47. Bleeding Love #2
Honor nods, glancing between Ben and Andrew, then back at me, thumb hitching over his shoulder. “Should I just grab my shit and go?”
“Yes,” Andrew clips,
same time Ben spits, “No.”
The room freezes,
splitting right down the middle.
I sip my coffee.
“She’s testin’ you, man.” Ben slides a jar into the slot with a clink. “Get past week one. She’ll get curious about that Philly mouth. Can’t help herself.” He glances over his shoulder at Honor. “Word of advice? Play dumb. Act trainable. She’ll eat that shit up—likes her Boys submissive.”
Andrew glances down at the table, bites into his lip, and I want to slap the memory of last night off his brain.
“Play dumb?” Honor squints. “Bro, I’m from Philly. We don’t do dumb. We do direct,” he says. “You want fake smiles? Go to Jersey.”
Andrew lets out a provoked laugh, head shaking, coffee cup rising to kill it with another sip.
Ben’s eyes float between the back of Andrew’s head and Honor, and he takes it up a notch.
“Listen, bro. Hell Week’s a mind game. She ain’t talkin’ to you.
Won’t let you touch her. All of it’s to remind you she don’t need you.
She gon’ fuck with your head, annoy the shit outta you, every trick to make you wanna throw in the towel.
Real immature shit—don't fall for it. And this clown?” He nudges a chin at Andrew.
“He wants you gone, so you can’t believe a fuckin’ word he says.
His ass’s on the line too, so forget him.
Jersey boy’s a phase, you get me? I been knowin’ Baby.
I know how she operates, and he ain’t lastin’... ”
The vein at Andrew’s temple throbs with every word Ben spits, the look in his eyes boiling over as they swing back to me.
Welcome to the penthouse, Andrew Harding. I rip my eyes off him and stand, taking my coffee with me to the terrace. Alone.
Ben’s voice follows me out:
“You wanna stay? Lock in. Wait it out. Trust me, man. It’s smooth sailin’ after. You’ll wanna be here when he’s gone.”
I slide open the terrace door, step out into the winter bite, and their noise dies the second the glass seals shut behind me.
// 11:18 PM //
Today 11:18 PM
Celie
BITCH
DJ. CRUSH
IN
FUCKING
BUSHWICK
TONIGHT
No.
Honor's moved in.
The Fuckening's here.
I'm climax-sober for the next 5 days. Been doing kegels for 12 hours straight.
I'm in literal Hell.
I will drag you by your fucking period underwear.
I tsk, tossing the phone onto the counter.
My cell continues to buzz back to back.
Wanted it to be a surprise but
Heard Teddy Vale's gonna be there too
Secret set.
Teddy. Vale.
Sexy
Beautiful
But yeah stay home
My heart leaps
and faceplants into my breastbone,
my pulse rising embarrassingly fast.
Teddy Vale? Teddy Vale! Teddy Vale—
I reach for my phone.
Okay fine he's not gonna be there
But you almost reconsidered huh?
I growl, snatching up my phone.
That was mean.
Like actually mean.
I toss my cell back onto the counter.
I don’t tell her Hunter’s out walking around free. Not that I’m scared.
(I am.)
And I don’t tell her about Andrew’s personal contract. The last thing I want is to be attacked by her opinions, or buried in an avalanche of questions.
No. Tonight, I’m staying in.
The slasher marathon’s on.
Blood on my screen.
Blood in my panties.
It’s perfect symmetry, really.
I’m standing in the kitchen, barefoot in Mom’s vintage Cuba crewneck, her YSL Opium ghosting the collar, spicy, dark, red, like the drawer I keep the perfume trapped in, splashing it across the front stitching every now and then.
The kitchen’s a disaster.
Dried milk’s crusted skin on the burner.
There’s a graveyard of six burnt pots piled in the sink.
Six times, I tried to make Cream of Wheat like her. I even named the bowls, my fairy tale failures: Crusty. Creamy. Burny. Soupy. Thickie. Sticky.
But no Lumpy.
Not one fucking Lumpy.
None of them like hers.
Seventh time’s a charm.
The timer screams, and I click off the burner, snatch the pinot noir off the counter by the neck, and chug it down with a demon glare on the pot, a little intimidation for lump-making.
Heat hisses back at me,
the wheat bubbling up with a plop.
I step forward.
Lump up, you little shit.
Don’t be soft. Fuck up right for once.
Give me her. One fucking time.
It’s her birthday, I almost cry.
