Chapter 20
LEON brIDGES
It’s late.
Afternoon’s creeping toward night,
sky's bleeding crimson and bronze,
throat slit open by the sun.
There’s a chill now between my bones.
The places grief goes to nap.
I’m curled in the lounge chair by the pool, hair wet from a shower that was supposed to burn Raymond off my skin.
It only left me raw and clean and pissed.
I’m in a soft two-piece set,
pinot noir dangling from my fingers,
glass half-gone, guitar in my lap.
No sound’s come out of it in over twenty minutes.
I been staring at the sinking skyline view,
still caught in the aftershock of the morning,
still picking thorns out of my skin.
My phone buzzes,
but I hardly register it at first.
Buzz.
Again.
My eyes snap into focus.
I set the glass down,
adjust the guitar,
and lean over,
checking the notification.
And my stomach
just
drops.
Today, 6:12 pm
Andrew:
My shift ends at midnight if you wanna meet me at the clover
n’ if it’s alright / look- it’d be tight if /
ur man stayed at home tho
I stare.
Blink.
Stare.
Then blink again.
What the actual—
Holy fucking shit.
My heart kicks, as if it’s been only tapping since he walked away.
Now it’s kicking.
He answered. He actually—
I didn’t think he’d…
I shoot up from the lounge chair so fast
my wine glass teeters.
I catch it before it slips off the edge,
steadying the phone in my other hand,
snapping the fastest screenshot of my life,
my thumb shaking.
Celie needs to see this. Now.
Before I convince myself
I hallucinated the whole damn thing.
I send the screenshot with no context, just:
BITCH
Then minutes, minutes, minutes—
Bubbles.
Typing.
Gone.
Typing again.
Then the phone rings.
I don’t get a breath in when Celie’s voice explodes through the speaker.
“YO. SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
I let out this laugh-scream. It’s all I have.
“NAHHHH. THAT SHIT WORKED?”
I laugh again,
running a hand through my hair because
what the hell else am I supposed to do with all this adrenaline?
Cry? Throw up? Pass out?
Celie shrieks like she’s front row at a concert.
“Okay but like… when you said you were gonna rap, I thought we were talkin’ a lil flow, a lil flex. Not you rippin’ open your chest and droppin’ your heart in his inbox like surprise, here’s all my damage. And now he wants to MEET TONIGHT?!”
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts,
my phone smashed against my ear.
I'm a pacing lunatic by the pool,
heart kicking her feet.
I don’t know why when he’s the one who walked out and left me there.
So I shrug, though she can’t see me.
Because words? Gone.
I used them all on the damn rap.
“Yo—he rhymed back—
“HEY! WALK, ASSHOLE—
but what does this all mean?”
I hear the city behind her—
horns, life, movement.
She’s on the street and still invested.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Maybe he needs closure. An ending.
The last nail in the coffin to bury me.
Maybe he's got one more thing to say.
His final stitch in the goodbye.
But my heart’s delusional, already sprinting, torch in hand, lighting up every feeling and fantasy with him I swore I buried.
And I’m letting her have her moment,
letting her touch a life of us together,
before I burn the whole place down again.
And Celie?
She’s behind me with the fire extinguisher.
“Yo. But real talk—after sendin’ the rap?
“You sure you still gotta go?”
“Yeah. I need to look him in the eye when I say I wasn't playin' games.
"Then be the one to walk away from his ass.”
ATTIDS:
(All the things I didn't say.)
I care, okay? I fuckin' care about him.
I gotta be sure he's not mopin', cryin',
broken-hearted, and confused.
I don't want him thinkin' he didn't matter.
I just miss him. Hate him. Miss him anyway.
I'm a fuckin' slut for him.
“Okay, but, is this a smart move?”
Probably not.
“Yeah.
“This time I know what I’m walking into.”
But knowing doesn’t make it easier.
It just makes the pain punctual.
“I’m gonna get my last word in, then I’m out.”
Celie hums, suspicious.
“One question, baby girl.”
I rub my temple. “Shoot.”
She pauses for maximum dramatic effect.
Then: “What the fuck you gonna wear?”
I groan, my head falling back. “Celie.”
“Nah, for real. I’m serious. This is important. You goin’ for ‘please don’t hate me’ chic? Sad girl in silk? Babe, you need to pick a whole mood. No half-assin’ a your-loss outfit.”
Fucking A—
it’s like I’m dressin’ for my own heart’s funeral.
I scoff. “Right.
“So what’s the look for ‘sorry I’m a clithead’?”
I smile despite the nerves crawling through me. Because the question she left me with is haunting my chest…
One I didn’t want to put in the air, say out loud, but it’s been stomping on the bones of my ribcage, trying to climb out: What if one second with him in the same room breaks me worse than the night he left?
“Celie?”
She already knows.
She can hear it in my voice.
“I'm there, Allie. Nine o’clock. Rosé in hand.
“You don’t gotta do this alone.”
