66. Let Her Cry
HOOTIE & THE BLOWFISH
The view out here is painfully beautiful.
The glass towers of the city tangle with the stars, same way limbs tangle during sex.
I left the terrace doors wide open, letting winter pour into the penthouse ‘cause I want it cold.
I want it to freeze me as I am now.
A girl who fell in love with a boy.
And I never want to heal from him.
I want to spend the rest of my days with the hurt of him inside me.
That’s the sick part I’ve learned over these last nine days. Andrew's the first pain in my life that feels like mine instead of something that's been done to me.
So while Andrew carries panties in his pocket, I carry the ache that comes with loving him, and no one can take that away.
Not even Andrew.
A bottle of cherry wine dangles from my fingertips. I lift it to my lips, the bottle heavy, but it’s nothing compared to the dead weight I carry in my chest.
I can’t even summon the energy to lift myself from this lounge chair.
I don’t think I’ll ever move again.
It’s what happens after you destroy something you loved.
You’re completely, utterly drained.
All I can do is sit here in the dark night, drink cherry wine, watch my father’s smashed guitar float in the pool.
The wind blows, so I take another swig,
the cherry sweet on my fuzzy tongue.
It’s a fun little game I’ve been playing tonight—the wind blows, I sip the bottle, me and the guitar battling it out to see who’ll drown first.
Across the water, the guitar drifts into the deep end, stubborn, taking much longer than I thought it would.
The pool lights reflect the silver tuning pegs as the guitar slowly tilts, sliding under like a sinking ship.
It goes down inch by inch, air bubbles escaping from between the strings.
Little gasps of breath.
For one masochistic moment,
I wish I could go down with it.
Little Death may be gone, but…
Something darker curls its finger under my chin, whispering to me softly that death will feel so much better than this.
Then the elevator dings.
The doors slide open…
And it’s him. He’s here.
I already know it—
I don’t need to turn toward him,
I don’t need to look for him.
I can feel him. It is that simple.
The heat of his presence falls over me,
wakes my skin,
pulls tight.
His footsteps are soundless,
but I know he’s coming closer.
My skin heats and the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck, they all stand on end, slanting toward him, telling me exactly where he is.
The wind blows again.
The lip of the bottle taps my front tooth.
Then the air behind my chair goes still.
He’s standing right there.
So close, I hear the shaky exhale rattle in his throat. A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach, and I close my eyes and listen to his breathing.
He finally breaks the silence.
“Allison.”
My name, leaving his throat—
rough, cracked, worn out,
the Jersey edge emptied.
I hate what it does to me,
how it controls my lungs,
shreds my own breath.
“You disappear for nine days,” he says,
voice strained, teetering on the edge.
“Nine fuckin’ days, Allison.”
I keep my eyes on the pool.
“Fuckin’ look at me,” he begs.
“Look at me, please.”
My eyes snap to his, and it's agonizing.
He’s still in his bar clothes—
black button-up, dark jeans, his jacket.
I always forget how beautiful he is
until he’s standing in front of me again.
Even like this—eyes wet and burning,
skin blotched red from the winter cold,
his jaw locked tight to hold back the tremor in his mouth. “This is what it feels like?” he asks, eyes watering. “Losing each other?”
“Andrew—”
“No, Allison. Don’t ever fuckin’ do this again,” his voice breaks. “I never want us to feel like this again.”
My eyes slide back to the pool.
I feel Andrew’s gaze follow,
his eyes slowly lifting
to the guitar in the deep end. “Shit—”
His body flinches, boots scuffing stone,
as if he’s going to dive in and save it.
But he catches himself,
staying right where he is,
his hands falling to his sides.
There’s no point.
It’s too late.
The guitar is sinking.
“Allison… what the fuck did you do?”
I close my eyes.
One tear knifes down my cheek,
and the cold stings its wet trail.
Eight years of cherishing Dad’s guitar,
and it gets one fucking tear.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He turns his back, hand diving into his hair, gripping the roots. “It does matter. It does,” he says, exasperated, the words tearing out of him. “That wasn’t just a guitar, and you fuckin’ know it.” He spins on his heel, stepping directly in front of me. “You’re breakin’ things you love now?”
“Nothing sticks around anyway.”
For a beat, he stares at me,
shaking his head.
“So that’s what all this is? That’s why you disappear on me?
You think I’m leavin’ you? All ‘cause I went mute. All ‘cause I didn’t fuckin’ say it back, as if I haven’t been showin’ you for three months how much you mean to me.
And now you think I’m leavin’?” He rubs his chest, shaking his head.
“For fuck’s sake—I can barely leave any goddamn room you’re in, what makes you think I could ever leave you? ”
I face my lap, press the bottom of the bottle into my thigh, watch the impression it makes in my skin.
