58. They Leave
JESSIE MURPHY
“You’re done!”
“Get him out of here!”
“Separate them!”
“Take him outside
“before someone calls the cops!”
Voices rip through the dome,
bouncing across the fields.
Benches have emptied.
Arms are grabbing arms.
White lines of the infield vanish under a herd of cleats, and I lose Andrew in the crowd.
Then I see him.
Lose him.
See him again.
Then he’s gone, leaving chopped-up, strobe-lit pieces of a man through gaps between bodies—the dark crown of his head, the black flash of cleats throwing up turf, a smear of fresh blood on his skin.
Peter’s arm is a steel bar locked around his chest. Marco has a fist in the back of his shirt. Through it all, the gold chain swings wildly around his neck.
And I stand frozen, watching them drag him backward through the mob.
Girlfriend Section’s packing up,
men are shouting into phones,
kids are crying, and—
“Andrew!” Mrs. Robinson cries out.
She blows past me, running across the field, straight into the tunnel after him, her bleach-blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
That was my first instinct,
to run after him.
Maybe it’s what I should be doing, too.
But chasing that man twice in twenty-four hours is embarrassing.
Nah. I’m not doing that shit again.
My second instinct is to stick my foot out, trip her, watch her smash into the floor face first. Break a few teeth. Maybe crack her skull open. Make God look away and say, ‘Jesus Christ, Allison’ as she passes through.
But she flies by too fast, and the opportunity’s gone before the thought finishes.
My eyes follow her, then land on Andrew’s bat lying a few feet from the mound.
The poor thing—
weaponized, then abandoned.
His baseball cap is only a few feet away,
stomped on.
We have that in common:
all left behind by Andrew.
I wander out onto the field, grab the hat and bat, then head back to the bench to scavenge the rest.
His glove. His navy zip-up,
shoving them both into his duffle.
I spot his sneakers,
stuff those inside next.
I bag up his bat,
sling the strap over my shoulder,
the half-empty Gatorade under my arm.
Then I return to my spot,
collapse the folding chair,
slip it into its sleeve,
swing it over my other shoulder.
I snatch the greasy donut bag last.
I collect every stupid, scattered piece of him ‘cause I can’t collect his answers: why his blood boils at the sight of Gino, why he still lets Mrs. Robinson touch him, why he’s still wearing that gold chain, and who the fuck is You still mine?
Is it her? Has it always been her?
And if he’s still hers, whoever her is,
what the hell is he doing with me?
As I walk through the tunnel, the strap of the chair bag bites into my shoulder, the bat bag swings back, banging against my shinbone, and the overstuffed duffle slams into my thigh.
My arms are burning.
My muscles are aching.
My palms are sweating,
I feel stupid.
Worse, I look stupid.
I should’ve just run after him.
Would’ve been a lot less humiliating.
While Mrs. Robinson chased him like a worried girlfriend, I’m carrying all his shit like a mom yelling—
Andrew, dear, you forgot your cleats!
From the lobby, a crossfire of shouts echo, the acoustics of the tunnel blowing up the panic. “Get him outside, or I’m calling Waldwick PD.”
“I’m not leaving without her,” I hear Andrew spit back, raw and bleeding with adrenaline. “Where is she? Yo—get off me. Petey, I’m fuckin’ serious, get your hands off me.”
The moment I step into the lobby, Andrew is feral, restrained by two of his boys as he argues with the guy wearing a crimson STAFF polo, sweat shining on his throat. Blood’s smeared across his jawline, his brow, painting his knuckles red.
Mrs. Robinson is right on top of him, frantically grabbing his wrist, smoothing her palm over his heaving chest. “Andrew, come on. You’re bleeding. Let me look at you.”
Andrew lifts one warning finger, brows high. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he grits out. “Don’t touch me.”
Then he’s in Peter’s face, lashing out at him. “I said I’m not leavin’ her in there,” he snaps, cheeks red.
“Baby, look at me,” Mrs. Robinson begs, grabbing his face. “They’re gonna call the police.”