“Celie, if that bottle’s under thirty dollars with a twist cap, don’t fuckin’ bother,” I warn her. “If I’m gonna mess with my vagina’s health, it better come from France with a cork.” I curl my toes into the AstroTurf. “Not that sugar bomb nonsense.”
“Here you go again.” She cackles.
“Your bougie-ass cooch always got demands.”
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Judge the upkeep,” I throw out. “But that's why this bougie-ass cooch gotta waitlist.”
// 11:44 PM - THE CLOVER - WEST VILLAGE //
I never texted him back.
The realization slams into me the second I step up to The Clover.
My eyes go wide.
My stomach drops.
My brain's yelling at me
to turn right back around.
Shit.
Fuckin’ moron.
I never confirmed, much less replied.
I just read his message and let it rattle inside me for six hours while spinning in circles, pacing the penthouse, wired on adrenaline, fear, and no fucking game plan.
My pulse is pounding, my throat closing up.
I should’ve texted back.
Now he’s not going to be expecting me.
And I—
I might’ve already fucked this up.
I stand outside the door, skin flirting with frostbite, tasting winter in every fogged breath, tugging at the hem of my black mini skort—courtesy of Celie.
Yes, a skort.
Not a skirt. Not shorts.
A damn identity crisis you wear on your hips.
I put it on as a joke, then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—legs long, waist snatched, giving me enough confidence to walk out of my penthouse like I haven’t been a trainwreck for five days.
Even if I spent the entire night letting Celie talk me up while I sank deeper into my own skin. As if I wasn’t bleeding from this morning.
Celie doesn’t know about Raymond.
Celie’ll never know.
No one does. No one will.
Tonight’s not about Raymond, though.
Tonight’s about Andrew.
I take a deep breath.
I open the door.
I step inside
into the low amber glow,
where there's brass railings,
dark wood,
exposed brick.
People are everywhere, smiling and sipping—bodies and elbows and knees packed around the bar. Glasses clink. Mouth's laugh. Voices pile on voices. The hum of the city spills in every time the door swings open. Leon Bridges song, Coming Home, sulks behind it all. The scent of bourbon,
smoke,
orange peel,
and cologne clashes in the room.
My gaze drags down the length of the bar,
the noise of the crowd fading,
until it’s just me,
and the sound of my breathing in my ears,
my eyes tripping over every face it passes,
my chest rising too fast,
air scraping in and out,
heart beating fierce.
Bartender
after
bartender.
Ba-boom.
Ba-boom.
Then—
Andrew.
Right there.
Behind the bar.
And I hate—
hate—
how fast my heart reacts.
How it’s fucking racing.
He’s in a black button-up,
sleeves rolled up his forearms,
skinny black tie,
glasses, and his thick hair, styled finger-fucked.
He's shaking a cocktail shaker,
talking to someone,
tossing a grin over his shoulder at a coworker.
As if I never happened, Allison Taylor just a commercial break in his life. Now he’s back to his regularly scheduled programming—
no Allison, no heartbreak,
just Leon Bridges and bourbon
and maybe slide through another bookstore tonight.
Dope.
So he’s fine.
He looks happy.
He's not gutted, or haunted,
or someone who spent a week wondering what could’ve been.
He’s moved on.
Meanwhile, I’m still scraping up pieces of myself scattered all over the city: The Astor lobby, Celie’s couch, my bathroom floor…
This was a bad idea.
The fuck were you thinking…
Go before this turns into a public humiliation.
But then he laughs, and I get lost in the crinkle at the corner of his eye.
I can’t move,
standing there like a goddamn fool.
Until his head's lifting...
facing the door,
as if he knows I’m here
before ever seeing me,
my presence buzzing in his bones,
pulling his gaze straight to mine.
And when our eyes lock from across the room,
the ache slams into us both.
His body stiffens.
His smile falls away.
The shaker's stalled in his hand,
grip tightening around it,
forgetting what he was doing.
As if seeing me sucked the air out of him.
I see the second it hits him
that I actually came.
And I hate how fast I catch the change in his breathing.
And I—
I’m not breathing at all.
God. I feel his gaze. Everywhere.
On my neck. My cheek. My lips. Slow heat.
And he’s caught in me. All tangled up.
Like seeing me for the first time again.
Happy. Relieved. Scared. All in one look.
And then he drops his eyes.
He’s cursing himself.
He's thinking of ways to get out of it.
He's pretending I’m not here, so I’ll disappear.
He goes back to pouring a drink.
For some girl.
He’s smiling.
She’s laughing, loud and over the top.
His smile stays on,
but his shoulders grow tense,
panic hiding behind his bartender grin.
“Hey—uh, you okay?”
The voice comes from my left.
I turn, startled. “Huh?”
The voice's wearing the same black button-up pulled tight across his chest. Dark, messy hair. Full lips. Same age or younger. And he’s staring right at me with big brown eyes, waiting.