Chapter 16
AEROSMITH
Celie runs her fingers through my hair,
all motherly and gentle.
It’s been four hours since Andrew walked out.
Three hours since I stopped pretending it bothered me.
Two hours since I ended up on Celie’s doorstep.
And one hour since I collapsed into her lap,
deciding to die here instead of facing whatever the fuck I'm feeling.
“Hate to say it, kid,” she says, all told-you-so and cheap shots, while I’m curled up in my crumpled date-night dress, makeup melting off me, “but you hadda know this was comin’.”
I shut my eyes because...
I did know.
The second my eyes lingered on Andrew for longer than a heartbeat,
my death sentence got signed.
Hearing it out loud just makes it official.
I peek up at her to throw a death glare,
but get caught up in her instead.
She’s sickeningly pretty from this angle.
All upside-down and glowing,
stray black curls
reflecting gold dust in the light,
too gorgeous for a girl
who lets men beat up her heart.
I pinch one of her curls between my fingers
and watch it bounce.
“No bullshit—you got the most perfect Cowgirl face I ever seen."
“Girl, what?” Her head snaps back as if I confessed to kissing Drake. “Cowgirl face?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Y'know, the position.”
I tug the curl for punctuation.
It springs back again.
“I ride, I’m lookin’ like a fuckin’ turtle.
“Instant double chin.”
Celie's head tosses back with a soul-full laugh.
“Get the hell outta here, no you don’t.”
She gives me a squinty side-eye.
“The fuck makes you think that?”
I stay quiet
long enough to put ideas into her head.
“Yo—you deadass took a selfie, didn’t you?”
I tsk. “Please. Like you haven’t.”
Her face twists up, horrified.
“Nooo, Allie. No one normal does that.”
“Yeah, well, they should,” I argue.
“Just lay your phone flat on the bed.
“Hover.
“Look down.
“And—click.”
I tap my chin.
“Instant fuckin’ turtle.
“And I would've never known.”
She snaps her fingers.
“Lemme see. Hand it over.”
I scroll my phone, grateful—
pathetically grateful—
for this.
For sixty blessed seconds,
I don’t think about Andrew.
About the way he looked at me like I was his whole goddamn skyline, and then walked away without a second glance.
But the question’s crawled inside, bloody knees and all, and has been gnawing the inside of my skull all morning.
“Should I text him?” I ask,
with the same tone as picking a nail color,
as if it’s not loaded.
My eyes stay glued to my screen,
afraid to see the judgment in her gaze for even asking.
And once she answers,
if I don’t listen,
I’m the stupid one.
Celie doesn’t let a second pass.
“No,” she snaps, head shaking.
“He needs time to process.”
It’s exactly what I would’ve said if the roles were reversed. “But he don’t even know what he’s processing,” I argue.
It’s not an excuse. It’s facts.
“All he’s got are two words: Ben. Boyfriend.
“That’s it. He deserves the full truth.”
Then my voice shrinks, “I think...
“Not like I really care either way,
“I’m just sayin'.”
The look on her face could sandpaper flesh off bone. “He don’t deserve to know a damn thing,” she scoffs. “Y’all ain’t even fuck. Calm your ass, it was one date.”
She leans forward—
“He’s mad ‘cause it looked like you was two-timin’ Ben. And let’s be real—anybody breathin’ woulda thought the same shit. Don’t mean he gets a fuckin’ claim. It's not his story or his fuckin’ life.”
I breathe out,
her words beating its fists against my chest.
I fucking hate how much sense she’s making.
But somewhere under all my mess,
all the reasons we could never be together,
all the steps he took when walking out on me,
I foolishly want him anyway.
It makes me want to kick a wall
just to make sure I'm still in control.
Usually I’m the one talkin’ her down from keyin’ a Beemer in Louboutins.
Which she’s done.
More than once.
But now she’s sitting here all logic
and y’all
and a strong heart…
Meanwhile,
my heart's chain-smoking herself to death.
I bite my lip. “I still think I should text him.”
Soon as I hear myself say it, I wince,
waiting for Celie’s don’t-be-dumb look,
waiting for my brain to deck me with common sense like—he left you, bro. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.
