Page 262 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

TRACK NO. 13: SIMPLE

YELAWOLF

// ANDREW - FEB ’21 - RILEY’S APARTMENT - HOBOKEN, NJ //

Andrew Harding was the most loved guy in every room.

And the least known.

Popular as hell. But lonely as shit.

The kind of guy who only existed when he was standing in front of you. Or when your plans fell through, or when your car wouldn’t start, or when you needed someone to carry a couch from the truck and up a flight of stairs in the pouring rain.

He was used to friendships runnin’ on the clock.

It always began with two guys trash talkin’ during the game, shootin’ the shit and splittin’ a pie during lunch breaks. Then it was ‘Yo, bro, if my girl asks, I was with you Friday night.’

‘You busy? Mind swingin’ by?

‘Just need a quick ride.’

‘You free, right? Gotta move my shit out.’

It wouldn’t take long before he stopped becomin’ a friend and turned into a customer service hotline. That’s when he knew it was time to fade the hell out—block, ghost, disappear. Would even change his number if he had to, no matter how long they’ve known each other. Sometimes drop a whole circle just to dodge one person. ‘Cause once they asked, he never thought he had a good enough reason to say no without chokin’ on guilt, didn’t know how to set a boundary without bleedin’ all over it.

And no fuckin’ shit—they always noticed when he showed up, never when he left.

For this reason especially, he didn’t keep female friends ‘cause they’d always hit him up after midnight, swearing it wasn’t like that. But it was always like that. The only girls he ever felt safe around were his boys’ girls or sisters.

But Andrew hadn’t heard from Matty’s sister in almost a year.

Not since before his surgery.

Until one Sunday night, out of the blue, he gets a text from her:

Riley: Hey, Matty’s in PA with our Dad and the cabinet hinge under my sink snapped and won’t stay shut. Can you stop by? Keeps swinging open and smacking my knee. Please, Andrew.

Now he’s standin’ outside her apartment door, knockin’ twice with the edge of his knuckle, Phillips and flathead tucked into his back pocket.

It’s an easy fix that should only take two minutes. He could still make the second half of the game.

When the door swings open, Riley’s smilin’, wearin’ a men’s hoodie. She immediately throws her arms around him, all blonde hair and big smile.

It’s been a minute since he’s seen her, or any of the guys, really. For the last six months, it’s been nothin’ but work and catchin’ up on hospital bills that’ve gone into collections. So for two seconds, he feels like a fuckin’ twenty-three year old again and not a divorced, middle-aged man with five kids and a pile of debt.

“The fuck’ve you been up to?” he asks her around a one-arm hug.

“Y’know, the usual. Breaking shit,” she laughs.

Inside, music’s pulsin’ through a Bluetooth speaker.

Her couch’s buried in a pile of laundry.

He follows her into the kitchen, where the counters are covered in Popeyes takeout, Sweet Heat Sauce stickin’ to the granite. The sink’s stacked high. The trash’s fuller. And shit—his fingers are itchin’ to empty both. “Damn, Ry. You ain’t changed,” he teases. “Still a slob.”

“For your information, I know exactly where everything is.”

“Yeah? You know where the broom is?”