Chapter 22 #2
wrestling with her spilled groceries.
A low growl slips out.
My fingers lock so tight around the bags
they might break.
And I keep walking, step after step,
until the awning’s shade hits me.
I don’t stop for the day doorman,
grunting and vanishing inside.
I slept through the whole damn day.
I couldn’t take any chances.
Now it’s past one in the morning.
I’m wide-eyed, moody,
cross-legged at the foot of my bed,
heating pad wrapped around me,
sipping pinot straight from the bottle,
surrounded by candy wrappers,
with a bowl of Cream of Wheat steaming in my lap.
I keep boxes of it on deck.
But I can’t make it like Mom did.
With lumps. Perfect ones.
Mine comes out too creamy or too thick,
nothing in between.
Once, four years ago,
I got a single lump by accident.
I took one bite and cried.
I’m watching two C-list actors on my screen browsing a bookstore, about to fake-laugh their way into each other’s pants as if the economy isn’t shit and nobody’s chasing prescriptions.
Usually I binge watch gore and blood during The Fuckening—throwback slashers—but I’m extra bitchy tonight, hate-watching love and happiness instead.
The movie’s called Torn Edges.
Already hate it.
Meet-cute in a bookstore. Total fucking cliche.
Next scene opens up with them reaching into the same box for the same used copy of Wuthering Heights like we haven’t seen this shit a hundred times.
Then their fingers touch.
I snort.
“Oh no, you take it,” I mock what’s coming.
Then drop my voice into male-bass—
“Naw, sexy. You saw it first.”
I shovel a spoonful into my mouth.
Her (stammering):
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
They lock eyes.
The scene stretches time slow.
Point-five speed.
Him: “Please, have it. I insist.”
Her: “No, I insist.”
I roll my eyes back so hard I see my childhood.
Now he’s two lines away from offering to buy her coffee.
Because that’s what fairy-tale-drunk males do,
offer to buy coffee,
even when you’re holding fucking coffee.
And then fall in love,
thinking their shared taste in books or music means it’s fate and she’s ‘not like other girls’ when she’s literally all of us.
I look up from my bowl, raise my spoon.
“Go on, sweetheart,” I whisper.
“Say it. Say something profound or charming.
“He’s already halfway in love and reaching for his wallet.”
She giggles.
He smirks.
Her: “Perhaps the book found us.”
Then I sigh. “Wait for it—”
Him: “I don’t usually do this but…
“would you want to get coffee?”
I point a finger at the screen.
“What did I fuckin’ tell you.”
Another bite.
She pretends to hesitate.
I swig from the wine bottle.
“Baby girl, you know you gonna.
“Just take the damn coffee.”
Her: “Fine. One cup.”
I cackle,
shaking my head.
“Slut.”
If Andrew was watching this,
he’d smirk and go, “Sound familiar?”
I reach for my phone to text him—
Brooke wakes up from her digital nap.
AI Brooke: “I detected a change in your tone, Miss Allison. Would you like me to lower the lights?”
I abandon my phone and glare at the ceiling.
“No, Brooke. I don’t need mood lighting for Netflix and bleeding.”
It’s quiet again.
Which means it’s montage o’clock.
They’re sitting in the corner of the bookstore, laughing over coffee cups they’re both holding but don’t actually drink. Rain taps the window. Day fades into night. Which obviously means they’re soulmates now.
“Next up? One of ‘em’s just visiting.” I nod.
“Funeral or wedding. Always one of those.
“Clock’s tickin’.
“They’ve got, what?
“Three days max to fall in love before they’re back on a plane?” I smirk, then shrug. “She’s 100% scribblin’ her number on a napkin. And he already slipped the book in her purse. No fuckin’ doubt.”
I shovel the last bite into my mouth,
eyes on the TV.
Onscreen—
He’s all: “Please—I would like to see you again. Give me your number.”
She stammers: “I—I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I cock a brow. “Huh?”
Him: “Wait… I thought we had a good time?”
Her: “We did. It meant everything. I just—can’t.”
Their hands part in slow motion,
fingers slipping away with goodbye.
Then she disappears into the night before his next breath.
My spoon hits the bowl with a clatter.
Him: “Wait… you forgot your—”
The door shuts behind her.
Him: “—bag.”
And when he checks her bag,
there's the book he already slid inside,
so she could have it.
I jump from the bed.
“Bitch. What are you doin’?”
I fling a hand at the TV, bowl in the other.
“Stupid ass is runnin’? For no fuckin’ reason?
“No name. No number.
“You just gonna leave him like that?”
I shake my head.
“Fuckin’ tease, better have a good reason.”
// AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER //
It’s 3:27 a.m. I’m a tipsy mess,
glued to the movie,
sweaty, the blanket tangled around me,
Cream of Wheat crusting the bowl next to me,
the wine bottle half-empty,
perched on the floor at my feet.
I’m crying—
ugly, hiccuping sobs.
Dean’s back at the bookstore—
same date, same minute, a year later—
with her bag and the book on the table.
He’s still in love with her, still hoping.
She’s been in witness protection this whole damn time.
I lift a hand to the screen, tears dripping from my jaw and soaking my neck.
“She had to, Dean.
“You gotta know she was keeping you safe.”
But he can’t hear me.
He’s too busy sitting at the corner table,
staring out the window, checking his watch,
heartbreaking himself.
I shake my head,
another cry rushing out of me.
“She didn’t want you in the mess she was in.
“She didn’t have a choice!”
For all we know Elia could be dead.
Scene blacked out just as her ex-husband pulled the trigger.
“C’mon, Elia. Be alive, be alive.”
The store closes, all the lights go dark.
Dean steps out into the pouring rain, sad.
He glances up,
and there’s Elia.
