Chapter 10 Dust in the Wind #3
“Allison…” she says softly. “People don’t cry during intimacy by accident. He felt safe with you. Not because he thought you couldn’t hurt him, but because he decided you were worth the risk. And every decision he’s made since sounds like he’s trying to protect what you shared.”
Another quiet breath.
“The same reason you’re calling me now.
“You’re trying to protect him too. Now you have to ask if that’s something you want.”
A laugh slips out of me. One you hear in a padded room right before they sedate you.
“Having something’s the first stage of losing it,” I say.
“Then comes the grief, and grief is a contagious disease with no cure. Spreads fast. Leaves you lonely. Turns you into a bitch who steals your best friend’s phone, hides in a bathtub, and calls a therapist she doesn’t even pay, just to figure out how not to fall. ”
At first she doesn’t respond.
I’m on a time crunch here.
Then—“Do you want to be with him?”
Why must she ask vague questions.
“What does ‘be with’ even mean?” I snap.
“Like, in a car? On a couch? Up against a wall?
She jumps in—
“Do you want a relationship with him?”
I laugh,
but it ends with my forehead in my palm,
chest aching, voice cracking.
“He doesn’t fit the system.”
She hums—
“Then stop asking how he fits into the system,
“and start asking if the system still fits you.”
My whole body ceases all movement.
Rage, panic, terror, all fighting for air.
“What if the system does fit me?” I shoot back.
“What if it’s the only thing keeping me safe?”
“Then it works,” she says.
“But just because the system works now…
“doesn’t mean it’s meant to last forever.”
I hold everything in—even my breath, even the truth—staring at the phone still warm from where I’ve been holding too tight.
“He fuckin’ broke me,” I breathe out.
“And the damage isn’t in what we did.
“It’s walking away still wanting him.”
Dr. Mitchell doesn’t rush.
“No. You’re not broken,” she says.
“You’re starting to want things you didn’t think you were allowed to want. That’s what changed. Not you.”
I roll my head back and stare at the ceiling,
looking for a better answer there.
“It’s just one guy,” I mumble.
“With a stupid name.”
“Exactly,” she says. “One person made you question everything you use to survive. Doesn’t mean you throw the system away. It’s possible you’ve outgrown it…”
“So what now?” My voice fractures. “Because I can’t have both. The system and him. The contract keeps me safe. But he’s the first person making me want more. But I can’t survive losing the Baby Contract.”
If I lose the system, I lose my armor.
If I lose him...
I lose the first person who makes me feel like more than an open wound.
Not a weapon.
Or an empty shell.
Or a hole.
Just… Allison.
“Then don’t pick between them,” she says.
I sit up straighter.
Finally, something that doesn’t sound like a Pinterest quote.
“Give him the contract,” she continues.
“Let him in on your terms.”
My throat locks up.
“If he still shows up?” she says,
“That’s not the end, but a beginning.”
My heart's doing Morse code,
spelling out a stupid word.
A word called maybe.
“You don’t need to choose between safety and heart,” she adds. “You need to find out if he’s willing to meet you where you are.”
Meet you where you are.
The line hits. Hurts. Because it feels good.
And I don’t trust anything that feels good.
“And if he does?”
There’s a long pause.
“Some people take the wheel,” she says. “Others sit in the passenger seat to hold your hand.”
Silence again.
Door. Flings. Open.
Curtain whips back.
Light explodes.
And there’s Celie,
all flared nostrils and rage,
arms lifted as if she’s about to cast a spell,
and possibly steal my soul.
“I knew it!” she yells.
I scream, entire body flails,
knees knocking porcelain.
The phone slips,
hits the tub,
and clatters.
Celie gasps, offended and betrayed.
“ON THE PHONE WITH MY THERAPIST?”
She dives for the phone.
I snatch it first and shove it behind my back,
the international sign for:
I am guilty.
“No,” I lie. Like an amateur.
Celie stares at me, crossing her arms.
“You’re literally holding my phone.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” I try. A line that has never once saved anyone in the history of forever.
I turn my back and hiss into the phone:
“Good talk, Doc. Put it on Celie’s tab.”
Dr. Mitchell hums, cruelly amused.
“Good luck, Allison.”
Click.
I stare at the floor, as if it has answers.
Celie stares at me, waiting for them. “Thought you could slip into my trauma chair like it’s a drive-thru window.”
“Relax, I said your name once,” I mutter. “And it wasn’t even about me. I did it ‘cause I didn’t want to destroy the kid. Just tryna save a life, aight? I know I’m not a good person, but I’m not a monster, either.” This part’s true.
She cocks her head.
“Ohhh, this ‘bout that Six-Point-Five motherfucker, huh?”
I blink.
She blinks.
Then her lips rise into a smug smile.
I should run.
“Allison,” she says, sweet as poison—
“You’re fallin’ for him.”
My lungs implode.
Great. She said it out loud.
Which means I’m gonna die.
“No,” I whisper. “Take it back.
“Take it back right now”
She grins, not taking it back.
“Awww, look at lil’ Allie, all sprung and shit.”
I point at her. “You do realize I’ve only been around him for, like, three—maybe four—hours total, right?” I say, clawing at the logic. “Four hours. That’s not even enough time for my hair to air dry.”
The words shock even me,
and they left my mouth.
“Four hours,” I laugh,
and I laugh,
and I laugh.
“Four hours!
“Nah—that’s not feelings.
“That’s a bad layover at LaGuardia.
“Four hours. That’s—
“that’s a bodega trip if the line’s bad.”
She grins wider.
I’m fucked.
