42. The Taste of Ink
THE USED
We missed the flight.
Now I’m stuck in coach—middle seat damnation—wedged between husband and wife who’d sooner slit their wrists than share an armrest.
I offered to switch. They’d rather die.
Peppermints, cough drops, and side-eyes pitch right across my face, as if I’m the oops-child that kept them married.
And the fucked-up part? Every time their annoyed glances pass me by, my brain flashes to Andrew and me twenty years from now.
His huff. My eye-roll.
His jaw stiff from years of clenching.
My resting bitch-face on ice.
Hearts still chained,
but beating off-rhythm.
Two idiots too stubborn to let go of each other, then made a goddamn life sentence out of it.
“Allie! YO, ALLIE!” Celie’s holler bulldozes through two aisles and babies crying. Heads turn, but not mine. “You know this your fault, right?” I roll my eyes, she keeps going, “You too busy tryna catch Six-Point-Five bein’ a slut, now we separated!”
I pretend not to hear her.
A Good Samaritan behind me clears his throat, lifting from his seat. “Miss? I think she’s callin’ you.”
I keep staring ahead,
eyes on the seat in front of me.
“Nah. Don’t know her.”
The plane takes off,
and time drips slow after that.
An hour slips by,
the engine humming white noise.
I try to sleep,
my eyes two heavy sandbags,
but even though my body wants it,
my brain won’t shut the fuck up.
It’s the distance. Every mile is pulling Andrew and me farther apart.
A pink line of sunrise bleeds behind us as the plane outruns the sun, chasing the darkness, and every inch of sky means another mile between his hand and mine.
Grandpa Andrew and Grandma Me have been arguing the whole time.
Him: “Don’t start. Not here. Not with her between us.”
Her: “She can’t hear. She’s got her AirPods in.”
(I can hear. Music’s the broken condom to this nightmare.)
I bob my head anyway,
fake-drowning in the song.
Her: “I mention one thing, you act like I’m tryin’ to start a war.”
Him: “‘Cause you are. For fifteen years—”
Her: “Oh, here we go…”
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re always lookin’ for more reasons to sign those papers.”
Her: “And you’re always scared I will.”
Him: “‘Cause makin’ you happy is impossible.”
And me?
Statue-still, death-grip on my ginger ale.
Until—fuck me—my eyes start to burn.
And one fat tear slides down my cheek.
Over two strangers who can’t decide if they hate each other enough to walk away, or love each other enough to keep hating each other.
It’s funny in the cruelest way, sitting between the miserable ghosts of Andrew and me, the universe reminding me there's no win for us in the end.
We were fucked from the start.
The husband notices the tear,
and he frowns. “Hey, you good?”
“Yeah, nah.” I take out an AirPod and swipe at my face. “The song’s diggin’ up some old wounds.”
Except, when the talking dies down,
the leak from my AirPod betrays me.
“…we nasty, classy, trashy—balls clap n’ make that pussy happy…”
They both blink at me.
I nod, clearing my throat.
“You just had to be there.”
Five hours later, the plane wheels descend and cabin lights flick on. Time change has me drunk without the drink. It feels like my organs are three hours ahead of my skin.
One foot's in New York ready for lunch, the other's lost in palm trees in LA, and my brain’s still stranded somewhere over Kansas.
A Bentley idles out front, the driver holding up a sign with white gloves.
We slide in, doors shut, and Celie dives head-first into her phone, long nails clacking out a text. “Mhmm. Told Malik we landed. It’s happenin’ tomorrow night. Your girl’s ready.”
My head falls back on the headrest,
and I shut my eyes.
Her phone pings again.
I open one eye.
She’s stomping her feet,
hoops swaying,
giggling at her own filth.
Then she sets the phone face-down on her thigh and sinks into the leather, smug painting her smile. “Malik’s down. Tomorrow night’s official. Don’t even ask.”
Her eyes crawl to me with a devilish grin, dying for me to ask.
I sigh, long and tired. “What’s official?”
Her brows jump. “Anal, bitch.”
I groan,
laying my head back on the seat again.
“Yeah,” she nods, “this pretty little asshole’s losin’ its virginity to the NFL’s finest running back. ‘Cause you know they always be findin’ the gap.”
I groan even louder.
Her palms rub together, scheming.
“Jordan’s ride-or-die team anal.”
My head snaps. “Jordan?”
Her New Orleans model friend?
“Yeah, she pullin’ up tomorrow for Sunset Decay.” She slaps my thigh with the back of her hand. “We gon’ tag-team 'til your bougie ass folds for backdoor penetration.”
Great. Two models out here manifesting dick for my colon.
She smirks at her reflection in the tinted window. “On the West Coast? Anal’s a lifestyle. LA don’t got zip codes. They got moans—mine-oh-ohhhh.”
I choke on my tongue,
coughing out a laugh.
She shoves her cell screen in my face, the zip codes pulled up on Google. “Tell me that nine don’t look like a dick about to slide between two ass cheeks.”
