Page 22 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Figured—let him drink it gone while I carry it.

So yeah, Andrew knew Roger was in love with him. He knew the whole time, but talkin’ about it meant cuttin’ the whole friendship loose. So he looked the other way, said nothin’, pretended, played dumb.

Roger was the first to bring a girl around. Took ‘til age twenty-six.

Andrew was happy for him, even though he never cared to have a girl of his own. Hadn’t yet met one worth cuttin’ into his shift hours or hospital runs. But maybe Roger read too deep into that, saw the empty space next to Andrew and thought it was reserved for him.

But Roger was in the minors and every guy on the roster kept runnin’ his mouth, askin’ why no one ever saw him with a girl. Roger got sick of hearin’ it, so he got one. Wore her like a uniform—problem solved.

Elle was the kind of girl who looked good standin’ next to him in a picture. Tall, blonde, all legs. Five-foot-eight barefoot. The kind they raise in Montclair—private schools, then beach weddings in Sag Harbor.

Roger asked Andrew what he thought of her once.

“She’s chill,” Andrew told him, but left out the part that Elle was always tryin’ to talk to Andrew, be closer to him, and that he caught her watchin’ him sometimes, even when Roger was right fuckin’ there. Andrew knew that starved, can-you-see-me look.

Roger never touched her, laughed with her, or acted like she was his.

She was background.

A prop in a cover-up.

A lie to photograph.

And all Andrew could do was stand in the scene and watch it all go down, Roger pretendin’, Elle bein’ neglected, knowin’ the whole thing was fake. It wasn’t even Andrew’s lie, but he felt trapped in it, too. It wasn’t his job to fix it, but it still felt like his fault.

When Roger died, Andrew didn’t cry. He didn’t have time between double shifts, the back-and-forth to the doctor appointments, with Ma pukin’ blood again and the electric bill starin’ at him from the fridge. Cryin’ was a luxury. There was no room for grief when you’re broke and busy. But the longer he denied Roger’s death, the higher the grief piled up inside him.

So when Elle texted that first night, he thought it could be that kind of night: two people sittin’ on a porch, swappin’ stories, talkin’ shit, both missin’ the same dumbass. They could laugh, he could say Roger’s name out loud ‘til it stopped hurtin’ for five goddamn minutes.

But that’s not what it was.

When he showed up, she didn’t ask how he was doin’ or say I’m sorry you lost your friend. She didn’t wanna know what he remembered about Roger or if he’d been sleepin’, eatin’, breathin’ right since the casket closed and he buried a fifteen-year friendship.

Nah. She leaned back on her porch chair, legs spread, no fuckin’ underwear. And for one sick second, he thought—this is all my fault.

Roger was too busy drinkin’ himself into the grave over some unrequited bullshit. Andrew was too busy actin’ oblivious, too much of a coward to tell him straight up it’d never be like that ‘cause he was scared to lose him as a friend. And somewhere in that look-the-other-way bullshit, Elle got buried too—alone and starved for attention.

So when Roger died, she looked at Andrew like he was the one responsible for the time wasted, the future that was ripped away from her, for all the times she stood next to Roger alone in a crowded room.

She opened her legs as if Andrew owed her.

And he let her. ‘Cause maybe she was right.

But what pissed him off was that Elle knew how easy it was to corner him, knew he couldn’t walk away when someone needed him. That’s what killed him most—that she knew she could manipulate him, and used the name of his dead best friend to do it.

And Andrew? He wanted a drink.

Wanted to split a wall with his fist.

Wanted someone—just one fuckin’ person—to give a shit about him for real. But it didn’t matter what Andrew wanted. Only thing he knows how to do is drop into character, whatever role people expect of him, and keep it dirty to distract her from the fact he’s actually real fuckin’ uncomfortable.

He still cried that night.

Did it while eatin’ out his dead friend’s girl, face buried in her pussy.

He tried to stop the tears—swear to God he did. He came up for air once, eyes blurry, the smell of pussy soaked into his skin. Then he went back in as if he didn’t have a choice, hopin’ it’d make up for somethin’.

Elle never knew.