“Nothin’ crazy,” I add, fast, backpedaling.
Celie groans, annoyed.
“Baby girl, you mad he snatched your exit scene, don’t lie.”
She smirks, like she knows me.
And she does. So she could be right.
I still deny it. “It’s not about him leaving first.”
“Yeah aight, soldier. Say whatever helps you sleep,” she mutters, tired of hearing about it. “But if he ghosts after you text? We movin’ straight into phase two of your fuckery—DJ Crush night.”
I roll my eyes.
She freezes mid-shoulder bounce with her tongue out, eyes narrowing. “Damn. First time in history I ain’t the fuckin’ mess here.”
She points at me,
adding the first point to the scoreboard.
“Mark the calendar. Allison Taylor’s officially the saddest bitch today.”
I half-hear her, thumb scrolling my screen.
“Relax—he's not that deep in my head.
“You really think I'm losin' sleep over this?
“Out here actin' like I got feelings or some—”
My thumb lands on the photo.
“Here,” I say, holding it out. “Exhibit A.”
Celie leans in,
examines it,
then drops her head back,
howling out a laugh.
“What the fuck is your chin doin’, Allie?
“And your eyes?
“Yo—why they buggin’ out like that?
“Nah. Get your ass up.
“We doin’ this over. Right now.”
I peel myself off her thighs.
Every muscle protests.
Body heavy.
Heart heavier.
Celie flops back onto the couch,
phone in hand.
“Aight,” she says. “Glance down.
“Like a regular fuckin’ human.
“And stop smilin’ like you just buried a body.”
The flash goes off.
I snatch the phone
and zoom in.
“Alright, alright, Allison Jane,” I mutter,
nodding approval at the screen.
“Mildly fuckable—
“should I ever fancy a dip in the Penile River.”
I tilt my head, zoom back out.
“Yeah, I'd fuck me... if I didn't know me.”
Celie grins. “See? Before, you deadass looked like a Hills Have Eyes extra finding a camera in the woods.” She shoves me off her lap. “Calm that shit down next time. For real.”
I land crooked, laughing.
She pushes herself off the couch and crosses into the kitchen.
“Fuck it. I’m gonna write and send him a rap,” I say, mind made up, completely serious. “Just so he knows. 'Cause I don’t want him walkin’ around thinkin' I lied. Or played him.”
She posts up at the coffee pot,
leaning against the counter.
“A rap, Allie? Nah... I don't know.”
“Verse only,” I clarify.
“No hook. Long-form. Storytelling.”
She pours another cup. “I mean… I don’t know the guy. But that’s some Sonny-ass behavior right there. Allergic to feelings unless there's a beat under it."
I shake my head, but she’s not done—
“Matter'a fact? Send it,” she says, turning, stirring. “Ain’t about what he does after. You say your piece. Rest is on him.”
I blow out a breath.
“Guess we’re about to find out if he’s the kind of guy who wants the truth, or just cuts and runs like I never existed,” I say.
She lifts her mug, toasts the air.
“Just bein’ real,” she starts. “If it was me?
“First date, homeboy’s girl shows up? I’m gone. Any rap shit he sendin’ after? Blocked. Buhhh-locked.”
She talks into her coffee
like it’s every ex who did her wrong,
“‘Cause we all know—
“he do that to her? He’ll do that to you.”
The words slam into me.
Andrew’s probably thinking the same.
She’s a lying cheater.
So, yeah,
sending the rap makes the most logical sense.
“A rap’s safe, right? Stupidly adorable,”
I say in defense.
“If I got one, It’d rip a grin outta me.”
“Of course you think it’s cute.”
She pats my head.
“You a writer. Y’all only got two speeds:
“heartbreak or fairy tale.
“No boring middle.”
I grunt,
flipping her off without lifting my head.
“Why not send him some dumbass GIF?
“Shit—drop that Cowgirl picture.” she cackles.
“That’ll get his ass real attentive.”
I scoff,
pretending to be more confident than I feel.
“My point exactly.
“He’d expect the standard shit—
“nudes, clever meme, cute GIF.
“Predictable as hell.
“But a rap?”
I flick an imaginary lighter.
“Blindsides the motherfucker.”