I sink lower, burying my face in the glow of my phone, wishing I could rise to Celie’s smile, but it’s been sixty hours since I heard his voice.
I’ve held out longer, but this one burns.
I wanna text him that the plane landed.
That I made it, that I’m safe.
But that’s not how this works.
He walked.
If he cares, he’ll ask.
If he doesn’t?
Then that says everything.
I’ll bite my tongue bloody before I’m the first one to crack.
I click out of our dead text thread
and open a web browser.
My thoughts are still on the miserable married couple, and I need a statistic to confirm Andrew’s always been a bad idea.
I type: what are the odds of your first relationship failing?
The answer pops up fast: 70% of relationships don’t make it past the first year.
Wonderful. It doesn’t matter what he swears, what he promises, the odds already packed his bags for him.
“Yo—uh-uh. Don’t even. Lookin’ like a calculator threw up on you.” Celie shoves her shades on, shaking her head. “Don’t start doin’ that math-nerd shit. You always bug out when you do.”
I black out my screen and spin my phone in my palm, glancing over at the Hollywood sign, the sky rinsed blue. Outside, the gray freeway slides past, billboard after billboard.
“Allie, you stubborn ass.
“This shit’s painful to watch.
“Just text the boy.”
“Nah,” I mutter. “I don’t take advice from you anymore.
‘Be hard with ‘appreciate the stuffin’, remember that?” I jab the air between us with my bottled water.
“Yeah, next thing I know, I’m in the Draft Room gettin’ clocked in the face.
” Celie snorts and rolls her eyes. “So, yeah. I’m wallin’ up now,” I say.
“His insecure ass can chase me if he wants me. I did nothin’ wrong. ”
She purses her lips and gives me a once-over. “Yeah, aight. That why your pinky’s shakin’ like a cokehead?”
I press my thumb down on my pinky to pin the tremor still. “Better my pinky shakin’ than me textin’ him like some thirsty bitch.”
Celie snaps forward with a full laugh. “Yeah 'cause you don't look thirsty at all.” She shifts in her seat. “Hear me out. Say he’s just as stubborn, sittin’ there same way you’re sittin’. Month goes by, no one moves—what then?” Her brow climbs. “You sayin’ that’s how it ends?”
I dig my nail into the plastic label of my water bottle. “At least I know he didn’t want it bad enough.”
Celie dips back, as if I’m the crazy one in the car. “Girl, stop. You mad ‘cause even though he walked, it’s you who did the damage.”
My chest knots tight.
I glance away, the sunlight burning hot through the tint. Still less cruel than her glare when she presses.
“You the one who fucked some guy right after him, like he don’t matter. Now he’s seein’—”
“Seein’ what?” I snap, squinting at her,
daring her to keep going.
She does ‘cause she’s not scared of me. “Seein’ if you give a fuck about him. If you still want him.” She pops her gum, shakes her head. “He ain’t comin’ to you this time, baby. You want him? You better hit ‘im up.”
I hold her gaze with the devil in my narrowed eyes right as the car jerks to a stop in front of the hotel.
My eyes don’t leave her as I dump my phone into my bag and unbuckle my seatbelt. “Yeah. I don’t want him that bad.
“So… Guess it’s over. End of story.”
Truth is, I want him back just as badly
as I want him gone.
// DEC 5, 10:31 PM - VENOM - WEST HOLLYWOOD, CA //
Buzz.
Today 10:31 PM
Eli Stone
Just landed. Heading straight from LAX.
Should get there on time. See ya soon.
Pathetic.
My phone buzzes,
and my whole body says Andrew.
But it’s not, and now my pulse is still sprinting, still riding the rush after being caught red-handed for wishful thinking.
I text back,
trying to shove the feeling down.
It’s a little past 10:30 PM.
Sunset Decay goes on in half an hour.
I need to focus on the music, on this band that could be Soundwave’s future. On the one thing I didn’t lose the night Dad died.
If tonight blows up in my face,
if I screw this up too,
everything I’ve feared becomes true:
I’m not my father’s daughter.
Soundwave would’ve always only failed in my hands.
Raymond and the board were right all along, and I don’t have what it takes to be CEO.
All I’ll ever be is the ghost who writes songs in secret. The girl who inherited something she had no right to carry.
When my heels hit Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood rushes down the strip, neon bleeding into the dark. Girls in faux-fur walk past a Ferrari parked at the curb. Puddles reflect strip-club signs—hearts, lips, XXX glowing dirty pink.
While New York’s got blood soaked in the wind, LA’s got perfume floating on it, their December nights hitting like a fever, warm wind with a chill tucked under, fooling you ‘til your arms goose.
Behind me, Venom glows gold, line snaked out front, all leather, eyeliner, and vape clouds.
Celie’s scream pierces through traffic noise. “JOOOORDAAAN!”
The sidewalk jumps, heads whip.
She’s flying across the curb, curly hair bouncing, purse smacking her thigh, throwing herself at a skyscraper with legs that don’t end.