I lower the ladle into the last pot, my last shot, and I hate how desperate I am for something this stupid.
I stir, dip, then taste it—
creamy, melting on my stupid-ass tongue, trying too hard to live up to its name. It tastes exactly how it’s supposed to taste, when it was supposed to turn back time.
It’s not hers.
And it never will be.
The lump hits my throat instead.
Behind me, the slasher’s playing dead-girl music. An eerie violin-whine right before the knife.
And I’m standing in the middle of it all,
wheat on my toes,
wine bottle empty,
bleeding from everywhere
and missing her.
Tears threaten to slice hot down my face,
emotion warning that it’s about to rip.
I’m gonna cry, I’m gonna cry.
At least I’m alone.
It’s past midnight.
Ben’s still at the gym.
Honor’s asleep.
Andrew’s—
“Sonny?”
My head snaps to—
Andrew standing in the doorway.
Bellhop vest’s in his fist
because it’s Monday night.
Shit. The bar’s closed on Monday nights.
He’s frozen, too, lips parted,
nose pink from the cold,
muscles straining from holding still.
He watches the scene play out—
the ladle trembling in my hand,
the first tear scared stiff
in the well of my eye.
The slasher girl on screen
screams for the both of us.
I back up slow so the tear doesn’t accidentally fall, but it already feels like he dipped the tip of his knife into the pity that’s pooling in his eyes, then drove it inside me.
Somehow, the sympathy on his face
scrapes worse than the grief.
It makes me feel soft.
‘Cause he’s looking at me
like I’m something helpless.
Some sad story.
I drop the ladle into the sink
and walk off.
Through the penthouse.
Through my room.
Into my bathroom.
Into the toilet room.
I lock the door behind me and sit on the toilet lid, face hot, breath ragged, tears now falling hard.
He knocks. I don’t answer.
He knocks again.
“Sonny, open the door.”
No, I wanna say.
But I'm supposed to be mute.
My lungs go tight, and my tears still fall despite me not breathing.
“C’mon, I ain’t goin’ away. I let you cry alone once.
I’m not doin’ that again,” he says over the TV screaming in the background.
“If you don’t let me in, I’m sleeping outside this door.
And if I hear one cry in there? I’ll tear this whole fuckin’ buildin’ apart to get inside and put you back together. ”
I pull the crewneck over my face,
lungs sore from how stupid I feel.
All because of the belief that I need her Cream of Wheat to make it through another week without her.
Then I hear his body drop against the wall next to the door, his shadow spilling under it.
I smother the sound behind cupped hands as I cry, ugly, heated, wet, tears soaking the neckline and falling soundless.
Minutes pass.
Three of them, ten.
I don’t know.
At some point, I melt to the floor
and press my back to the door.
He’s quiet as he sits on the other side.
Eventually the credits on the TV roll from the living room. Instrumental music creeps in the stillness.
Then—
“This couple tonight…” he mutters through the door, voice pulling tired through his throat, and I imagine him shaking his head.
“You know at hotels, how every guest thinks that the thermostat’s their bitch? They crank it down to sixty ‘cause they ain’t payin’ for that electric bill—an’ joke’s on ‘em ‘cause none of those things actually work… it’s all controlled from the basement. The hotel gives you the illusion of control.
“So I got this honeymoon couple tonight, right? Wife’s complainin’ it’s too hot. I tell ‘em, ‘look, the system’s central.’ But the wife ain’t havin’ it. She’s nudgin’ her husband like—be a man and do somethin’. So the guy slides me a twenty, tryna impress his wife.
“I tell him I got him, unlock the thermostat cover, pretend to flip a switch, lock it back up. She’s thankin’ me, he’s puffin’ his chest—boom, honeymoon saved.
“Swear—people only see what they wanna see, too blind to connect the lies. Don’t even care if it’s real, only if it makes ‘em feel special.”
His sigh spills out. “Room’s same temp it’s been all fuckin’ night…”
He keeps going, telling stories.
And I sit there,
listening through the door,
the sound of him filling the cracks.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in here.
I must’ve dozed off.
Eventually I reach for the knob,
flip the lock,
then turn it slow and open the door.
He’s still there,
curled into himself, spine against the wall, head tucked into his crossed arms that are folded over his bent knees.
He’s still in black bellhop pants,
his shirt wrinkled,
badge still clipped on.
I can’t tell if he’s asleep
or stubborn
or dead.
Either way,
he stayed.
For now.