Chapter 10 Dust in the Wind
KANSAS
The phone's staring at me from the kitchen island,
Andrew’s text sitting on my screen,
dragging its eyes over me,
leaning against the granite,
cracking its knuckles, cocky as hell.
It’s trying me, glowing just to piss me off,
challenging me to make the next move.
And I swear the bastard of a message just licked its lips.
I take a lap around the kitchen,
watching it like a hawk.
Then I sip my coffee,
burn my tongue.
It's worth it.
Pain makes me tough.
I glance at the phone.
Look away.
Then look again.
It’s still there, glowing:
I wanna see you
Who the fuck says that?
Men don’t wanna see you
unless they’re broke, hungry, or horny.
Or they’re lonely.
Or worse—they wanna see you.
Which are the most dangerous ones,
the honest ones.
Honest men leave bruises you can’t point to.
After watching Celie go down last night,
I should ignore it.
I should block him.
I should’ve also checked myself into rehab the second Janie’s Got a Gun turned into a to-do list. But I never do what I should.
I bring the mug to my lips.
It’s cold now.
Even the coffee got sick of waiting on me.
I set the mug down.
I pick it back up.
Set it back down.
Pick it back up.
I lean over the island,
elbows on stone, chin in hand,
gripping the cold mug in the other,
eyes locked on the screen.
“…‘wanna see you.’”
I drum my fingers against my jaw.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?
“Not ‘trying to smash’ anymore?”
My vision narrows and tunnels and shrinks.
Until the phone is all I see.
Then—
BUZZ.
I jump,
and the coffee jumps with me,
splashing over the rim.
It’s not him. It’s Celie.
A GIF of Cartoon Drake sobbing.
‘Drake this morning’ she texts.
With a wine glass emoji.
As if she’s the one who left him crying on the bench last night.
Meanwhile,
Drake posted a gym thirst trap an hour ago.
She’s moved on to her delusional bitter-ex stage.
I look back at Andrew’s message.
I wanna see you
That’s all I get?
No punctuation. Just raw-dogging grammar.
Dis what you do wit’ my numbah, huh?
Bro, we dry-humped in a bookstore.
Then I hugged you,
hugged you—
held you in my arms.
And sure, you cried when you came…
…a once-in-a-lifetime thing,
soul-shattering,
explosive shared orgasm…
A single tear.
And it was poetry.
Like a musical note sliding down his face,
looking for me.
Mine? My tears always came out like the live version of a song,
bleeding out of me,
sloppy, acoustic, no edits,
barely catching my breath…
I’m crying so hard
my ribcage might break into pieces.
It hurts to breathe. My throat’s raw.
Everything in me’s hollow.
As if he took a knife to my insides,
scraped the soul out,
and left nothing behind
but skin and shaking.
I check my phone.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Maybe I missed it.
Maybe the wifi cut out.
Maybe I blinked at the wrong second
or the tears are making me see wrong.
Maybe he texted.
Maybe he didn’t mean it.
Maybe…
But nothing.
I stare at the screen hard enough
to burn his name into it.
Sean. Sean. Sean.
I pull the blanket up over my head.
To hide from the fact
I let him inside me.
And now his touch still crawls
all over me.
I rip the covers off.
I can’t breathe under there.
Or on top of here.
Or anywhere.
I just want to fall asleep.
I don’t have to be underwater to hear my heart. It’s screaming. And I don’t have to touch my chest to feel my heart. It’s burning. I only have to be alive, and the ache is a knife slashing my insides.
The last time I could feel my heart was when Mom died.
I want it to stop—please.
My legs hurt too.
My thighs,
my chest,
my lungs.
I'm a prisoner in my skin that doesn't belong to me anymore.
I gave it away.
I gave it away.
I gave it away.
‘I love you, I thought you loved me, too…I won’t tell anyone…I’m not going to pressure you…You’re the one…I’ve been waiting… I love you... Forever... We should just do it…I’m not going to pressure you…I thought you loved me…’
So many words. So many words.
And now? Nothing.
Yes, yes, yes, 'cause I—I trusted you!
And now you’re gone.
The door opens without a knock.
I sit up fast.
I’m sick to my stomach.
Raymond walks in.
He sees my bra on the floor the same time I do. He picks it up and folds it between his fingers, neat as a napkin, then smooths the strap between his thumb and finger.
He sets it down on my dresser.
I stare at the TV.
The black screen.
My reflection.
He sits next to me on the edge of my bed and smooths the blanket beside me.
“They’ll always say what you want to hear if they think it’ll get them what they want.”
His voice is so gentle
I have to stop breathing to hear.
“Doesn’t make them bad,
“just... strategic.”
The bile is crawling up my throat.
I bite the inside of my cheek
to feel like I still got control of me.
“Next time,” he says, a lesson, “take what you want before they get the chance to take from you. You make them feel stupid.”
