me open.
That’s the look that makes me want to run, scream, cry.
Makes me want to wish him and these last two months never happened.
Makes me want to grab his face and break it so he’ll stop looking at me like I betrayed him.
I bite my lip to feel the pain. “What the fuck were you doin’ in my shit?”
It comes out cruel, soaked in venom.
But I don’t care if he was in my shit—
I don’t.
I don’t care that he read it.
I care that he’s bleeding over it.
I know how to handle pissed off.
I’ve fucked to rage.
I’m used to the taste of it.
Fists.
Screams.
Storm-outs.
Name-calling.
But I can’t handle hurt.
Not when it’s him.
Not when he’s looking at me
like his heart has two black eyes
and no pulse.
“It was on your nightstand, Allison,” he says low. “Just sittin’ there. I didn’t—fuck. I wasn’t goin’ through your shit. I didn’t mean to—”
He looks away.
Tries to let out a steady breath.
Then he squints up at me.
“This the guy you fucked?”
My throat locks,
but the rest of me goes numb—
the only survival instinct it knows.
“Yeah.”
He nods once.
Looks away.
“Aight.”
Then he’s rising from the bed,
setting the note back on the nightstand.
Nicely. How he found it.
He scratches his brow with his thumb.
“I’m gonna head out.”
Then his voice fades and fades.
But I’m still standing numb,
haunted by the echo of it.
“You’re leaving,” I mutter.
My words leave
cold and without a heartbeat.
I should’ve known better.
And my heart?
She’s not mad.
She’s tired of me being me.
An empty laugh slips out of him.
“I can’t be here right now.
“I got work in five hours.”
My anxiety jumps.
He’s been drinking all night.
He lives almost an hour away.
“Andrew, wait a second—”
“I can’t.”
He’s looking everywhere but at me.
“You also can’t leave like this—”
“I don’t do triangles, Allison,” he grinds out. “I don’t do triangles, and I don’t fuck around with another man’s girl.”
My eyes narrow.
“That’s not what this is!”
“It’s not just that—”
“Then what?”
His eyes finally slam back into me.
and the light’s drained out of them.
“You don’t even see it, do you?” He says it through a tight throat.
“You don’t know what it’s doin’ to me, bein’ here, in your penthouse, watchin’ you gettin’ roses from a guy I hear on fuckin’ Spotify…
findin’ out you’re flyin’ across the country to meet up with him…
findin’ love letters on your nightstand… findin’ out you fucked a guy who’s—”
A sad smile breaks him
“—who’s clearly in love with you, Allison. He’s in love with you, and you still gave him that. And me? What am I doin’?
“I’m just an outsider in your life—Jesus.”
He spots his pile of clothes on the chaise.
Walks toward it.
“You could have anybody. Rockstars. Celebrities. Guys who actually got somethin’ to their name.
” He snatches up his pants. Gets into them.
Hands still shaking as he zips up. “And now I’m just hopin’ a few nights in Cali ain’t long enough for you to either figure that shit out or fuck me out of your system for good. ”
“Drew, what? Figure what shit out?”
He yanks his white tee on and leans in,
navy eyes pin me,
dark waters pulling fast,
no air at the bottom.
“That I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”
His voice snaps in half,
hating that he said it.
“I can’t even pay for your fries at the bar, Sonny. I ain’t got shit. I just got this.”
He throws his hands up at his sides,
and his chest caves as he looks at me.
“That’s fuckin’ it.”
He pulls his crewneck on next.
I stand there, holding the towel tight,
fingers numb, bottles of water heavy.
And I’m shivering again,
gaze stuck and lost
while he slides into his shoes,
moves around me, grabs his things,
shoves them into his pockets—
phone,
keys,
pieces of me.
He’ll barely look at me,
his eyes brushing past my face,
‘cause now I’m something
that hurts to look at.
Then he comes to a standstill beside me.
He hesitates, probably thinking about a kiss to the forehead.
But thinks better of it.
“Yeah… safe flight, aight?
“We’ll talk when you get back.”
I should stop him.
But I don’t. I never fucking do.
It’s easier to watch the back of him
than count the knife wounds in the front.