38. Skin and Bones #3
Andrew shoots his arm out, blocking Peter’s path. “Don’t, man. Don’t even.” He shoves Peter back, trying to protect him too. “I’m not draggin’ you into some dumb shit that ruins your season.”
Andrew’s in all directions—
one hand on me,
one eye on the guy,
shoulders blocking Peter,
caught between reason and rage.
He’s still trying to do the right thing, but he's drowning in panic, wearing the face of a boy who wants to stop a train with his bare hands, trying to keep everyone safe but himself.
Peter’s wild-eyed,
barking in Andrew’s ear.
“You hit him, you’re gone.”
Andrew shreds through it,
his voice ripping like a whip.
“Petey, back the fuck up.”
It happens in slow motion,
when Reaper sees the opening.
His eyes go dead,
shoulder falling back,
fist lifting,
and something inside me screams.
Time doesn’t stop.
It jerks backward,
spinnin’ me straight through the tracks of shame.
Every thrust, every lie,
Brandon’s hands,
Andrew’s eyes.
My heart lunges first, then my feet.
I shove Andrew sideways.
And Reaper’s knuckles
crack across my face.
A loud crunch, wet and inside my skull.
Then black stars,
then the fade,
then the air knocking out of me.
My jaw feels unhinged.
My ear rings.
My teeth clack.
My feet stagger.
My heart’s paralyzed, eyes wide, scared.
My bones ask each other if we’re still alive.
I taste metal. Blood.
But I don’t hit the ground.
Andrew’s here,
his arms wrapped around me,
his back to the world,
eyes wide,
lips moving,
hands cradling my head,
walking me back a few steps,
saying stuff I can’t hear.
Once he knows I’m standing, breathing,
he snaps. “Pete.”
Peter's next to me.
“Take her,” Andrew tells him.
“Andrew—”
“Take her.”
I feel the breeze of him leaving me.
Then the rest of the bar explodes.
Noise comes back
like someone unmuted the world.
Andrew swings. Glass shatters.
A bartender jumps over the bar.
Giants-blue smears as bodies surge.
Then it all goes black when Andrew pulls me into his chest. He locks one arm around my back, the other holding my head, hiding my face in his crewneck as he whisks me away.
I can’t smell him.
All I smell is blood.
He’s moving fast.
Bar blurs past.
Door flies open.
And then—
Freezing cold.
December burn.
My lungs seize.
Andrew props me against the brick, palm hitting the wall next to my head with a sound that echoes.
“Perché cazzo l’hai fatto per me?
“Why the fuck did you do that?!”
He’s yelling, frantic, shaking,
but when his hands come back on me,
they’re gentle,
wiping my face,
brushing my hair back.
“Why’d you take that for me, huh?
“What the fuck were you thinkin’?”
I can’t answer.
I can’t look at him.
I’m still floating.
He rips off his hat and throws it down,
yanks off his crewneck.
I don’t feel my body, only cold brick.
His hands are everywhere—
one cupped under my jaw,
the other wiping blood off my face with his sweatshirt,
a violent tremor in his fingers.
His voice is in my ear.
He’s talking fast, shaky,
but it’s muffled behind a wall of shock.
“Goddammit—look at me. Look at me.”
He lifts my chin,
catches blood sliding down my face.
His eyes are red, wet, glassy,
as if this is shattering him.
“Keep your head up. Breathe.
“You ain’t breathin’.
“Breathe with me. I got you.”
My lungs burn hotter than the blood.
His sweatshirt’s stained red.
“Hey,” Andrew says, thumb stroking my chin. “Hey, hey, right here. Così coraggiosa. Così forte. Sei così fottutamente forte.”
I can’t.
I can’t do anything but hold my breath,
keep it all inside.
If I open my mouth,
it’ll all come out—
tears, truths, a tornado of emotions.
He tries to pull me closer,
but I press my palm against his chest,
feeling his heart slamming.
I keep him back—
his chest, the shirt, everything.
And then the words fall out—
“I fucked someone else.”
And the second they do,
I can’t inhale.
Andrew freezes,
tilting his head,
running through the words again
and again.
“What’re you—”
His brows pull in. “What?”
I look him in the eyes.
Because I did it. It’s done.
I can’t go back and change anything.
I’m not proud. It’s just…
a fact I can’t take back.
“I fucked another guy.
“After you.”
His mouth parts.
A jagged exhale punches out.
“After me?
“Allison—I—”
The other half of his breath leaves him.
“We just—
“Who—Ben?”
His eyes squint.
“You talkin’ about Ben?”
I back myself into the wall
and shake my head.
“No. Not Ben.”
His mouth slams shut.
And he stares at me.
It’s so quiet.
Until police sirens wail in the distance.
Then he drops his head, chest rising fast.
Then faster.
Snow starts to fall,
first flake landing on his shoulder,
then his bare arm.
He squeezes his sweatshirt in one fist and scrapes down his face with the other, trying to bolt the door on a rising tide—
a scream, a tear, another punch—
keep it locked in.
And I don’t know what to do.
I don’t feel the cold anymore.
I can’t smell anything anymore either.
Not blood.
Not beer.
Not winter.
Nothing.
My lungs burn from trying not to breathe. Because he’s not walking away.
He’s standing there, bare arms and black hair dusted with snow.
Why isn’t he walking away?
“Andrew.
“I don’t think you understand—”
“Nah.” His voice catches,
and he clears his throat.
“I fuckin’ get it.”
He wipes his nose.
“I heard you. I just…”
His breath fogs the cold air.
“I can’t hold both.
“I can’t hold that and you at the same time.” His hand comes up again, and he dabs my chin with his sweatshirt, focusing on that, his eyes on my mouth.
“You just took a fuckin’ punch for me.”
The wind slices through us,
and he shivers.
“I just broke you. Let me fix this.”
His throat works around a swallow.
“Then you can break me.”