57. Till It’s Gone
YELAWOLF
The cold comes home with me.
It rides the elevator up and follows me into the penthouse with its clammy phantom hands all over my thighs.
I step inside barefoot, heels dangling from two fingers, the tail of my red dress trailing a crimson line across the marble.
When I reach my bedroom,
light spills from the TV screen,
shattering over the walls,
the ceiling,
the edge of the bed…
And Andrew’s face,
illuminating him in a kaleidoscope
of mafia-neon.
He’s sitting up in my bed,
still in his clothes from the event,
shirt unbuttoned halfway,
wrinkled, belt gone,
dress shoes kicked off
on the floor next to him,
one ankle crossed over the other,
watching Goodfellas
with the volume turned low.
Jersey boy heartbreak cinema.
The screen lights up his face in stained glass strips as he looks at me—cheekbone, lips, jaw, the tired under his eyes—making a church window out of a man seconds from falling to his knees,
exhausted by me…
like staying hurts…
like leaving hurts worse… like—
I’m the knife he keeps walking into.
Still, he keeps walking my way anyway.
Mr. Fuck-You remains, tragically, unfuckoffable.
Only idiot bigger than him is me.
The girl who can’t even keep him
without dismembering him first.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
Can’t, even if I wanted to.
My heart and lungs don’t know how to beat or breathe right around someone who keeps coming back.
They’re moving worn and beaten from holding up these walls and bracing for impact.
They’re too weak, too exhausted—two overplayed instruments wanting to be locked away in velvet cases to rest and collect dust.
I turn toward my dresser,
keeping my back to him,
and the mirror finds me.
Beneath the ruined glamour of a scarlet dress, my eyeliner’s blotched in the corners of my eyes, my lipstick’s gone, my eyes are sunk into purple valleys.
Beautiful Corpse Barbie—
Christmas of ‘24 Holiday Edition.
I take off my earrings,
dropping them into the brass tray.
“Thought you were going back to the Clover.”
The TV bottoms out into silence,
then an explosion of mobster laughter.
Behind me, in the mirror, Andrew shifts.
“Tried.”
My movements hesitate a moment
before I remove my rings, one by one.
Clink.
Clink.
“Yeah, and?”
Clink.
“And they suspended me.”
My stare freezes first,
then lifts to my own eyes in the mirror,
where a silent scream lives.
“For how long?”
“Don’t know yet.”
I got him suspended.
This is all my fault.
My pulse is a drum, beating this consequence I can’t outrun, can’t fix. I swallow hard, another mistake that ripples through me.
Swallowing only reminds me
I have a throat.
A throat reminds me I have a body.
And my body is the weapon
that keeps hurting us both.
I try unclasping the necklace
with shaky fingers.
First try, I fail.
Second try, I fail.
Third try, it unhooks,
falling into my palm
with a delicate gold shiver.
Then I’m shaking my head ‘cause I don’t understand the math of him anymore.
I keep subtracting from his life,
and—“Why are you here?”
In the mirror, his tired eyes hold mine.
His mouth opens.
Then closes.
Then—“I signed a contract.”
The boneless laugh slips past my lips,
and I nod. “Right. The contract.”
“You want me to leave?” he asks.
The word ‘no’ shoots up from my chest
and waits in my mouth.
It’s a pathetic little thing.
I bite down on it instead,
deciding it’s best not to answer,
and reach behind me,
unzipping the dress,
sliding the straps off my shoulders.
The dress hits the floor,
an expensive puddle at my feet.
All that remains of me are panties,
goosebumps,
and a life I’m sick and tired of living,
stuck in the skin of a girl
I don’t want to be.
I leave the dress and walk around the bed, climb in, and lie on my stomach, my hard nipples pressing against the cold sheets.
I slide my arms under my pillow and turn my head away from him, facing the city, where the skyline glitters like stars.
I should wash my face, brush my teeth, do the whole twelve-step nighttime routine, but I can’t be awake for another second without wanting to cry or fuck my way out of my skin.
Gunshots ring out from the TV.
In the movie,
Henry throws a lamp at his wife.
‘Get outta my life,’ she screams.
Then him: ‘You’re fucked up in the head Karen. This is all in your mind.’
Her: ‘You’re a lousy bastard.’
Him: ‘You got a problem.’
Henry Hill walks out on her.
Their dog barks around their toxic shit.
The city swims behind my burning eyes,
sleep never taking me.
Eventually, it does take Andrew, though.
He goes under in phases.
His breathing changes first
as he loses the fight.
He sinks into the pillow.
The room falls quiet around him.
I wait, and I wait,
then I turn to face him.
He’s on his side, facing me,
lashes spilling ink across skin,
his hair a dark mess against the pillow.
Sleep steals the fight out of his face,
unclenches his jaw,
lips parting on a breath,
leaving him younger in the dark,
pretty in a way that feels private.
I trace the edge of his brow,
the bridge of his nose,
the dip beside his mouth.
