Chapter 20 #4
“I didn’t get with you at Type 'cause I was bored with Ben,” I insist. “I wasn’t using you. It wasn’t about gettin’ off or scratchin’ some itch—”
He lifts a hand. “I know, you—”
“Andrew, please—” I say, shaky,
and he falls back.
“Let me say this.
“I need you to know it was real to me, alright?
“Every second of it.
“Everything I said on the rooftop?
“Was real.
“All of it.”
His eyes shut,
a breath spilling out,
as if he’s been holding it in for days.
“But this addiction…” I pause,
trying to get him to understand.
“It’s like being hungry all the time,
but nothing fills you up,
“and everything makes you sick.
“It doesn’t feel good. It feels necessary.
“And then it feels like hell.” I choke on the last word, turning my head to keep my eyes from watering.
“So yeah… I uh—” I try to laugh the emotion away.
“I built a system. The Baby Contract. Brought in Ben. Because without it? I hurt people. Like I hurt you.” I hold his eyes to keep the words from shaking.
“The Baby Contract isn’t healthy. I know that.
But it’s all I got and the only thing that’s safe and gives me control.
It’s the reason I kept pushing you away. ”
Andrew nods, absentminded,
his gaze slipping off me
and landing across the room,
into nothing,
thinking.
Then his eyes find mine again.
“That really enough for you?”
I flinch,
my mind trying to throw up a wall,
but my body throws up a shrug instead.
It used to be—
a contract, a system, a body on call.
Until he had to stop at a bookstore for vinyl,
and gave me a kiss I can’t untaste.
And now my system has a hole in it.
As if I built it to survive a storm that’s already passed, and he’s standing in the sun, asking why the fuck I’m still hiding, like—you can come out now, Sonny. Weather’s fine. I got you.
Though, if my system's not enough anymore,
I’ll never admit it out loud.
I don’t say things I don’t want spit back at me.
When I don’t answer, Andrew falls back,
gripping the arm of the chair,
stretching his leg out.
Then he leans in again, resetting himself.
Or lining up for another hit.
“How does it work? This Baby Contract.”
Shit. He’s not backing off. He’s asking questions.
“You wanna know how it works?”
I tilt my head with an empty smile.
“You really wanna go there?”
His brow arches—“Yeah, I wanna hear it. So stop stallin'. If you meant what you said about us bein' real, then tell me.”
Fine. You asked.
“They sleep in my house, drive fancy cars, eat my food, eat my pussy.” I don't sugar coat it. “Pretty sweet gig. Luxury and a mouthful.”
He doesn’t react.
He knows I only throw knives when I’m trying to scare him off. And he just caught each one before they sliced into him,
and set them down nicely.
“Nah.
“You’re gonna have to walk me through it.
“I don’t know how this shit works.”
He taps my knee with the back of his fingers.
“Break it down for me like I’m five, aight?”
I drop my head,
pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.
“I choose them, screen them, test them, push them to their limits,” I say. “If they pass my tests, they sign the contract, live in my house, and follow my rules—loyalty’s in, emotions out. Mine when I need them, ghosts when I don’t.”
I study his face,
waiting for the wince,
the you-need-help look.
“They can walk any time. No one’s trapped.
“But no one gets to come back, either.”
There. Now he has it.
If he blinks too long, I’m gone.
If he sighs, I’ll shatter.
If he says nothing,
it might be worse than him saying everything.
“They?” The word lands light.
Bobs.
Then sinks.
“Plural?”
Plural suddenly sounds dirtier than anything I’ve ever done.
My eyes bounce between his. “Up to three max at a time. But I’ve only had four long-term Boys over the three years. Right now it’s just Ben.”
My fingers tap the glass, then stop.
Tap again.
Then stop.
Puzzle pieces move behind his eyes,
scraps of me he’s been carrying around,
and now they’re finally spelling something—
“Raymond,” he says on exhale,
and its thrown
straight through the room,
a blade driven into my gut.
“How do you know that name?”
I hate that it came out of his mouth.
The same mouth that calls me Sonny.
From the same lips that once kissed me.
He draws it out when he says it—“Reign-man wired me to never need connection or affection.”
The line from my rap
spit back at me,
and my stomach sinks.
You write shit so you don’t have to talk about it. That's the point.
But the way he’s looking at me?
It’s as if I knocked the air out of him once,
and it still hasn’t come back.
“Christ, Allison. Your pen’s weaponized poetry.” His head tips away, a breath punching out with his hand against his chest, like it still awes him. “You didn’t just write a bar. You buried a whole confession in only two fuckin’ words, four layers deep—a quadruple entendre.”
He holds up one finger.
“Reign Man—a man who ruled over your body, rewired you.”
A second finger.
“And then—fuck—say it out loud, you give his name: Raymond.”
