60. Doesn’t Do Me Any Good #2
Everything breaks at once—the exhaustion from the last fifty-six hours, the scent of him, the craving for him, my fucking sanity.
It rips through me,
shattering me from the inside out,
and I let go,
letting the orgasm finally take me,
not realizing I’m lying on my back,
hand in my pants,
finger on my clit,
‘til I hit climax.
It rips out, riotous with an electric rush.
My body locks up, back arching, the pleasure bleeding warm in my bones.
“Oh my God,” I whisper when it’s over, my whole body melting into the mattress with a sigh.
I close my eyes, spent.
Only seconds pass…
then my chest’s burning,
heart in a fetal position,
hugging her knees,
rocking, rocking, rocking,
hellfire surrounding her
and burning the backs of my eyes.
A hot tear cuts down my cheek next.
I turn into the comforter to wipe it,
when my eyes land on his pillow.
The Pillow Panties.
My hand crawls under it, scared,
then my fingers catch on cotton.
I sit up fast and rip the pillow back.
Panties.
Black.
Thong.
Flames lick up my throat.
Not HANRO.
Not the ones Celie found.
These have no label,
and motion sickness hits me in stillness.
They could still be mine…
Cotton, size small...
But what if they’re not?
What if some other girl was here?
Maybe my heart should shut the fuck up until we have facts.
I’m staring down at them, chest heaving,
pretending that I’ll be okay.
But I’m not okay.
For the next hour,
the new Pillow Panties haunt.
I still see them lying there as I unbox the new glass containers, wash them by hand, rinse them, dry each one with a dish towel, and transfer all the food from the plastic into the glass.
Paola keeps sneaking pinot noir into my glass every time I turn around, pretending not to get me drunk.
Like she’s slipping a sedative to a confused bear in Midtown for when animal control gets here.
“I see you,” I tell her,
shoving another container into the trash.
Paola ties it up tight.
“What’s this really about, huh?”
She sets the bag full of plastic next to the others, where they all line up against the island.
“This is what it’s really about,” I mumble, snatching a new trash bag.
Hallmark’s glowing from the living room, a couple baking together on-screen.
Maria and Gabby are passed out.
The rest are giggling drunk.
“Allison,” Paola insists.
“Stop. Take a break.”
“I’m fine.”
She catches my wrist. “That’s enough.”
“It’s not enough.”
She doesn’t let go.
“I can tell you’re not fine.”
“I am fine.”
“You’re overwhelmed,” she says.
“And you’re scared.”
The container falls from my hand and drops into the sink, the past three months rewinding fast, choking me:
‘You got issues. No, for real…’
‘You can’t take bein’ left.’
‘I need space. From you.’
‘We’re all just pawns in Allison Taylor’s fuckin' world.’
‘I want to get help…
‘I can’t live like this anymore.
‘The abuser wins,
‘and the entire world’s on his side.’
‘Stay the hell away from me.
‘You’ve only made my life worse.’
‘Not all of us got it where we can hide behind a fuckin’ contract. Some of us gotta live with our monsters.’
‘They’ll always say what you want to hear if they think it’ll get them what they want. Doesn’t make them bad a bad person, just strategic.’
‘You think you’re the first girl to fall for him? You’re talkin’ to Andrew Harding, you do know that, right? Gives you the fantasy. Says and does just enough to make it real. Whatever you want, he’ll give it to you. Doesn’t mean he wants you…’
My spine hits the counter as I fall back.
“Okay,” I breathe, chest heaving, the truth bursting out of me. “I’m overwhelmed and scared.”
My hand comes over my mouth as I finally look at her, as if that would stop the tears pooling in my eyes.
Paola’s tough expression crumbles,
and she takes the sponge from my hand,
my hand from my mouth,
then she wraps both arms around me.
The second they do—
the second I feel her warmth,
her comfort,
this starved instinct takes over,
and my body buckles into her.
And I break,
burying my face into her shoulder,
fingers fisting in her pajama top.
And I cry.
Tears that’ve been trapped for more than ten years. ‘Cause I’m hugging a mother in the way I needed.
Not my mother. My mother is gone.
But for three seconds, the ghost of the abandoned child in me lets me pretend.
I wake first to a piano playing from the TV, a version of “Last Christmas.”
I’m lying on the couch,
a blanket to my chin,
fire hot against my back,
eyes still closed.
“I told you I had it.” Paola whisper-yells. “Last thing I wanted was you drivin’ all the way back from Long Island at this hour. In this weather. Tryna kill me?”
Andrew whisper-shouts back.
“Yeah. You had it?”
“She’s asleep.”
“I asked for one favor. One.”
“Call you if she ever shows up,” Paola argues. “And that’s what I did.”
“I asked you to take care of her.” His voice splinters at the end. “She ever shows up here, you take care of her. You love on her. You don’t let nobody make her feel stupid for comin’. She doesn’t run to people, Ma. She doesn’t run to anybody.”
I grip the blanket tighter.
“She comes here?” he says low.
“It’s an emergency. I told you that.”
Paola’s voice falls quiet.
“And I did take care of her.”
“You got her drunk.”
“I gave her wine, Andrew.”
