Page 368 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Title means shit to me now.”

His hands leave me next,

and the cold instantly replaces them.

“I’m goin’ to grab our jackets,” he mutters. “Maybe make the second half of my shift. If I didn’t lose my job.”

Andrew steps away, my hands fall to my sides, and my eyes land on Teddy on stage from more than twenty feet away. He’s singing with his eyes closed, his troubled brow slanted, two hands on the mic.

The song circles me,

the high note trembling

at the tail end of the feeling.

Andrew’s right.

If tonight didn't happen—if Raymond didn't turn him into staff in front of my entire label, if Teddy didn't appear out of thin air—I never would’ve called him my boyfriend.

The word wasn’t a confession.

It was a tourniquet.

A way to stop the bleeding.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

My sinuses burn with the pre-cry sting.

Then my feet are carrying me to the bathroom, thighs clenching on the warmth pooling between them.

I walk faster,

rounding the corner into the hall⁠—

crashing right into Raymond.

His drink splashes,

I stumble back,

and his hand catches my waist.

“Careful, baby. You almost made me spill,” he says, steadying me, using his body as a wall. His breath hits me wet with booze, and the sour scent crawls into me, prepared to haunt me for the next three days. “Rough night?”

I yank free.

“Don’t,” I say, stepping out of his hold.

But when I try to go around him,

he sidesteps back in front of me.

“Raymond, please⁠—”

“Please what?”

I scan the hall, looking over my shoulder, then a whisper pushes through my teeth. “You’ve done enough, okay?”