She’s frozen on the sidewalk,
and they lock eyes.
Her: “You came back for me?”
Him: “How could I not?”
Her (voice cracking): “I didn’t want to.”
Him (walking toward her): “I know.”
Her (walking toward him):
“I wanted to tell you.”
Him: “I know.”
And then—
in the rain—
they kiss,
lips crashing, music’s swelling.
I’ve seen it a hundred times.
But this one is wrecking me.
I choke out another sob,
faceplanting into my duvet,
then blindly search for my phone.
My brain whispers don’t do it.
My drunk thumbs disagree.
I type…
Today, 3:35 am
Andrew
Wish I could see you right now.
Not for anything. Just to see you.
Maybe a hug.
For like five minutes after this weird ass day.
Idk. Felt like you should know.
If someone wished they could see me I’d want to know.
Depending on who it was.
I convince myself he’s asleep.
He had to bartend all night,
and would just be getting home by this time.
He’s exhausted, passed out.
Now I’m the girl sending late-night texts,
pretending it’s the wine’s fault.
I walk to the bathroom,
shower, brush my teeth,
go through my skin care routine.
I reach for toner,
reach for a towel,
reach for anything but the damn phone,
still side-eying it every two seconds,
hearing phantom buzzing.
But then it does.
The screen lights up.
I snatch it off the marble.
Today, 4:03 am
Andrew:
Come downstairs.
Downstairs?
Shut the fuck up.
I stare at the text
like it’s breathing against my palm.
It’s four o’clock in the morning.
Am I still drunk?
Is this a dream?
My hand lowers, the towel slipping from my fingers.
My heart does that thing again—
beats like she’s slipping into her UGGs,
throwing the door open,
feet pounding bone
as she takes off running for him.
He didn’t say ‘Me too.’
He didn’t say ‘I wish I could.’
Just… ‘Come downstairs.’
After working all night.
After thirty minutes across the river.
After me saying I needed time and space to think.
My throat tightens.
Nah. He’s not here.
There’s no way.
Universe’s fucking with me again.
But just in case, I throw on a sweatshirt,
then my Tasmans by the bedroom door.
I step into the elevator.
The mirror throws me back at myself.
I’m completely stripped of makeup,
my eyes red and puffy from wine and crying.
The elevator’s crawling its way down,
nervous for me.
My hands won’t stop sweating.
My stomach’s a French braid.
The elevator doors slide open.
I can’t feel my legs as I float through the lobby.
At this hour it’s dim, sconces set to low.
I round the corner—
And he’s there.
Out front.
Parked right in the curve,
under the lit porte-cochère,
the night as his backdrop,
leaning against the car.
Sweatshirt. Joggers.
Hands buried deep in his pockets.
His hair’s a mess.
He’s pink-cheeked and freezing and killing me soft.
And he’s just... there.
The text wasn’t a joke.
The drive didn’t matter.
It was never a question.
Mickey’s hunched behind the desk,
nursing his coffee.
I stop and tap Mickey’s desk,
my stunned eyes glued to the glass doors.
“Yo. Is that Drew, or am I imaginin’ him?”
Mickey doesn’t glance up from his computer,
laughing under his breath.
“That’s your boy.”
I nod,
then keep walking,
until I’m pushing open the door.
The cold takes a swing at me.
I barely feel it as I stand frozen.
Andrew lifts his chin,
holding my gaze.
Then he pushes his back off the car,
standing taller.
“Five minutes, Sonny,” he says.
“Don’t get greedy.”
His breath clouds the air between us.
Behind him’s the hum of traffic,
empty streets,
gold lights.
Then he squints. “Also, fair warning—I been up like twenty-three hours, and I might be hallucinating this whole thing, so if you’re actually a mailbox right now, I’m gonna be real fuckin’ embarrassed.”
And then he grins, slow and tired.
But I can’t move.
“You’re… here.”
I’m staring right at him,
and I still don’t believe it.
He leans in a little, eyes soft as they settle,
brow ticking up. “‘Course I’m here.”
Then he gestures at me with both hands,
as if I’m taking too long.
“You gonna keep starin’ or walk your ass over here and let me hold you?”
I take one step.
And another.
Ice-cold breath frosts my throat.
The city air pricks my skin.
And then I’m colliding
right into him.
I bury my face in his chest—
all cotton and cologne.
All heat and heartbeat.
His arms pull me in, wrap around me.
And then I’m on my toes,
pressing my face into his neck.
He rocks me once, a full-body hush,
kissing the side of my head.
And then he breathes out into my hair.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He kisses my head again.
“No, but are you really okay?”
I nod again.
He pulls me closer, my hips against his.
One arm stays locked around my waist.
The other drags up
until his hand cups the back of my head.
He drops his head, face burying in my neck.
And he breathes there.
We stay like that,
silence and stillness wrapping around us.
And it’s stupid to think I could fall asleep.
Right here.
Right fucking now.
Standing up.
“Yo, you been thinkin’ about me today, Sonny?” he asks against my neck.
My eyes snap open wide.
I play it off with a shrug—
“Depends. What’s it to you?”
“Not even jokin’. I walk into the fuckin’ bodega, middle’a my shift, I’m starvin’, and they’re playin’ your song—Angel. I just stood there, swear to God.”
He dips his mouth to my ear,
half a smile in his voice—
“You sendin’ psychic signals now, or what?”
// 4:23 AM //
The bed’s cold again.
The laptop’s hot on my thighs.
The Baby Contract’s staring at me.
It wasn’t until the city lights hit the back of his head, ‘til his tail lights waved goodbye, ‘til the elevator started climbing that I knew I was ready.
I drag the file into the email—
no message or subject.
Just one PDF titled: The Baby Contract.
I set it to send a few hours from now.
Then I close my laptop.
It’s done.