50. I Touch Myself #2
My heart stops,
misses a beat.
Then five.
Like a drumstick slipping out of a drummer’s hand mid-solo.
I stare off, a little lost.
Date?
The—
No.
He was working last night,
at the bar,
all night,
then passed out on the couch
in his bartender clothes.
Did he lie to her?
Or… me,
and went on a date with someone else?
Calm down, calm down, calm down.
Don’t release a single note of emotion.
Don’t let MenoPaola smell fear.
I strap on my marble mask and shrug.
“Yeah. It was good.”
Her face falls. “Good? Don’t bullshit me, sweetheart. That boy ate standin’ up at the counter when he got home.”
My next breath clogs my throat.
“He came here. Last night.
“After our… date?”
The words leave me in pieces I’m trying to fit together. If he was here last night, then I was the one he lied to.
My stomach’s caving in on itself,
when the speaker comes alive in my ear,
Celie’s voice flooding:
“Bitch, I’m freezin’. Where the fuck you at?! Unlock the basement door before I lose a toe!”
I draw in deep through my nose,
breathe out slow through my mouth,
then lift my chin and say,
“I gotta take a shit.”
Paola’s expression jumps
as my eyes fall shut.
I really said that. Out loud.
To Andrew’s mom.
Fuck it. I’ve said worse.
(No, actually, I don’t think I have.)
Maria gives me an odd, confused look.
“Yeah,” I run with it ‘cause it's too late now. “Stomach’s messed up. Need privacy. The guest one’s too echo-y, so I’ll use the one in the basement.” I take a step back toward the door with a raised palm. “Trust me. For everyone’s sake.”
I bolt down the basement stairs,
one hand on the railing,
and slide in front of the exterior door,
unlocking it.
When I swing it open,
Celie’s face appears, blue and furious.
All the words fall right out of me.
“Guess who went on a date last night?
“NOT ME.
“Andrew told his mom he went on a DATE. Then rolled into the penthouse at THREE A.M. In his stupid bar shirt like, ‘oh hey, baby, just got off work.’ He’s a liar, Celie. A LIAR. A—”
Her eyes bug. “The penthouse? He rolled into the—Did he move in? Allie, are you domesticatin' and didn't tell nobody?!”
I slap a hand over her mouth.
“Shhh—shut up—shut up!
“We’re not talking about this.
“Find evidence.
“We got five minutes.
“Move your ass.”
I creep up the stairs and swing open the door, entering back into the kitchen, trying to look like a normal person who definitely did not lie about having to shit, or is hiding a co-conspirator under the house.
“False alarm,” I say, nonchalant,
closing the basement door behind me.
Paola’s in the corner of the couch.
Maria’s rocking in the recliner.
Both are staring at me.
I turn on my swag. “So… what’s up?”
Paola sweeps her eyes over me,
seeing every lie under my skin.
“Funny,” she says.
“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
I toss myself into the other recliner, pull back the lever on the footrest, and kick back. “Just stopped by to hang out with you guys.”
They haven’t moved in many seconds.
“What? A girl can’t chill on a Thursday with her friend’s moms now?”
Paola narrows her eyes at me. “Friend? You friend-zoning Andrew now? Date that bad?”
Maria reaches for the remote next, turns the volume down on the TV. “Mannaggia…” she mutters. “Did Andrew tell you about that call? It’s okay. More bad news, that’s all.”
The speaker hisses,
Celie’s voice slapping my eardrum:
“Oh nah.
“Oh hell nah. Bitch—
“There’s panties under this bro’s pillow.
“I repeat: panties under the pillow.
“PILLOW PANTIES.
“I’m holdin’ them.
“I’M HOLDIN’ THEM.”
My blood stops flowing.
Just stops. Mid-circulation.
Celie gags. “They’re warm.
“Is this you? Tell me this is you.”
I break out in a cold sweat.
My eyes widen. “What brand?”
Paola tilts her head. “What brand?”
“Of bad news,” I say fast. “Bad news brand. What kind we talkin’? Like… ‘missed your appointment’ bad news or ‘you got a week left before the Reaper snatches your ass’ bad news?”
Paola and Maria exchange glances.
Then Paola starts, “Andrew thought he could charm someone into puttin’ Maria back active on the list…”
But Celie’s voice smothers sound—
“HANRO,” she whisper-yells.
“HANRO—
“Havin’. All. Nice. Rich-bitch. Options?
“Yeah, Allie… Allie—that’s gotta be you.
“These your ninety-dollar bougie coochie covers, right? Under this man’s pillow? Girl, he sniffin’ your vulvaroma.”
Maria and Paola are talking.
Their lips are moving.
I’m smiling, nodding, agreeing.
But my skin’s burning up.
My heart is slamming in my ears.
If those are in fact my panties,
then Andrew stole them.
The night of the hot tub.
And now keeps them under his pillow.
I don’t know if that’s horrifying or hot.
Or… horrifyingly hot.
Heat flares between my thighs,
deciding for me.
