Chapter 1 #2
“You talk tough, baby,” he says, amused.
“Why don’t you c’mere, huh?”
He stands slow,
shadows wrapping around him.
“You got all that mouth,
“but you still too scared to come over here.
“Why’s that?”
I drop my had back with a laugh.
“Please. I’d make you cry.”
Celie grabs my arm, dragging me away.
The guy takes a step in our direction,
as if he's about to run after us,
forgetting he left a girl hanging.
“Wait—yo, slow down.
“You really gonna walk off without tellin’ me your name?”
“Next time,” I call back, stumbling into the next block over.
But his voice follows me down the street,
“Wait—nah, c'mon. For real?
“This fuckin’ girl—Jesus."
His voice fading,
“She’s… Shit. What the fuck…”
Neon signs bleed into puddled gutters—
red, green, electric blue.
The color smears across the pavement, and a saxophone spills out from an open window somewhere above a bodega, a drunk ballad laced with heartbreak.
Then Celie’s voice cracks,
splinters,
breaks apart.
“I wished Drake loved me.”
It spits out of her as if it's been locked up for days.
It hits me too hard and fucks up my heart.
Shit. There it is.
Stage three: The Pity Party
2:02 AM
This is why I don’t do relationships.
Love is not romantic.
It’s Stockholm syndrome.
I breathe out slow,
digging into my purse for my cigs.
Djarum Blacks. Menthol clove.
Sucking cold fire. Perfect.
I only smoke when I need to feel something.
Or nothing.
Depends on the night.
I cup my hands to spark the lighter.
Wind’s sliding between buildings,
making the flame tremble.
The clove crackles when it burns, and I inhale.
“I think he loved the way you loved him,” I say finally. “That’s different.”
Celie’s next breath shudders out of her.
Then in the reflection of the storefront glass,
someone’s staring from across the street.
In the silhouette's shadow, there he is again.
I turn—
But nothing.
Always living at the corner of my eye,
but never really there.
The paranoia eats me alive,
and I try to shrug it off again,
shake Hunter's stare out of my head,
and keep walking.
We don’t stop till the bass hits us from two blocks away.
The club’s line is long, but we move fast.
Bouncer barely looks up at us before we slip inside—spines straight, lips tasting laughter, hearts faking whole.
Inside, it smells of sex, cigarettes, and spilled vodka cran.
Celie clocks a guy next to the DJ booth,
bites her lip, and mouths dibs…
As if I’ve ever looked twice at a man.
Then after another drink in her,
she’s spinning,
glowing,
halfway to the dance floor.
I post up at the bar, crossing my arms to avoid accidentally touching anyone, and watch Celie to avoid eye contact with anyone else.
Look at a guy?
Only takes a second,
and his dick's already halfway inside you in his head.
I check the time on my phone,
counting down the minutes to when she crashes.
Then I hear her—
Stage four: The Drunk Song Breakdown
2:21 AM
“This was our song,” she’s yelling-crying,
grinding slow to a remix of Pony that's shaking the speakers,
mascara dripping into her cleavage,
full Stage Four.
“I gave him everything, Allie. I loved him.”
I’m dragging her back toward the door.
Then to the sidewalk.
She’s sobbing into my shoulder.
Her hair’s stuck to her lip gloss.
She’s humming,
whisper-singing the chorus between hiccups.
“Ride… my… p-pony…”
I reach for my cigs again.
Stage five: The Shaky Empowerment Speech
2:29 AM
We’re halfway to 2nd Ave,
wind sneaking up my dress.
“I’m gonna be okay,” she says,
voice cracking knuckles. “I swear.”
She wipes her nose with the sleeve of her $400 coat.
“I’m gonna start junk journalin’.
“For real this time.
“And try pilates. Travel more.
“Unfollow his granny.”
“Yeah, that’s good, Celie.”
As if she hasn’t already said all this before.
As if I don’t already have a playlist for what’s coming tomorrow.
“I don’t even want him anymore.”
The lie falls right out of her and sits in her lap, heartbroken.
I don’t say anything
until I’m sure I won’t sound cruel.
Then reach for her hand,
tuck her hair behind her ear,
and whisper,
“Then let’s get high and forget his face.”
We don’t go far.
One block south, past a 99-cent pizza spot glowing grease-yellow.
We duck into the alley.
Celie finds the fire escape like she was born under it.
She sits in a fetal position against the railing.
“This is like being sixteen again,” she whispers.
I'm crouched beside her.
“What—rolling up on a stranger’s fire escape?”
“Nah. This. Us. In the wind.”
The wind smells like cat piss and cannabis.
But I nod.
I lick the paper edge, seal the blunt,
then spark up,
fake inhale,
coughing a little for effect.
Celie sighs. “God, that hit.”
“Right? Smooth as gas station tequila.”
She takes it from me and closes her eyes,
blowing smoke up at the moon.
Meanwhile, I’m holding my breath so I don’t get high from secondhand.
I don't get fucked up.
I stay stone-cold sober,
supportive, cling to control.
So while she floats,
I anchor us both.
She laughs into her knees,
passing the blunt back.