He leans down, tries catching my gaze,
gestures a hand to me.
“Allison, up here.”
Sighing,
I drop my head against the lounge chair,
and stare right into his eyes.
I know it’s written all over me now.
I know I fucking reek of this shit.
Once I fell in love with Andrew Harding, I fell in love completely.
“Allison, you don’t fuckin’ get it. You could break me into a thousand fuckin’ pieces, and I’d still crawl back to you,” he says, with his heart hanging out of him too. “I’m never fuckin’ leavin’ you.”
For a moment
those words settle warm in me.
They should make me feel better.
I turn my attention back to the view.
“You wanna know something funny?”
A harsh breath punches out of him.
“No.”
I lift the bottle.
“The more you kiss someone…
“The more you fuck ‘em…
“the longer you’re with ‘em…
“the less intense it becomes.”
His face hardens. “Allison—”
“No, seriously. It’s science. I Googled it.”
“Please don’t do this.”
“No,” I snap. “I’m talking. Be a good boy and stay quiet. You’re good at that.”
He tips his head back,
fingers to his temples.
“It’s called the Coolidge effect.” I point the bottle at him.
“It means mammals get bored fucking the same mammal. Doesn’t matter how good it is, how you feel about them, the high drops.
The body gets used to it. Intensity fades.
It all cyclones down the drain. Like T-Pain.
” I twirl my finger. “Rew, rew, rew, rew…”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
He drags a hand over his mouth.
I shrug.
“Yeah. You’ll always want new shit—
“A new first kiss, new first touch,
“new pussy to eat,
“new girl moaning your name.
“Body goes feral for it.”
“Allison, I’m beggin’ you. Let’s not.”
An empty smile finds my cold lips, and I wave the bottle between us. “So the way I feel about you? It’ll quite literally fade. Our bodies are naturally meant to always look for something new, different. There’s nothin’ you can do about it. So I’ll be okay. I’ll be just fuckin’ fine, actually.”
Another gust of wind cuts across the terrace.
I take another long,
burning chug from the bottle,
then swallow hard, my hand trembling,
so I dig my fingernail under the label,
keep my eyes in front of me.
“So you can go now.”
His brows lift—
half pissed, half disbelief.
“You’re actin’ like new is magic. But new was a morgue for me. Different pussy, same dead feelin’. So no, Allison. You’re actually dead fuckin’ wrong,” he says it, not a word out of place. “And I’m not goin’. I’m not leavin’.”
I laugh into the bottle. “Yes, you will.”
He leans forward and slaps his palm with the back of his hand, staring right at me. “No. I fuckin’ won’t.”
“Yes. You will. ‘Cause I’m tellin’ you to,” I finally say, standing up fast, and then I’m toe-to-toe with him. I can feel the warmth of his breath. I can smell his fucking cologne on his neck. My fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “I want you out of my life, Drew.”
I rip away from him, stride inside,
toss the empty bottle into the trash,
and yank my hoodie over my head.
I’m burning up now,
hot and sweaty from the inside out.
I grab all my loose hair clinging to my damp neck, pin it to the back of my head with a claw clip as I stand at the kitchen counter in nothing but a sports bra.
He trails in right after me,
reaching back for the door handle.
“Leave it,” I hiss.
Andrew stops,
his intense gaze tracing my face,
my collarbone,
my pulse.
Slowly, his hand slips away. “This is so fuckin’ you,” he says, ripping off his jacket, pushing up his sleeves. “Swear—you got your heart in one hand and a shiv in the other. Like, ‘here, Andrew, take it. But make one wrong move, and I’ll gut yours first.’”
A pathetic laugh leaves me. “Yeah, well, you hand yours over on a silver platter. Then I lift the lid and—Surprise, it’s just your hard dick again.”
He empties his pockets on the counter,
phone, keys,
then pulls his glasses off fast,
as if he wants to snap something in half,
muttering through a groan, “Gesù Cristo, la mia donna è una fottuta psicopatica.”
I squint at him.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
Andrew’s eyes lift back to me.
“I said, Jesus—why she gotta be beautiful.”
I stare at him.
He stares back at me.
“Brooke, what did he just say?”
AI Brooke: “Jesus Christ, my woman is a fucking psychopath.”
I drum my fingers on the counter.
His shoulders drop. “Allison, okay, let’s be honest. From day one you been starin’ at us like we’re a bomb ready to fuckin’ blow any second. Like we’re somethin’ you gotta disengage before it kills you. Like ‘cause you don’t know how it ends or how far it goes, you’re too scared to stay in it—”
I scoff. “That’s not true.”
His hand comes out, stopping me. “But that ain’t the real reason this scares you.”
I fall back on my heel,
crossing my arms against my chest.