Maria waves her hand at Paola, and my attention narrows back on the two. “Paola, amore, this is nothing. One bump. Everything’s gonna be fine. Fidati di Maria tua.”
Paola tsks. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine,” she mocks Maria. “Jesus, wonder where that boy gets it from.”
Maria grins, seeing her son in her mind.
“My Andrew—
“always the rock, never the water.”
She says it proud, as praise, as strength.
‘Cause water crashes.
Water damages.
Water floods.
While the rock takes every hit,
every wave
before it sinks,
and sinks.
I clear my throat, staying on task.
“So…. why aren’t you active?
“For the liver transplant?”
Maria waves her hand. “è colpa mia. I slipped. Five months ago.” A brittle laugh, her fingers twisting into the blanket. “Andrew beg and beg for an exception. Farli cambiare idea. Make me active again.” Her shoulders fall with a sigh. “They call back this morning. Regole son regole. No exceptions.”
“You slipped?” I ask, a fragile whisper.
She brushes it off. “He thinks it’s his job. Sempre. To make me better. Lui vuole sistemare tutto. And this time? He can’t. So he hurts.”
Paola nods. “And when Andrew can’t fix something, he turns it on himself. He don’t get angry at the world. He gets angry at him. Then he leaves. Like he’s doing us a favor.”
They think he moved out because he can’t save her. And if what they’re saying is true, if that’s the real reason he moved in with me, I wonder how long it’ll be before he realizes he can’t fix me, and leaves me too…
Wait—
That’s exactly the kind of intel I needed.
That’s exactly how I can win Hell Week.
I need to make Andrew think there’s no hope for us.
The room goes dead.
Maria’s rocking slows.
The TV flickers.
Meanwhile, my mind’s trying to juggle:
panties under his pillow,
his lies with the date I never went on,
and devising a plan to push Andrew away.
Pick one, Allison.
Pick one thing to focus on.
But my heart’s being greedy,
eating a buffet of problems.
Overindulging.
Bloated.
I stare at nothing.
‘Cause I’m at capacity,
reaching a breaking point.
I can’t take another revelation—
“YO! brO,”
Celie whisper-shouts into the mic.
“YOUR BOY IS A DRUG DEALER.
“I’m lookin’ at—at least fifty stacks chillin’ in a fuckin’ Nike box.
“UNDER. THE. BED.”
My brain freezes.
My eyes widen.
Paola’s phone chirps with a text.
She grabs it off the coffee table and opens it. “Speaking of the devil.” She scrolls the screen, sends a glance at Maria. “He wants to take you to your appointment to talk to the doctor. He’ll be here in ten. Wants me to pre-heat the oven—”
I snap out of it, jolting out of the recliner so fast the footrest slams shut and Maria startles. “Shit. Would ya look at the time,” I blurt, checking my wrist.
No watch.
“Gotta go. I got an appointment too. In five. Already late.” I point at nothing with a laugh. “This was… great. Really.
“Girl time. Memories.
“Kisses and condolences.
“Okay, bye.”
Twenty-four seconds later, I’m peeling around the corner of the street so fast an ice cube slings out of Celie’s cup and smacks me in the cheek.
My face doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch.
“B-bro-bro,” Celie shrieks. “You took that ninety-degree turn so-so acute, the ice SLUNG—”
A laugh floods her, and she can’t finish, her palm coming down on the dash with a smack.
I look over at her, my face stone-cold, and she’s laughing so hard it’s silent, tears streaming down her face.
“B-bro, the ice—oh my God—the ICE—
“ICE DONE JUMPED SHIP, brO—
“I CAN’T—I can’t breathe—
She’s wheezing, face wet.
“You so damn pissed,
“it slaps you in the face and-and—
“Dis bitch don’t react.”
She cackles. And cackles.
All the way across the Hudson.
// DEC 13, 3:20 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
When I’m hurt, I bleed out, and make music with the blood.
I compose from my compost,
spilling crimson pain
over pages in eighth notes,
splash it across lyrics,
drip between beats,
use it to paint the walls
standing between them and me.
Because art comes from intensity,
and the only kind I know is misery.
It’s a curse I carry.
One I keep feeding middle fingers
and every fuck I never gave.
I know it’s not healthy.
I know it’s killing me.
But still, I keep pushing,
keep pissing people off,
keep hurting myself,
I don’t know how to stop.
I was born a trainwreck
with a curse to fuck shit up.
My soul,
undone with this undoing to undo.
That’s the real horror:
knowing the pain by heart
and still pressing play.
And tonight, it feels like I’m trying to outrun a bullet I shot.
Trying to outrun a clock I wound up.
My heart’s racing as I’m pacing.
I’m standing, stalling, staring.
At Brandon undressing by the hot tub.
Brown hair wild. Tattoos. Lip ring.
At the clock again.
At Brandon.
At the seconds ticking down.
Shit. I bite my nail, torn in half.
Any moment now, that elevator will ding, and Andrew will be face to face with the guy I last fucked to forget him.
Do not feel guilty about this, Allison.