A third finger, brows raised.
“Rain Man—the guy in the movie?
“Avoids physical and emotional intimacy.
“Yeah I fuckin’ Googled it, aight? And you hinted at it in the next bar.”
The fourth finger.
“The guy’s name in the Rain Man movie?”
He huffs out a stunned breath.
“Raymond.”
I go quiet,
my eyes wide,
lungs shut.
I want to run. I want to stay.
I want him to never stop looking at me,
with the nightsky in his eyes—
stripped bare, wide open, and warm.
“Don’t get me started on the rest of it. That shit’s brilliant, Allison. Do you know how many artists are able to pull off a true quadruple entendre even once in their career? You impress me...
“But it fuckin' hurts, you know that?”
Then he notices how I’ve gone still.
He notices before I do, my body frozen,
my heartbeat shoved into my throat,
vision shot, everything blurring.
He draws closer. “You don’t gotta say a word, alright? I’m not askin’ you to talk about it. I’m only breaking it down for you because… I just—I need you to know that when you send me somethin’ like that? Yeah, I’m gonna sit with it. I’m gonna give a fuck. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
His hands rub together to ground himself.
“I don’t fuck around when it comes to you.”
Then his eyes drift between mine,
holding my gaze, anchoring me here.
And there’s a stillness now,
a comfort that’s settled.
The silence decided to sit down with us instead of stand in the way.
Andrew hangs his head, watching his thumb dig deeper into his palm between his spread knees.
Then he looks up at me, throat bobbing.
“You happy, Sonny?”
First I blink.
Then I glance off,
pretending I didn’t hear him.
Inside, I do. I hear it echo,
louder inside than it sounded out loud.
“Please—I’m not askin’ to judge it. I wanna know.” He’s watching me, studying my features, my every reaction. “This setup you got—Ben, the rules, the contract, all of it. Are you happy in it? This what you want? Someone on standby instead of someone beside you?”
Happy?
Are people actually walkin’ around out there happy all the fuckin’ time? On this planet? In this economy? With this generation?
Then my throat tightens.
A sting blooms behind my lids.
My eyes are watering again
and I don’t know why.
It’s just a question, a word.
Still, he said it,
and my body acts like it’s been shot.
I bite the inside of my cheek,
making the tear go numb.
His eyes fall deeper into me,
scooping up the pieces of the silence.
He knows what it’s costing me just to sit here in the question, so he’s finding the answer for me.
Then his breath pulls deeper, chest rising like he’s about to throw himself off a ledge.
Like he's about to do the dumbest thing.
And he does.
He leans in closer.
And he holds out his hand to me—
open, safe—asking for mine.
I don’t hesitate.
My hand’s slipping inside his,
forgetting how to be anywhere else.
It’s only his hand, fingers and skin, but holding it feels like sitting in front of a fire on a cold day.
Then he wraps his other hand around mine,
holding me warm, strong, snug.
“I didn’t ask you to come here tonight for closure, Sonny.”
He’s looking down at our hands as he says it.
Until he lifts his head, eyes crashing into mine.
“I'm not done with us. Not by a fuckin' mile."
The floor
falls out from under me.
My heart
stops.
Just to hush its beating so it could listen,
waiting for him to take it back,
change his mind.
But he doesn’t.
I cock my head. Did he—
No. He didn’t say that.
Not to me. Not after all this shit.
“You're not done with us?” I repeat.
I’m projecting. I’m hallucinating.
He didn’t say what I think he said.
But then his thumb grinds across my palm,
afraid of losing his grip on the moment.
I’m staring down at our hands, eyes wide.
He continues, “The second I turned my back on you in the lobby, I knew I fucked up, alright? I was halfway down the block, debatin’ if I should cry or punch a wall.” He laughs under his breath, looks off, lifting a shoulder. “Didn’t think I deserved a second chance after that.”
Nah. Back the fuck up.
Rewind.
What the fuck are you saying.
My focus narrows to our joint hands,
too afraid to look into his eyes.
But he reaches for me,
fingers catching my chin,
tipping it up until my eyes meet his again.
“You ever think what this could be if we stopped runnin’? Stopped bullshittin’ and just let it happen?”
Yeah, every fuckin’ day—
Wait.
No.
Stop.
Don’t do that to me.
Don’t look at me like this thing isn’t doomed.
Don’t look at me like this is possible.
Don’t hold my hand like you don’t want to let me go.
It’s not supposed to go like this.
You were supposed to nod, say thanks for the explanation.
Walk me out with a maybe-next-time.
This isn’t fair to me.
I didn’t come here to hurt you again.
Why the fuck would you put me in this position?
“Andrew, we—”
I pause. I swallow. I shake my head.
“We wouldn’t be able to see where this goes.”
My stomach is airborne—
that sick, floating drop