He doesn’t wake,
and for one stupid second,
it becomes a stolen moment
where my heart forgets
all her bad habits.
And just beats.
For him.
“I asked for help,” I whisper in the night, smoothing my thumb across the crease between his brows. “It probably doesn’t matter.” I shrug, then really think about it. “Okay. Maybe it matters a little. But I said it. Out loud. To someone who could hear me.”
My throat tightens as I brush my knuckles across his cheekbone. “It’s your fault, you know,” I admit. “You make me want things, and now that I said it, I don’t know what to do.”
An exhale shakes out of me.
“I don’t want to be like your moms.
“I don’t want you taking care of me until there’s nothing left of you.”
His breath warms my wrist.
I try to get the words out through my tight throat. “I want to choose you, Drew.”
The night steals my confession.
Keeps it safe.
I inch closer to kiss between his brows—
when a buzzing vibrates the bed.
I pause.
Then the vibration comes again.
I stare at his sleeping face and reach under the covers, inching near his hip, through trapped heat and twisted sheet. My fingers find the phone, and I slowly pull it free, keeping an eye on his lashes, his mouth, the change in his breath.
Then I look down.
It’s the second phone.
I’m frozen here with it in my hand, knowing this is a boundary I shouldn’t cross.
I should put the phone back down, pretend I never saw it. No point in searching for something that'll only hurt.
I’m teetering on the edge of being just a fucked-up girl, and staring down at the pit of crazy-girlfriend.
The screen wakes in my hand,
reminding me I’m both.
Then the messages come piling in:
No
Are you still with her? Just say that.
I can handle being replaced
Tell me the truth
I click into that thread and scroll—
I can feel myself getting bad again
I took something to sleep. Don't worry I know you're busy
You know wht helps
You really gonna make me sepll it out for you ;)
Actually no forget it
I'm deleting your number
I'm outside don't be mad.
I just need to see you then I'll go
Where are you?
My stomach flips as I click out and end up back in his inbox, seeing the string of texts from multiple numbers:
Why aren't you at the Clover? U ok?
Hi stranger. Still hooking up? Or did you retire?
You prob don't remember me.
Who's this?
Andrewwwwwww I still have your hoodieeee
What are you doing later?
But there are never replies from him.
Until my thumb stops mid-swipe,
landing on one he did respond back to.
The name’s a fucking hole emoji.
My thumb shakes on a pause,
debating to open the thread.
Allison, no.
You’ve seen enough for one night, alright?
Don’t do this to yourself.
Just put the phone down,
there’s still time.
Detach thyself.
Be blasé. Be mysterious. Be above it.
I look up at his sleeping face,
hearing my pulse in my ears.
Then tap into the thread.
Because I am none of those things.
Mon, Nov 25 at 6:02 PM
What's the hold up?
Not tonight I'm busy
Sun, Dec 1 at 7:46 PM
Chill I got you
Gotta be patient
Wed, Dec 11 at 1:46 PM
Can't get away rn
We can meet tonight
6:06 PM
I'm omw
Thur, Dec 12 at 4:31 PM
Missed your call
Got 20 min if you wnat it
If you don't show up offer expired
9:14 PM
You still mine?
Fri, Dec 13 at 2:58 AM
Yeah
// DEC 22, 9:16 AM //
According to the Fuckin’-A Agreement,
Andrew has custody of me on Sundays.
Joint custody, technically, shared with my terrible decision-making.
It’s why I’m trapped in the passenger seat of his red Civic, crossing into Jersey for an indoor baseball event.
Outside, the sky’s colored milk-gray and gloom. Inside, the heat’s coughing through the vents, breathing lukewarm air on one of my ankles.
Even though I’m layered to death in a cami, heat-tech long sleeve, sweatshirt, and a trench coat, my messy, day-after-hair-do stuffed under a St. John’s cap, the to-go cup clutched in my palms still shakes so hard from my shivering that coffee’s spitting through the mouth-hole and splashing my gloves.
The Teskey Brothers play through blown speakers, making the dashboard rattle.
So do my teeth.
So does whatever’s left between us after last night.
Everything’s rattling.
Andrew’s not rattling, though. His attitude’s clocking at fuck-you Fahrenheit.
Has to be ‘cause all the man’s wearing is a thermal over an old grey tee, joggers, and a navy zip, his hair still damp from his shower beneath his cap.
But there’s a sleepless curl near his temple, contradicting his pissed-off persona, making him look sweeter than the betrayal in his text messages, and the words he said to me in the alley last night:
Fuck you.
Two words still sitting in my chest,
sharing a cigarette.
He returned to the penthouse, sure, but his presence has yet to snatch the cigarette from their hands and put it out.
Shit still burns. And haunts.
Like the texts,
they’re all embered ghosts.
We’ve barely said a full sentence to each other since. This morning he told me to get dressed. So I got dressed.
He opened the passenger door. I got in.
He shut it. We started driving.
Now we’re on Route 17, and—