Andrew jerks back, ripping his face out of her grip, and shoves his hand out to put space between them. “I said don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he spits, breathing ragged. “You got no right to touch me. None.”
“Whoa, whoa, chill!” Marco slams into Andrew, throwing him backward until his spine hits the concrete wall. “The fuck’s wrong with you? She’s a woman, bro!”
Andrew gets into his face.
“Nah. Fuck that. How many fuckin’ times I gotta tell her not to touch me before I’m allowed to take her hands off me, huh?
” He doesn’t wait for an answer and tears his arms free, pointing over Marco's shoulder with a bloody finger. “You should be locked the fuck up,” he grinds out. “And if you ever touch her again? I’ll make sure you are.”
I turn statue under the mouth of the tunnel, holding up thirty pounds of his gear.
He said her. Not me.
Her.
The realization burns down my throat.
He’s no longer staring at Mrs. Robinson.
He’s staring right at Raymond.
Peter grabs Andrew’s bicep to pull him back. “Harding, hands down. You look insane. And you’re already on thin ice—”
Andrew rips free. “Don’t.”
“No, I’m gonna don’t nothin’. You don’t fight.
You never fuckin’ fight.” His eyes cut over Andrew’s bloody face.
“I see guys beat the piss outta you outside bars. You just stand there.” He shoves his chest. “Now what? Andrew Harding’s suddenly fuckin’ Rocky Marciano?
” He steps in close, forehead almost to his.
“I don’t know who the hell I’m lookin’ at right now. ”
Andrew wipes his forehead.
“I just want Allison, and I’ll go,” he says, defeated. “Where the fuck is Allison?”
The panic in his voice thaws me, and the Gatorade slips from under my arm, hitting the tile with a loud, hollow clatter.
Andrew spins at the sound,
his frantic eyes scanning the crowd
until his stare collides with mine.
The relief is a collapse,
every ounce of fight draining from him.
There. Her. Breathe.
In the next heartbeat,
he breaks, heading my way,
moving to the mouth of the tunnel
as if he’s running out of air.
“Allison,” he says, exasperated, hand at the back of my head, gripping my cap, eyes wet and wide and looking straight into mine.“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
He pulls me into him, his face burying into my neck, his breath escaping in desperate gasps that burn my skin.
“Let’s get out of here.
“Right now, let’s go.”
He strips the bags off me,
his jaw clamping down so hard
the bone might fracture
and pierce his cheek.
He grabs my hand,
ignoring the walls of stares,
and leads me out of the building.
The freezing wind thrashes across our bare faces as we walk across the lot. He yanks open the passenger door, waits for me to climb inside before tossing the bags into the trunk.
He slides into the driver’s seat,
hits the ignition,
adjusts the rearview,
and freezes.
Sees the blood on his jawline and across his brow. Wipes it off, then stares down at his knuckles, the reality of what just happened setting in.
As he drives off, the dome disappears behind us, the red Civic eating up a few silent miles before Andrew abruptly pulls into an empty lot of a closed Chick-Fil-A off 17 in Ramsey.
He drops the car into park and gets out.
I unbuckle and follow him into the cold, my throat tight with a million burning questions that have been compounding since Goodfellas.
Here, there are no teammates to hold him back,
no Mrs. Robinson to soothe his chest,
no Hunter to distract him.
In this empty fast-food parking lot,
in the middle of December,
we have nowhere to look
except at each other.
“What the hell is going on?” I demand,
the words slashing the wind.
“No, really. Tell me.”
Andrew paces the length of his trunk,
shaking his head slow, saying nothing.
I step into the traffic of him,
feeling his heat radiating off his joggers.
“You’re walking away from me in alleys, then showing back up in my bed, hiding phones, secrets, women… letting Mrs. Statutory Blonde Bitch touch you in public with me RIGHT THERE—”
His head jerks up,
a panicked flash of guilt in his eyes.
He takes a half-step closer.
“I was tryna get attention off you.