I fake another hit to make her think I’m feeling it.
But really, I’m watching the streetlights blur.
She’s staring at me like I yanked her off a ledge.
“You ever think we were meant to be stoned?”
she says, then coughs.
Then laughs.
Then stops.
Then looks at me.
“Like… this was the real us all along?”
I put on a dumbfounded face. “Yeah and…
“we were supposed to get high on oxygen.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s possible.”
Five minutes later, we’re back on the sidewalk.
Celie freezes,
stopping short,
mouth open.
She walks backwards slow,
hand out like she’s guiding traffic.
“Bro… bro. Nah. Bro.”
I drop my head as I turn to face her.
“What now?”
She points, wide-eyed, whisper-screaming,
“Drake’s. Fucking. Car.”
“…It’s not.”
Stage six: The Dirty Revenge
2:54 AM
Celie gestures to the car on the curb, eyes bugged.
“It the-fuck is.”
I squint. “It’s literally not.”
“I know his fucking car, Allie.”
Her eyes grow wider.
“That’s his Audi. Look at the rims.
“Look at the fuckin’ rims.”
I look.
It’s not his car.
Now she’s pacing,
hands on her head,
heels tapping out panic.
“Where the fuck he at?”
She spins in a circle,
heels scuffing,
searching the streets for him.
Then she looks at me, confused.
“Where the fuck are we?”
“Ludlow near Rivington.”
“Shit. You think he’s with a girl?”
She clutches her chest,
the thought a bullet to the heart.
Then both of her arms shoot up, eyes wild.
“Well, what am I supposed to do with this information, Allie?”
“Nothin’. Walk away.”
“Nah—we gotta do somethin’.”
“No, we really don’t.”
She stares at me.
I stare back, then cave.
“What’re we gonna do, huh?”
She scoffs. “I dunno. Slash his tires.
“Key ‘fuckboy’ in the hood.”
She tilts her head,
eyes still wild, scary, and unblinking.
“I’m high and hurt. You think I give a fuck?”
“We’re not slashing non-Drake’s tires.”
Silence drops between us.
Her eyes narrow. “You ain’t high.”
I tsk. “I am high.”
“No, you ain’t.”
Her gaze drags down my body, suspicious.
“If you were high,
“you’d already be holdin’ my purse.”
I pop a brow. “You doubtin’ me, bitch?”
I’m nodding, unzipping my purse,
digging past my travel masturbation kit and cigs.
I find the pocketknife and flip it open.
“Bet,” I mutter, crouching by the tire.
One clean shank. As if I do this all the time.
Her jaw drops,
both her and the tire gasping together.
“Bitch, you high as fuck, you crazy?”
I close the blade and toss it across the hood.
She catches it, little miss crazed animal.
“Fuck you, Drake.” She spits on the tire,
then slashes it.
It’s as jagged and unforgiving as her love life.
And then we’re gone,
two little gremlins hobbling up Ludlow,
dodging people and trash bags piled knee-high.
Celie’s shrieking down the street
as if she’s getting arrested and loving it,
her laugh spilling out all over the sidewalk.
“I’m pissin’, I’m pissin’!”
She screams in front of me,
a trail of pee behind her.
“Swear to God I’m pissin’!”
A guy on a CitiBike flies by. “What the fuck?”
We don’t stop running.
Stage seven: The Sudden Epiphany
3:01 AM
We’re standing at a crosswalk
under a buzzing streetlight,
waiting for the black sedan to find us.
Celie’s standing oddly still,
arms crossed,
trying to fight the cold,
trying to fight the cold,
acting like she's not shivering
'cause she's fine.
Her lipstick’s half-on, half-missing,
a galaxy of eyeshadow smeared from lid to temple,
and she’s staring at the tail lights passing down Ludlow, seeing flashbacks of the last eighteen months with Drake in them.
Then, quiet as fuck:
“I think I was the toxic one.”
Then the sedan glides up.
Stage eight: The Kind of Silent Ride Home
3:03 AM
“New York, New York, my dirty little slut.
“You sing to my soul, and get me fucked up,”
Celie belts into the night,
both arms dangling out the car window,
fingers cutting through the cold,
reaching for something already gone.
Manhattan spray paints her skin.
Gold from the streetlamps.
Red from the neon signs.
Blue from a NYPD cruiser.
By 3 a.m., she’s no longer a girl.
She’s a brick wall to graffiti,
and New York is in the mood to tag her wild.
One of those splatter-piece works of art that no one understands until they’re high or drunk.
She sinks back inside the sedan,
slides the window up,
and stretches, boneless,
all lazy-limbed with vodka on her breath.
“Deadass—nobody rides for me like you.
“You my heart, Allie. My whole fuckin’ heart.”
And then her eyes flutter.
If she passes out fast, heartbreak loses interest.
Sadness doesn’t fuck with you if you’re unconscious.
But with Celie? This is tradition.
She keeps burying herself in boys
as if her heart has a thousand lives left,
always picking glass out of her chest and calling it love.
Hurt, haunt, repeat.
She won’t stop, won’t listen.
Not even when I spell it out,
how they treat her heart like a cheap motel—