68. Home Tonight
AEROSMITH
“Twenty-twenty-five,” Celie says, holding up her coconut water.
The small fire pit in front of us crackles, sending tiny orange embers into the dark.
There is no rush tonight,
no worrying in waiting rooms.
It’s only us two,
a warm fire,
thick blankets,
music playing low,
and a million city lights
burning under the stars.
I lift my glass.
“Twenty-fuckin’-twenty-five.”
We toast with a clink.
“The year Allison Taylor rules the world,” Celie says after a sip.
I snort.
“The world better have low standards.”
“It does.” She cocks her head.
“People still clap when planes land.”
I point at her. “That’s true.”
Our ritual sits between us.
Usually, we do it on January 1st.
But this year, I said,
I think I love you, with Andrew Harding’s dick inside me, disappeared for nine days to freak out about it,
came back,
said,
I do. I love you,
again in a hospital hallway,
‘cause I learn nothing.
(Couldn’t even blame it on dick that time.)
Then spent ten hours in a transplant waiting room praying his mother didn’t die
(she didn’t).
So January first got bumped.
The spread is disgusting: coconut waters, ginger shots, green juice the color of a swamp, miso soup, cucumber-avocado rolls, pineapple chunks, and hummus.
I tuck my socked feet under me. “Can you believe only three months ago we were slashing some random Audi’s tires ‘cause you thought the car belonged to Drake?”
Celie lowers her coconut water.
“It was his Audi.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay. It was his Audi.”
“Ew.” She pulls back, giving me a nasty look. “You stabbed the tire first.”
“Yeah. To prove I was high.”
“You weren’t high.”
“See?” I slap my thigh.
“The shit I do for you.”
“Deadass, I’m embarrassed I cried over that man.” She reaches for a cucumber-avocado roll. “Twenty-twenty-five Celie got a plan.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask.
She swallows a bite, shrugging, cute and innocent. “That whole Teddy Vale thing gave me clarity,” she says. “That the Holy Grail ain’t as far outta reach as one might suspect...”
I choke on the hummus. “Oh, God…”
Her smile curves wicked. “I’m gonna make DJ Crush fall in love with me.”
I nod, supportive. “So highlight of 2024 was receiving an anallment from that security guard in LA, and the goal for 2025 is getting DJ Crush to pick up where he left off?”
“Ayeee.” Celie falls on all fours and twerks against the cushion.
My head tips back with a laugh. “I love that your personal growth starts and ends with who’s in your ass.”
“Nahhhh,” she says, dragging it out. “Well, yeah. But listen. Here’s the real talk.” She counts it out on her fingers. “Walk Fashion Week this year, Paris castings, landin’ a lingerie campaign, and Fiji with my girls.”
My eyes widen, and I sit up a little, an idea smacking me in the face. “Oh shit.”
Celie’s hand drops to her lap. “What?”
“Ty’s Kate.” I snap twice, trying to pull the last name. “Fuck. You know who I mean. Ty Hendrix’s girlfriend.”
“The pretty blonde?”
“Yeah.” I point at her. “She’s opening an erotic archive in Brooklyn.”
Celie’s brows lift. “Erotic archive?”
“Sex museum, but legit. Tasteful. Not male-gaze bullshit. This is real intimacy art. I could connect you two. You could do a shoot for her space—actual prints, artwork, something sensual for the walls. Then you use the same shots in your portfolio for when you start going after lingerie.”
Celie cocks her head sideways lovingly.
“See, that’s why you my bitch. I said lingerie campaign, you heard opportunity.”
I pluck a pineapple chunk from the tray.
“Damn right,” I say around a mouthful.
She stretches her leg out.
“And then there’s Allison.”
She grins. “No more Boys…
“Whole new mattress…”
She wiggles her brows.
Which was a blast.
After spending all day at mattress stores, I learned they’re deceiving as hell.
Same as men.
Feels good today.
But what about a month from now?
Is it gonna go too soft on my ass,
or is it gonna break my damn back?
“I’m locked in this year,” I say. “Soundwave. The artists. The music. All of it.” I cut my hand through the air. “No more floating around the building like some ghost nepo baby. I know exactly how to rebuild the label.”
“Fuckin’ finally,” Celie mutters.
I sit up taller, blanket falling off my shoulders. “Bro. I have a vision. A real one. Then on top of that, I got Sunset Decay on standby. I’m gonna save Bianca’s career, if she lets me. And bet—before 2026, I’ll have both the Hendrix brothers signed.”
Celie pulls her blanket up around her. “Shit, Allie.”
“Yeah, nah. I’m not playing anymore. Raymond can fuck himself. And Callista’s song?” I shake my head. “That’s going back where it belongs too. First thing in the morning, I’m pulling every contract. There’s gotta be some kind of right of first refusal somewhere hidden in there.”
Celie looks at me, proud.
I turn my smile to the city.
“Come my birthday in November, the label will finally be back where it belongs too.”
“Mmhmm…” she hums. “And how does Six-Point-Five fit into all this?”