“That fucker—”
“No, Andrew. No,” I cut him off. “That woman put her hands on you. In front of me. And I had to sit there and watch, not knowing if you needed me, hated me, wanted to hurt me, or wanted me to hurt her. Then you start fighting, and all I could do was stand there.”
I swallow back the bitter taste of the morning. “You realize how scary that was?” I choke out, the tears finally burning the corners of my eyes. “I was actually scared, Andrew. More scared than the fuckin’ ride to the complex.”
His nostrils flare, and he cocks his head.
“You think I’d touch you like that?” He pushes out a harsh, disbelieving scoff, head shaking as he steps back into the Civic. “Got no idea. I’d fuckin’ end myself first.”
“I wasn’t scared of you, Drew. I was scared for you,” I spit back, the truth lacerating the space between us.
“I was fucking terrified something bad was going to happen to you. And all I could do was watch them drag you away, not knowing if you’re hurt, if you’re leaving, if I’m supposed to run after you, if I’m supposed to grab your shit, or call a lawyer—Andrew, what the fuck? ”
He looks down at his blood-smeared knuckles, then back up at my face. “Allison—I—” A breath punches out of him, and he turns, head thrown back, then slides a hand down his face.
When he spins back to me, gold links sling across the dark sweat-stained shirt.
And I hate them.
I’m so fuckin’ sick of lookin’ at them.
The words burst right out of him—
“I thought I could do it. But I can’t do it.
“I can’t do this.
“I thought I could.
“Went back to the penthouse, tried to ignore the fact Raymond’s your goddamn stepdad.
That your stepdad’s eating you out. That fuckin’ guy—I’m shakin’ HANDS with him, Allison.
” His brows jump sky-high. “You got me shakin’ this motherfucker’s hand after he licked your pussy,” he lashes, eyes going flat.
“I did it your way. We signed a contract—the closest we ever had to havin’ somethin’, by your standards.
And you still couldn’t last a fuckin’ week for me. Not a week.”
My gaze falls to his chest,
to the gold chain,
and my gut twists as I imagine it—
her sucking his dick—
and it makes me feel hands and mouths.
A whole army of them, all over me.
“Allison, you do shit that makes me believe you give a damn about me. Like, I feel it. I know I feel it. But then you go and do this, and then I feel fuckin’ crazy for believing anything at all. ‘Cause then the truth starts lookin’ real fuckin’ clear—you don’t give a fuck.
“Not about me.
“Not about us.
“I keep foolin’ myself, thinkin’ you do.
“‘Cause I badly need it to be true.
“But hell—maybe this’s always been a game to you. Maybe this is all some fuckin’ game ‘cause Miss Taylor’s bored in her penthouse.”
My teeth grind and grind
as I stare and stare,
the chain glinting back,
laughing at me.
And how dare he say this shit while still wearing a leash, keeping him chained to his past. As long as he’s wearing it, it’ll never matter what I say or do. He can’t believe me if he’s always blinded by his own shame he wears every day.
His voice bleeds back through—
“That’s the truth, Allison.
“I’ll never be enough for you.
“You’ll never let me all the way in.
“You’ll never tell me why I got my girl pukin’ her brains out every time I make her come.
You’ll always put yourself first. And you know what?
Fair. I get it. You look out for you. You do what you gotta do to get what you want, doesn’t matter who gets burned, who loses their job, who gets dropped.
We’re all just pawns in Allison Taylor’s FUCKIN’ WORLD—”
I grab the gold chain
and rip it off his neck,
pitching it across the parking lot.
It clinks against the dumpster,
drops into a pile of dirty snow.
It happens so fast it shocks even me,
leaving me at a standstill, chest heaving.
Andrew stands paralyzed, stunned.
Then his hand lifts to his throat.
But the chain is gone.
He stares at me
with a war in his eyes,
like I just stripped him, saved him,
and slaughtered him all at once.
Like I threw away Andrew Harding,
the myth, the pussy-pleaser, the fuckboy,
and now all that stands there is just…
boy,
bare-throated, breathing hard,
not knowing who the fuck he is now.
His hand falls to his side.
“I need space,” he scrapes out,
voice almost a whisper.
“From you.”