“Yeah. That’s always the answer in this house, right?”
“Andrew—”
“What? Somebody cries, pour wine. Somebody’s sick, pour wine. Somebody’s dyin’, pour wine. Real fuckin’ Harding tradition.”
Sera laughs. “It’s not like she forced wine down her throat.”
“My girl doesn’t drink,” Andrew fires back.
The room falls silent.
My eyes widen under my lids.
“Your girl?” Sera repeats. “Oh, she’s your girlfriend now. Okay. Well, your girlfriend came here uninvited, ruined Christmas Eve Girls’ Night, started goin’ off about plastic killing you and threw out half your kitchen!”
“She did?” Andrew asks.
“She replaced it,” Paola is quick to explain. “She bought us new glass containers. The plastic was the problem.”
“The plastic wasn’t the problem,” Sera mutters.
“Microscopic particles were giving Andrew cancer,” Paola bites out.
“Oh my God,” Lisa groans.
“Fran, Gabby—grab your coats.
“Let’s go.”
Maria's recliner shakes. “Madonn’ santa,” she laughs, breathless. “Take me now. Don’t keep me here with these pazze.”
“Ma,” Andrew hisses.
“Stop laughin’. You’re gonna wake her.”
“You know who’s crazy?” Sera’s voice cuts back in. “Her. She’s crazy. Your girlfriend? Fuckin’ insane. Real good job choosin’ ‘em.”
Another silence drops.
The door opens,
then closes after some of them leave.
Andrew’s voice drops next.
“Your turn. Get out.”
Sera scoffs. “Excuse me?”
“You. Out,” he says.
“Not kiddin’. I don’t want you here.”
“Whoa—nah-uh,” Sabrina cuts in.
“Andrew, sweetheart,” Paola slides in.
“You’re not kickin’ family out.”
“Family?” Andrew laughs, exhausted. “That word’s got real selective hours in this house, huh? Only counts when you need it to. Rest of the time, everybody does whatever the fuck they want.”
Sabrina’s firing off—
“This the man you raised?”
“It’s her,” Sera shouts.
“She’s literally changing you.”
Then they’re all talking at once.
Maria’s chair shakes harder from her laughter.
“Andrew,” Paola inches in careful. “Maybe take Allison downstairs. Let her sleep in your room. Sera can sleep on the couch. We can deal with all this when it’s not Christmas.”
“Nah. Ain’t doin’ that.”
“Sweetheart, they live four hours away.”
“I’m not movin’ Allison. I’m not wakin’ her up, draggin’ her downstairs.
I’m not havin’ people disrespect her in my home.
And I’m not gonna keep adjustin’ my life to make everyone else comfortable.
Done with that.” I hear him knock the counter.
“Sera’s grown. She wants to talk shit? She can do it at a hotel in front of a mirror.
Aunt Sabrina can go with her or take the guest room. ”
Sera lets out a laugh. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah. Girls’ Night’s over. Drive safe.”
“Let’s go Sera,” Sabrina says, fed up.
A stillness sweeps the room.
I should probably stir.
Act like I’m waking.
The door opens for a second time.
Closes as they leave.
A few beats of silent tension pass.
“Momma, don’t look at me like that.
“C’mon. Take Ma to bed.”
She doesn’t say anything.
I hear no one take a step anywhere.
Andrew’s voice slides closer,
“Momma, ti voglio bene, okay?
“Prendi Ma. Take her to bed.”
I feel him now.
I feel the warmth of him as he crouches down behind me. I feel his touch when he pulls the blanket up to cover my back.
“You know we love her for you, right?” Paola whispers. “And we love having her here.”
Then Maria—“Certo che la amiamo. She comes in here with the big sad eyes and all this kitchen stuff—madonn’, come on. Ormai è una di noi. She is ours now.”
A chuckle slips out of him, and I feel him sit on the floor next to the couch.
“We’re not perfect, Andrew. God knows we’re not,” Paola says. “But we try.”
The recliner creaks when Maria’s lifted out of it. “Amore mio, we make mistakes. But Allison… she is loved here.”
“Lo so, okay? I know,” Andrew says. “I’m sorry I came in hot. Thank you. For bein’ there for her.”
Everything fades quiet after they leave.
I hear Andrew pick up the remote,
shuffle through movies.
He chooses Home Alone.
I wait five minutes before faking a stir by rolling over and facing the TV.
Andrew’s sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, the flames from the fireplace haloing the side of his face.
Having him this close again,
smelling him, feeling the heat of him,
makes me relieved, sad, tired, undone.
I slip my arm over his shoulder,
laying my palm against his chest.
He breathes out slow and settles back,
tilts his head, kisses my arm.
“You’re here,” I croak out.
He turns, clicks off the TV,
his arm coming up and over my hip,
and the fire puts gold in his eyes,
shadows in his lashes.
He looks wrecked. Sleepless.
Bruised, but beautiful.
And he’s here.
Right here. “The Trojan Horse himself,” I whisper, my fingers raking up the back of his neck. “I saved your life tonight.”
“I heard,” he whispers back.
“Are you mad? At me.”
He drops his head into my arm.