Chapter 11 Right For Me
THE TESKEY brOTHERS
The phone’s on speaker, balancing on the edge of the ottoman, begging to be knocked off. Celie’s in the middle of an intervention while I stare into my closet like it’s going to hand me a set of balls on a hanger.
“So… you gonna tell Six-Point-Five?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Allison.”
“What?”
I whip a boot across the room.
“You think I’m showin’ up to a first date like,
“‘Hey, Andrew.
“Here’s a legally binding sex contract sayin’ you get me off and shut the fuck up about feelings. Oh, and heads up—I live with a guy who eats me out to pay his rent.’”
“Girl. You made my boy Xavier sign a whole-ass contract just to catch a ride in your Benz.”
I freeze mid-throw,
a sneaker dangling from my fingers.
Then I toss it anyway. Harder.
“Bro, Xavier caught feelings for the chick at Jiffy Lube. Me drivin’ him six blocks? He’d be planning our wedding by the first stop sign. Contract was the least I could do.”
Celie's exhale crackles through the speaker.
“So—what? You gonna make this boy fall for you, then hit him with the Baby Contract, complete with the no-penetration clause he can’t even sign 'cause his dick exceeds the cap?”
God, she's such a drama queen.
“Listen. If we’re throwing love into the mix,
“then he’d look into penile reduction surgery.”
I heard it out loud.
It still checks out.
“Allie, I’m gonna need you to go outside.
“Touch grass.
“Hug a hydrant.
“Pet a rat.
“Lick a goddamn tree.”
The silence following sits in front of me
and stares.
Her next words come quieter,
“You don’t have to tell him everything tonight.”
“I know.”
“But you can’t keep actin’ like it don’t exist.”
I pull a sweatshirt out of the closet,
look it over,
and toss it back in.
“I’m deciding how much I actually like him.
“Whether I’m okay with ruining him or not.”
Another pause lingers loudly.
Celie sighs. “You don’t ruin people, Allie.”
Those words slip right to my chest,
and I close my eyes.
“Just chill tonight, aight?” she says.
“It’s your first real date. Like, ever.
“You deserve to have a good fuckin’ time.
“And maybe he ain’t the guy you hyped up in your head. He could be weird as shit when he gets comfortable. And if he is? Fuck it. Call it a one-and-done and dip.”
I pet a cashmere sweater that ended up in my lap. “Okay,” I say. “You’re right.”
She continues—“And if he pressures you,
“if he says some dumb shit,
“if you start spiraling.
“If you accidentally murder him, and need me to help dismember and hide the body—”
“I know,” I mutter.
“Text 1 if I need a fake pregnancy scare to bail me out.
“5 if I need your brothers to storm the place.
“10 if you gotta show up with bleach and a body bag.”
I can hear Celie’s smile.
“I’m serious, babe. Anything.”
// 11:38 PM - THE CLOVER - WEST VILLAGE //
Andrew:
Aight, just a heads up. Gonna keep it chill for you.
Put the rizz away. Turn down the sex appeal. Not do the whole show tonight.
Don't want you feeling insecure or nothing.
So... half effort tonight?
All effort. Just saving all the good moves for later.
Been rehearsing openers.
Real original shit.
I’m imagining you in the mirror
Practicing “Hey you look amazing”
Alright.
And that one's crossed out.
I’m on my way now, so better think fast.
Last minute panic confession
I’m trying to play it cool, but I’m kinda looking forward to this a lot more than I thought I would.
Last minute panic confession
Can't get you out of my head.
It's annoying as fuck.
The car slows outside The Clover.
There’s a small brass sign,
classy, Irish, and intimate.
I don’t wait for the car to come to a complete stop, I’m already scanning before my heels slap the asphalt,
eyes darting, heart dumb.
And there he is,
leaning against the brick wall,
scrolling through his phone.
A few girls stand nearby,
pretending they’re not watching him,
probably hoping to get clipped
by a passing SUV
so he’ll mouth-to-mouth them back to life.
He's wearing a navy button-up—
humbly untucked—
dark grey trousers,
bright white sneakers,
glasses on,
hair styled, then wrecked.
Oh my God, I mouth,
then immediately spin in the other direction because nope,
nope,
nope.
Abort.
I duck into a side alley like I’m being hunted.
Which I am.
By my own fucking heart.
What the hell am I doing
walking into something I can’t undo?
I pace the sidewalk, muttering to myself.
“It’s okay to want this.
“It’s a fucking date, for fuck’s sake.
“Not a forever.
“Don’t be a little bitch, Allison.
“Grow the fuck up.”
But I am a little bitch.
Because he makes me laugh,
makes me melt,
makes me human.
And I don’t deserve to sit
across from someone like him.
He makes me want to give in.
Not in the fun,
thighs-shaking,
can’t-walk-after way.
In the,
fuck-me-this-could-destroy-everything way.
My lifestyle.
My system.
My safety net.
My heart.
I keep thinking if I wait long enough,
he’ll fade out.
Or I will. Whichever cracks first.