She mutters into her coffee—
“Or, you know,
“has him filin’ for a restraining order."
Maybe she’s right.
But maybe I don’t give a fuck.
She settles her gaze on me,
peeling the bullshit off me layer by layer.
“Never seen you act up like this for a guy,”
she says, smirking. “You big bothered.”
"Not bothered. Just balancing the karma before it comes back to bite me,” I mutter. “That's it. For real—cleanin' up the bad juju I left lyin' around.”
I'm a big-bothered fucking liar. 'Cause truth?
I haven’t breathed right in five hours.
“Good, 'cause I'mma remind you of two names.” She throws up two fingers. “Cooper. Hunter.”
The names hit.
Cooper—
who thought bruises were love letters.
A dominant, once upon a fucked-up time.
I was spiraling,
disappearing for weeks,
emotionally violent.
Raymond couldn’t have that with the future of the label on the line. He said I needed rules, routine, to be managed. He painted the submission structure as a cure, making me believe I couldn’t trust myself. He said Cooper was the answer, someone more stable to contain my chaos.
It sounded like mercy.
And it worked. For a while.
Until I woke the fuck up
and took back control.
Then Hunter, who once sent a picture of my own front door—smiley face included.
Hunter, who roofied me and held me hostage for two days.
Only seven months left ‘til he walks free.
“Your last two monogamy experiments? Hot-ass messes,” she reminds me. “That’s why you built Ben like a wall and made all them rules. Why you built yourself a contract. So you ain’t gotta bleed for nobody. So you can get what you need and have a semi-normal fuckin’ life.”
She stares me down, no sugar coating shit.
“You only pissed ‘cause you can’t control him,
“or the situation, and you fuckin’ know it.”
I want to argue,
but the more I fight back,
the more guilty I'll seem.
“But seriously—” I snap,
“who the fuck does that?”
The words come out hotter than I intend.
“Who dips before hearing you out?”
“You,” she says, lips pursed,
lashes blinking slow,
shooting me that Bronx girl, please face.
“Allie—I'mma be real with you.
“Six-Point-Five got that 'mine, mine, mine' energy. He the type to trademark your name to keep guys from hollerin', boo."
She drops back against the counter,
coffee in hand.
“Wouldn't've lasted more than a week anyway." She sips her coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. “You want my advice? Skip the rap shit. Ask to meet up and say it to his face. Then you can walk out all big and bad like you been plannin’ all along.”
Sounds enticing.
But I’m still going to write the rap.
Because I’m a pussy.
Words are safer when they rhyme.
“I’ll wait it out a few days,” I mutter,
knowing it'll eat me alive.
“See if he texts me first.”
Celie sighs, floating back to the couch.
“I still can’t believe this is you.”
She tucks a leg beneath her, nursing her coffee.
“All them years, I was the one cryin’ over trash guys, and you preachin’ ‘bout havin’ a backbone. The Savage tellin’ me to move the fuck on. Now? Tables turned, bitch.”
She points between us, grinning wide.
“Straight-up Freaky Friday shit.”
I huff, but it’s weak.
She squints at me, serious now.
“Real talk though—what’s the endgame?
“You sendin’ this rap to help him understand,
“get the last word in,
“or sleep better at night?
“‘Cause, Allie—don't expect that man to be cool wit' you after this. You gotta go in for you, not for him. The truth leaves stretch marks.”
I chew my lip raw, then lift one finger,
the international sign for gimme a second to think of a lie.
“Great fucking questions,” I grumble. “Soon as I figure my shit out, you’ll be the first to know.”
The real endgame:
I just want to know if he’s hurting.
And if he is—
if I’m the reason he’s walking around,
a bruised heart and no fucking clue why—
then I need him to know it wasn’t all a lie.
And I can’t admit that to Celie.
Once she hears the words,
finds out how much I care,
I can’t take them back.
My feelings become a stain.
Permanent. Unrippable.
Living in stories she’ll throw back at me one day.
‘Remember the time…’
‘Six-Point-Five, the one that got away.’
‘…The only guy you ever said yes to.’
‘Yo, there’s hope for you after all.’
And then universe—
with its sick memory—
will keep playing it back.
Over and over.
And I’d be left here.
Alone with it.