His hand slides up the inside of my thigh, massaging. As if what I did doesn’t make me disgusting.
And cold.
And hollow.
And ruined.
And then I’m on my feet,
across my bedroom,
reaching the toilet just before vomit hits the bowl.
Back in my kitchen, I clench my teeth.
A man texts me
and now I’m hallucinating painful memories.
Very sexy of me.
I reach for my phone,
then yank my hand back.
He’s not like other guys.
But they never are at first.
They smile sincerely.
They say I wanna see you
They shed tears in bookstores
and turn it into a moment.
This is why I have rules in contracts,
in black ink,
so there’s no question about how it ends.
I take another sip of cold disappointment.
I mean coffee.
The phone doesn’t move. It sits there.
Nowhere to go. No legs. No shame.
Full of the fucking audacity.
“Okay, Brooke—”
A breathe out a beat.
Then Brooke’s voice comes through the speakers—AI Brooke: “Yes, Miss Allison?”
“Quick one. Andrew waited every night for twenty-eight nights for me, texted twenty-four hours after we saw each other again, and all he said was ‘I wanna see you’—no period. What’s the probability he’s trying to get laid?”
I close my eyes.
My heartbeat stalks like footsteps down a hallway I don’t want to walk.
AI Brooke: “Based on available data, the probability his message was motivated primarily by sexual manipulation is approximately 3.2%.”
I groan.
“Okay, Brooke.
“Thanks for the extremely low probability.
“Definitely helps.”
I roll my eyes.
“Next question: If we had a shared orgasm twenty-eight days ago, can a follow-up hug create delusional bonding and post fake feelings?”
I pause.
“For the other person. Not me,” I quickly add.
“‘Cause I don’t give a shit.”
(Fine. I give a shit. But I’m not telling Brooke the robot-bitch that.)
AI Brooke: “Yes.”
My brows jump.
“That was fast.
“So this could all be a delusion.”
AI Brooke: “The emotional bond triggered by your shared orgasm was chemically reinforced by your recent hug. This reinforcement reactivated oxytocin and serotonin pathways, which can cause temporary emotional delusions. Without continued non-sexual connection, effects typically fade within 48-72 hours.”
“Okay, okay—” I exhale,
relief stumbling out of me.
“So I just need to starve the feelings for two more days and they’ll crawl back into whatever hole they came from and die?”
AI Brooke: “Correct. Chemically induced feelings without reinforcement typically diminish within 48-72 hours. However, if the feelings are anchored in genuine emotional connection, they are unlikely to resolve fully.”
“Yeah. I'm gonna ignore everything you said after the ‘However.’
“Now help make my text sound less pathetic and more scientific.”
// 8:21 am //
To Whom It May Concern (You):
Based on current research, a hug following a shared orgasm can cause a significant uptick in oxytocin, dopamine, and other hormonal agents known to alter perception and temporarily simulate emotional attachment. These effects usually subside between 48 to 72 hours post-event.
Given your message was received at hour 24, it falls within the high-risk window for bonding-induced delusions and false feelings.
At this time, all communication is considered compromised due to chemical intoxication. As a protective measure, I will not be engaging in correspondence until said chemicals have cleared and we are both emotionally sober.
Please reach out after hour 73 if you still desire to communicate. Thank you for your understanding.
// 8:47 am //
(551) 233-1980:
Yeah. Drunk on you and going through brutal withdrawal. Experiencing symptoms: chronic thought loops of her mouth, her laugh, her eyes. Zero focus, full-body Sonny takeover, and a complete disinterest in all other women.
Consider me officially detoxing. No drunk texting. No impulsive confessions. I'll check back at hour 73 as instructed
But let’s be fucking clear.
I ain’t quitting you.
My stomach? Slush.
My heart? Suspicious.
Me, to the ceiling: “Brooke?”
AI Brooke: “Yes, Miss Allison.”
“Is there a way to keep him without falling for him?”
AI Brooke: “Unlikely. Exposure breeds intimacy. You have engaged in emotional exposure. It is statistically difficult to recover from this.”
“Exposure breeds intimacy?
“Sounds fake, but okay.”
65 hours post-hug event
(not that i'm counting)
// NOV 05, 1:28 PM - CELIE'S WALK-UP - NOLITA, NYC //
Seven hours left until the seventy-two hour window slams shut and decapitates me.
I didn’t come to Celie’s for lunch.
I came to commit a felony under the influence of oxytocin and a jawline haunting my brain.
Premeditated.
First-degree.
No remorse whatsoever.
Celie thinks I’m here for the pita sandwiches she’s making.
She thinks I missed her, thinks I want to talk about Drake over chilled cucumber water.
She has no idea I’ve been eyeing her phone as if it were the last exit out of hell.
And I’d crawl through it, chest first, palms bloodied, smiling the whole way up.
She’s chopping cucumbers.