61. In The Air Tonight #3
Until I couldn’t look at him anymore.
Until I felt the urge to puke.
Then I got up on wobbly legs.
“I’m taking a shower.”
“Allison—”
“What?”
He looked up at me,
a confession on the tip of his tongue.
But he swallowed it down, throat bobbing. And his shoulders fell as he threw in the towel.
“I’ll clean this glass up.
“Strip the bed for you.
“Then I’ll go.”
Those are the words that keep replaying in my head as the shower now beats against my face.
Out of everything that’s happened,
that’s what’s haunting me.
And it shocks me because Ben’s gone.
My only constant is gone.
The only active contract I had is gone.
No more backups or safety nets.
My biggest fear is here,
and I’m completely catatonic to it,
hiding inside its paralysis.
‘Cause I know the second the numb melts away, the truth of Andrew’s absence will hit like a freight train, and Little Death will start banging a fork against the bars, screaming—
feed me,
fix me,
fuck me gone.
‘Cause I’m an addict.
I’m addicted to the climax.
The finish line—
the drop off the cliff into nothing.
But with Andrew…
that’s not what I want.
Not the finish line.
Never for this to end.
I press my forehead against the wet tile.
For eight years, I’ve planned my whole life around that twenty-second climax, so why, when I’m with Andrew, do I fight it off?
You don’t fight what you’re addicted to.
You don’t try to slow it down.
The steam in the shower is suffocating,
but the fog in my head starts to clear.
‘Cause I’m not addicted to Andrew.
I’m not. I can’t be.
“Allison—” he calls from my bedroom.
I lift my head,
wipe the water from my eyes.
“Allison—” he calls again, closer.
For a moment,
I think it's all in my head.
Until I turn,
and he’s right there.
Standing in the threshold of the shower,
chest heaving,
eyes glassy and red around the rims,
lips trembling. “Allison…” he breathes.
And my heart is pounding,
'cause something’s wrong.
I can see it all over his face.
Something’s fucking wrong.
Something happened to his mom.
It’s making my chest heave too.
His hand lifts, but it shakes,
and he pushes it up his forehead,
through his hair,
his voice shattering halfway through—
“You fuckin’ wrote it?”
The same hand drags over his mouth,
as if it hurts to say it.
“Ben—he broke the frames on the wall.
“Your records.
“And you wrote my song,” he says,
eyes straining against the steam,
refusing to look away, refusing to blink.
Then he steps all the way in—
shirt,
pants,
sneakers,
him,
all of it.
He’s soaked in seconds,
both hands coming over my face.
My breath catches,
but he doesn’t let me take another.
He takes it for himself,
pulling me toward him.
His mouth falls onto mine,
lips parted, breath spilling hot,
tongue sliding in as we sink into each other with a slow, aching exhale, like we’ve both been holding our breaths for weeks.
Then his whole body folds forward,
and he pulls himself deeper into me.
Water crashes down over both of us,
burns down our faces,
seeps into our mouths.
I’m clutching his soaked sweater.
He’s grabbing me, pulling me closer—
one hand sliding into my soaked hair,
tilting my mouth up,
the other sweeping down my hip,
molding me to him until there’s no air
and all I have left to breathe in is him.
“You—y-you… Jesus, Allison.
“You held onto it this whole time.
“This whole fuckin’ time.
“And you… Christ—
“You let me stand there, night fuckin’ one,” he scrapes out from a rattled throat, water dripping from his lashes, his nose, his lips. “You—you let me tell you what it meant to me. You kissed my tattoo, for fuck’s sake, and you didn’t say shit.”
His forehead rolls across mine as he takes me a step back, his hand shaking against my skin, all this overwhelming him.
“If you told me that night…
“I don’t know.
“I would’ve never really known if I only felt like this ‘cause you wrote the song, thinkin’ it was destiny or some shit, or if it was real… But all this time, you protected this, us—”
“Andrew—”
“No, you did. You did, Allison.
“You kept this real.
“This’s always been real.”
He shakes his head slow,
wet mouth hovering mine.
“Allison. You had this card in your pocket for almost three months. Coulda used this to get me to sign your contract, to keep me from walkin’ away, to manipulate me to stay, and I would've. Coulda used it to get me to do anything you fuckin’ wanted, and I would've done it. And you know it.
“But you didn’t.
“You didn't use me.
“You'd rather watch me go
“than manipulate me.”
Water slides down my back, down his soaked shirt, between our hips that are nailed together.
I shake my head.
“Andrew, that doesn't make up—”
“No, stop. Listen, that’s you puttin’ me first… Above you, above you winnin' something, the contract, the addiction. You did. And I—fuck—”
His hand slides up my spine,
and he breathes me in,
exhaling against my lips, tasting this.
“Ho fatto una cazzata, Allison.
“Sono fottuto… I know it.”
His forehead melts into mine.
“Non me ne frega un cazzo.”
And then he kisses me.
Intense. Wild. Hot.
“Fottuto da te. Non c’è via d’uscita.”
His voice breaks against my mouth, the sound of water hailing down on tile trying to drown his words.
But they can’t.
They can’t.
I clutch his face,
trying to stop the world from spinning.
He doesn’t stop.
“Se mi lasci entrare,
“giuro che non me ne andrò mai.”
Another kiss.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
Then, almost begging—
low, possessive, raw—
“I’ll stay fucked…
“se significa che posso tenerti.”
His words echo in my chest,
our roots digging deeper,
tying us into knots.
“Whatever you just said...” I rasp into his mouth, “don’t take it back.”
He grins against my lips.
“Never.”
He shakes his head.
“I’ll never.”
Then he’s kissing me harder.