My smile holds,
remembering the kiss in the hallway,
the undone look on his face.
I shrug, then glance down at my phone,
staring at the last text Andrew sent.
On the day of the transplant,
Maria’s surgery lasted ten hours.
Andrew and I slept through most of it, and when we woke up, the entire Harding family had taken over the room, waiting until the surgeon came out and said the transplant was successful—liver was in, blood flow looked good, and Maria was stable.
The waiting room erupted into cheers and crying and cheek kisses.
Except Andrew.
He refused to let himself celebrate, stayed numb, passive the rest of the night. Like good news only meant bad news wasn’t too far away.
While they waited for Maria to wake in ICU, I grabbed dinner from La Bella’s for the whole family, ate with them, then left to shower, change, give them alone time.
Andrew stayed back at the hospital.
That was two days ago.
That was the last time I saw him.
Today 12:13 AM
Andrew
She’s eating peanut MMs for breakfast.
She’s good.
And that was the last text he sent me.
Haven’t talked to him since.
Still, it let me breathe a little easier through the weekend, and I kept telling myself no news is good news.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I like what we are, and where we are.
“I don’t wanna hold it too tight…”
My hand closes around the phone.
“I don’t wanna lose it.”
What I don’t say: It terrifies me how completely he has me—
he’s already so deep inside,
already everywhere I am,
that there’s no space to pull him closer,
no way to push him out if I tried.
So this place we're in is as good as any—
not the opening track,
but not the final note either.
We've lost ourselves somewhere in the middle, the record of us keeps spinning in the dark, and I could listen forever.
Celie doesn’t know about my confessions. I already know how that’ll go.
So I told him I loved him.
Bitch, stop.
I’m not joking.
Out loud? To his face?
Yeah.
With your mouth?
Yeah.
Allie, be for real. What’d he say?
Nothing.
Both times.
And then I’d cry,
which is exactly why I’ll never tell her.
I point the rim of my drink at her. “Let’s just say for the first time in, well, ever, you’re single, and I’m sprung as fuck.”
Celie rises onto her knees, blanket sliding off her thighs.
“Hear ye. Hear ye.” She snatches up the gray hoodie balled near the fire pit. “I brought Drake’s hoodie. The last surviving artifact of my stupid bitch era.” She holds it up, the fire reflecting in her eyes. “But tonight, gotta let it burn. Leave it behind in 2024.”
“Bye Drakey poo,” I say into my drink.
She tosses it into the fire.
The flames catch the sleeve first.
Then the hoodie shrivels into itself,
gray curling black,
smoke lifting into the cold night.
For a moment, Celie watches it burn.
Then she turns to me.
“What’d you bring?”
I turn, reaching behind me,
then side-eye her as I wave the papers.
“The Baby Contract.”
Celie’s jaw drops, eyes turn into plates.
“Shut the FUCK up right now.”
Her hands shoot into the air with a scream,
and then her hands fly to her mouth,
and she shouts into the skyline,
“ANDREW HARDING,
“THIS PUSSY PICKED YOU!
“DON’T FUCK IT UP!”
My smile burns my cheeks,
and I lean forward to feed the fire—
Until her arm shoots out, stopping me.
“Whoa, hold up—”
I freeze mid-drop.
“We are gathered here today to burn this evil ass document.”
“Celie,” I laugh,
but she continues,
finger pointing,
“Let the record show: my bitch’s coochie is free. And by the power vested in me—Bronx’s baddest—I declare this contract dead as fuuuuuhck.”
She looks at me, gestures to the fire.
“You may throw it in.”
But my hand freezes over the flames,
the fire heating my face,
the last ten years flashing in my mind,
the funerals,
the crying,
the abuse,
the fingering,
the orgasms,
the addiction,
the kidnapping,
the Boys,
the loneliness,
then Andrew,
then I breathe out all the way.
And I drop it in.
// JAN 13, 9:18 AM - SOUNDWAVE - MIDTOWN, NYC //
By 9:18 AM, the sun is knifing through my office window with hot aggression, Callista’s eighty-something-page contract is scattered across my desk, and I have developed a system.
A bad system, some would say.
I’m highlighting everything that isn’t the loophole.
Sounds stupid, I know.
I’m aware highlighters were invented to mark important shit. But if I highlight what I already ruled out, bury pointless words under neon graves, then, in theory, I won’t accidentally reread the same paragraph six times.
In theory.
I’ve been at this for two hours.
Thirty minutes of that was figuring out the printer.
I’m only on page twenty-six.
Buzz.
My phone lights up beside my coffee.
My stomach jumps into my throat first.
My eyes lift to my phone second.
My heart screams:
it’s him, it’s him, it’s him.
I grab it quick,
highlighter still in my hand.
CELIE
Allison. Call me.
I groan, go to set the phone down,
but it somehow sticks to my palm
and won’t let go.
Weird.
Might as well check Andrew’s text thread while I still have it.
Just to make sure I didn’t miss a reply.
His last text is still from Saturday morning:
ANDREW
She’s sneaking Peanut M&Ms for breakfast.