Page 263 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

She doesn’t turn, keeps walking, liftin' her middle finger high at him. “And to think I was just about to offer you a drink.”

When he rounds the island, and his gaze falls to the cabinet door under the sink, he sees that it’s not broken.

He posts up at the counter, crossin’ his arms.

“Okay, don’t hate me,” she immediately rushes in. “Spotify’s on shuffle. The Man came on, and my inner single-Tay-Swift mode kicked in and I’m pretty sure I fixed it myself.” She lifts a shoulder with an innocent smile. “Was gonna text, but you were knockin’ like two seconds later.”

Andrew lets out a short laugh, then gestures to the cabinet. “Yeah. No one humbles a man faster than Taylor Swift.” He slides a hand under his shirt, scratchin’ at his ribcage. “Just in case—gonna check that workmanship before I head out or it’ll bother me all night.”

“What the hell happened to you?” another girl says as she walks in from the living room—a face he’s never seen before. She’s wearin’ a massive tee, dark curly hair, a ring on every finger. She slides onto a barstool. “Dang. That scar from a stab wound?”

Andrew glances down, seein’ his scar peekin’ out. He stands taller, straightenin’ his jacket, his shirt.

“That’s like… serious surgery,” Riley adds, studyin’ it. “From what?”

His gaze shoots to her, brows raised halfway. “Liver donation. Last year.”

Her eyes explode. “You donated your liver? To who?”

He cocks his head.

Was she kiddin’ with this?

Every time they’d hit him up in those four months, he reminded them he was recoverin’. Was laid up scarred, stitched, a part of him missin’, and now she’s lookin’ at him like it’s the first time she’s hearin’ about it. He didn’t know why that surprised him.

“My mom,” he says, deadpan.

Twelve months of checkups, bloodwork, hope, and an itchin’ scar.

She’s good now, up and cookin’, yellin’ at the TV, livin’ like liver disease was a bump in her road. It made him even more paranoid that she’d slip. Ma’d argue past the point of reason each time he checked the closet behind the shoe boxes, the bottom of the hampers, under the mattress where she used to stash the bottle of peppermint schnapps, ‘cause short women hid shit in low places. And he watched her more closely, listened for the slur in her words, the stretched vowels at the end of her Italian.

He told himself he was overthinking it. Wanted to believe he was imaginin’ it. That it was fear fuckin’ up his trust in her, but some nights, when he’d get home from work, he could swear he’d smell it on her. But after seventeen hours of workin’, nine of those hours at the bar, slingin’ shots and dodgin’ alcohol breath, he couldn’t be sure.

“Shut up, that’s actually adorable.” Riley slaps the counter, head swingin’ to her friend. “Jules, tell me this man didn’t just check every box.” She turns back to him, draggin’ her teeth across her bottom lip. “You’re givin’ off some strong I-do-dishes-and-eat-pussy vibes,” she nods, “that’s marriage material.”

He huffs a laugh, ready to bounce now. “Nah—just tryin’ to keep my ma alive, y’know?” He lifts off the counter, crosses the kitchen to the sink, then crouches down and opens the cabinet door, testin’ the hinge. “Damn near perfect,” he mutters, then adds under his breath—“like it was never broken.”

‘Cause it wasn’t. And now he’s wonderin’ what the hell he’s really doin’ here.

Soon as Riley steps beside him, and she leans over the sink to whisper to Jules, who's sittin' on the other side of the counter, the familiar scent of pussy hits.

He knows that smell, faster than most guys would, and he hates how it instantly drags up the past. Almost a year and a half has passed since he's been with a girl, and he keeps tellin' himself he ain't goin' back to being that guy. It makes him sick to even admit that part of him went through with the liver donation just to escape it, as if it was the only way. To have a real fuckin' excuse he could use to say no.

Andrew’s gaze jumps to the dark corner of the cabinet and fixates on a bottle of Windex, heart beatin’ faster now that it’s lookin’ more and more like a setup.

But, nah. This is Matty’s sister, he reminds himself.

He’s known her for almost five years.

Not once has she ever come onto him.

She knows damn well Matty would lose his shit if anything happened between them. Andrew's just paranoid. It's all in his fuckin' head.

She wouldn’t try somethin'. She wouldn’t.

“I was tellin’ Jules ‘bout you right before you walked in,” Riley says.

He stands, closing the cabinet door. “Yeah? Was it good talkin’ or the kinda talkin’ where I gotta defend my honor? ‘Cause you really can’t trust anything Matty tells you.”