But nothing’s fading.
Everything’s sinking and soaking.
And there’s only three ways this ends:
1. Tell him now, lose him now.
2. Don’t tell him, hurt him later.
3. Disappear now, and he walks away without pieces missing.
There’s no version where I don’t lose him.
So what the fuck am I doing here?
Why would I walk straight into a grave?
I shake my head,
pulse hammering,
heels pinching.
This was a bad idea.
A let’s-not-think-too-hard idea.
But now I’m thinking,
which is the fucking problem.
Because if I go in there tonight…
If I sit across from him and look at his stupid mouth—remember what it felt like to kiss him, touch him, to be normal for five fucking seconds—I’m done.
I won’t be able to walk away.
I’ll want more.
And more.
And if I want more, I have to talk.
I'll have to explain who I am, what I’ve done.
He’ll look at me different,
and I won’t survive it.
I know I won’t.
But worse? I could hurt him.
I will hurt him.
The pain you can't walk off.
The pain you carry.
It’s guaranteed.
And the longer this goes on,
the worse it’s gonna be.
Every second I stay,
every word I say,
every text,
every dumb fucking smile,
it’s only intensifying how miserable it will be when it finally ends.
This is my last chance to walk away.
I spin on my heel like I’m dodging a sniper.
No time to call for a car, I need the nearest cab,
the fastest exit, the nearest airport.
I’ll delete his number.
Fake my death.
Flee the United States of America.
Paris.
Yes, Paris is always a good idea.
Buzz.
I stop,
freezing on the sidewalk,
staring at my purse like it just bit me.
Hands shaking.
Pulse sprinting.
Brain empty.
And all I can think is:
Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him—
(Please be him.)
I pull out my phone.
Andrew:
Please stay
*sends dramatic “don’t go” Leonardo DiCaprio GIF*
My breath is gone.
I press my palm to my chest,
shove the feeling down,
tuck it in, act normal, make sure I’m not…
Smiling.
Shit.
No.
Dammit, I’m smiling.
Fuck.
I spin on my heel, gripping my purse tight.
Then it’s too late.
I’m facing him,
slipping into him,
falling into him.
Because he’s looking back,
his eyes not letting me go.
And a stupid, dangerous smile stretches across his face.
He kicks off the wall and walks toward me.
My heart doesn’t beat. It bangs.
And bangs.
And BANGS.
My feet are nailed to the sidewalk.
I’m frozen.
A statue. A lamppost.
And he’s just casually walking to me.
While I’m over here, not breathing.
He tucks his phone into the front pocket of his pants, sliding between bodies with his hand pressed to his chest, as if his heart’s trying to leave him too.
His smile fades, swapped out for nerves.
But his gaze?
It's tied to me.
His eyes don’t leave.
They stay.
On.
Me.
I can’t move.
Everything else fades.
The neon bar sign.
The taxis.
The blaring horns.
All of it, fading, fading,
gone.
Just him now.
Getting closer.
And closer.
Close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.
Close enough to see the streetlights reflect in his eyes.
Close enough it’s only—
Andrew.
Standing in front of me,
looking down at me,
not sure if he’s allowed to be this close.
His navy eyes drop to my mouth,
then snap right back up to my eyes.
His hands stay at his sides,
not touching me,
though desperate to.
His breath spills out slow. “Sonny.”
Just my name, exhaled,
like his mouth's been watering to say it,
been sitting on his tongue all day.
Then his smile fucks my smile.
“Hey,” he says, all tilt and tease, head cocked enough to make me want to punch his mouth, then lick it. “Was that a last-minute change of heart… or a dramatic-ass entrance?”
I shrug.
Small.
Helpless.
Half fuck it, half fuck me.
A white flag if I’ve ever seen one.
He steps in,
his fingers lightly brushing across mine
to let me know his hand’s there.
And mine reaches for it, slipping into his.
He exhales, thumb dragging slow across the back of my thumb.
“I got the night covered,” he says, quiet.
“No pressure or expectations. Only us.”
He holds my eyes,
and he smiles again.
“If you wanna dip at any point,
“say the word, aight?”
I swallow, trying to stay upright.
“Okay.”
He lifts our joined hands
and kisses the back of mine.
Then he turns
and starts walking in the other direction,
away from the bar.
“Wait—what?”
I spin around to keep up.
“Where’re we goin’?”
He tosses a grin over his shoulder.
“It’s a surprise.”
I squint. “Wasn’t The Clover the plan?”
“The place I work?”
He laughs, checks his watch.
“Nah, that was the rendezvous point.”
He steps off the curb, hailing a cab,
moving through the world
as if it’s on its knees for him.
He looks back at me again.
“C’mon. My dream girl, remember?”
His eyes hold, sincere.
“You really think I’d take you somewhere basic?” He raises a brow. “A bar?” His grin returns. “It’s you. Do I look stupid?”
A cab pulls up in seconds,
hissing against the curb.
Andrew taps the window with two knuckles.
The driver cracks the window,
letting in a sliver of air.