Her brow peaks. “Say ‘four hours’ one more time like you wouldn’t drop Teddy Vale mid-orgasm if Six-Point-Five so much as breathed your name.”
My laugh breaks in half,
croaking out of me in pieces.
It sounds like a cough and a cry had an affair.
“Nope. I don’t fall for people.”
I slap the curtain aside
and stumble out of the tub, betrayed by my bestie.
“I trip. I slip. I spiral.
“Falling is way too graceful for what I do.”
“Still didn’t deny it,” Celie calls out.
I don’t answer. Fuck her.
Because I’m 65 hours in
with only seven left to go.
Watch—he’ll get bored,
decide not to text,
forget about me,
then all of this was for nothing.
But at least then
I won’t have to worry anymore.
I could go back to my life,
keep living by my rules.
// HOUR 65 — 1:42 PM //
I leave Celie’s.
Refuse the hug.
Steal the granola bar.
// HOUR 66 — 3:03 PM //
At the penthouse:
Shoes off. Bra off. Mind off.
Decide to test Fate.
Heads: he texts tonight. Tails: he doesn’t.
Flick the quarter.
Heads.
Game on.
// HOUR 67 — 3:57 PM //
Clean out the fridge.
Find one sad baby carrot in the back corner
that was left behind.
Hold it close for too long.
Fold a paper towel into a tiny blanket.
Lay it on the counter next to the wine opener.
Tuck the carrot in.
Tell him it’s gonna be okay.
Place a note beside it.
do not disturb
This carrot has been through a lot.
If you throw him away, I will kill you.
—Allison
P.S. He has a name. It’s Darryl.
Speak to him in song.
// HOUR 68 — 4:41 PM //
Sit on the couch. Stare at the ceiling.
Replay Celie’s voice in my head:
“Would you pick Andrew over Teddy Vale?”
I roll my eyes.
“Teddy writes bridges. Andrew burns them.”
“Teddy sings in falsetto. Andrew moans.”
“Teddy has never touched my soul
“with his middle finger.”
// HOUR 69 — 5:38 PM //
Spin the Teddy Vale record.
Masturbate.
(Thinking about Andrew.)
(And Teddy.)
(And Andrew.)
// HOUR 70 — 6:52 PM //
Google: Can an intense orgasm kill you?
Yes, although rare.
“Shit.”
// HOUR 71 — 7:45 PM //
Sit by the pool with a glass of rosé.
Pick a lit office window and name it.
Floor 12, corner window: Greg.
Assign him a tragic past:
Divorced. Cries while listening to Nickelback.
I’ll text Andrew when Greg goes dark.
It’s in God’s hands now.
// HOUR 72 — 9:24 PM //
I whisper to Darryl:
“If he doesn’t text… then it’s fine.
“Everything’s fine.
“It’s exactly how it was supposed to be.
“A good time. My Blur Hour.
“It’s better for me if he doesn’t text.
“I mean, we didn’t sleep together.
“There’s no reason to be weird about this.
She says to a baby carrot,
while actively being weird about this.
// HOUR 73 — 9:30 PM //
“We’ve officially reached hour 73.
The night skies are mostly clear, with a 90% chance of me losing my dignity before midnight.
Winds of delusion are picking up from the west, and sources confirm he still hasn’t texted.
Experts say ‘hour 73’ could mean anytime within the hour. Meaning—I could be waiting another sixty whole fuckin’ minutes.
Which is blasphemy.
In other news:
Greg, the Office Light, is still on.
Darryl’s asleep.
Fate may be drunk.
Back to you, God.
// 9:41 PM //
No Andrew.
I’m that GIF of the guy sitting on the park bench, staring at his watch.
// 9:55 PM //
If he doesn’t text by ten, I’m done.
He had his chance.
I don’t lose sleep over men.
I’ll go to bed like a happily single woman.
And if I die in my sleep, that’s on him.
// 10:14 PM //
Greg is still on.
Like, go home already.
// 10:32 PM //
Turn my off phone.
Carry a dining chair into the kitchen.
Climb on top of the counter.
Reach all the way up to the top of the cabinets where dust lives.
Toss my phone into the back corner where I can’t reach.
Because I don’t give a fuck.
// HOUR 74 — 10:36 PM //
Screams into pillow.
// 10:56 PM //
Carry a chair back into the kitchen.
Climb back onto the counter.
Dustpan in hand.
Spends 20 minutes blindly finding the phone with the broom, guiding it toward me.
// 11:16 PM //
Turn my phone back on.
Nothing.
No texts.
No messages.
Cool.
// 11:23 PM //
Sit in the dark. On the couch.
All the lights are off. Except the oven light.
I’m staring at the TV.
It’s not on, so I’m watching a black screen.
And then I blink.
One tear.
Could be two—who knows.
I wipe them away so fast
they don’t count anyway.
It’s probably from the wine. Or the hormones.
Or the fact my ribcage still smells like him.
Then another tear.
Not ‘cause I want him to text,
but ‘cause I hate caring if he doesn’t.
Or maybe because I’m tired of being alone.
Another night, same old song.
Okay, maybe four tears.
// 11:37 PM //
Turn off my bedroom light.
Dive into my own damn hoodie.
Slide under the sheets.
Leave my phone face-down on the nightstand.
Face the windows, the skyline.
Close my eyes.
// 11:38 PM //
Buzz.
I open my eyes,
stop breathing,
don’t grab it right away.
I stare out the window,
into the sleeping city,
the seconds stretching,
control over anxiety,
keeping hope alive,
delaying the disappointment,
proving I’m not desperate.
Then I grab it.
(551) 233-1980:
Still wildly into you