Page 332 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

His mouth parts to say something—mind trapped in a dark cathedral of thought—but all that lands is silence, the sound of someone holding in everything.

Yet as I stare back at him,

seeing him,

hearing his inhale cut between us,

and how mine chases after it,

like I forgot how to breathe

until he reminded me,

it still fills me

with that everything he couldn’t say,

as though we’re all we’ve ever known.

That’s when it hits me that I’m finally,

fatally

compromised.

55 / RUN RUDOLPH RUN

MARK AMBOR

// 7:58 PM - ROCKEFELLER PLAZA - MIDTOWN, NYC //

As we walk in, a man with the melancholy of Sinatra drags his voice tenderly through “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

The ballroom has been transformed, trapping old-money New York Christmas warmth⁠—

pine and evergreen garland,

mahogany wood accents,

deep reds dark as cabernet.

Men float to the private cigar lounge in packs, disappearing into leather and clouds of smoke.

Andrew leans in, hand resting at the base of my spine. “You got me livin’ in a movie right now.” He checks behind us, mouth close to my ear. “I feel like some asshole’s about to yell cut.”

I glance up at him, smoothing my hand down the back of his blazer, the colors of charcoal and smoke, with bourbon hidden in the houndstooth weave.

I don’t know how I got his measurements this right. It fits him as if the wool was stitched around him,

moving with him each time he moves,

when he reaches for a door,

when he reaches for me.

While other men stand in the corners,

adjusting their cuffs,