Page 41 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

“Yeah, okay.”

His voice drops into a murmur,

“You missin’ me yet, Sonny?”

“No.”

A low laugh slips out of him.

“Tell me you’ll think about tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I will.”

37 / THE FEELS

LABRINTH

// DEC 01, 8:24 PM - DRAFT ROOM - MIDTOWN, NYC //

“I can feel it, Celie. I’m gonna fuckin’ say it. I’m gonna blurt words and shit.”

She huffs. “No you’re not.”

I’m pacing the sidewalk outside the Draft Room, looking like a girlfriend who just caught her boyfriend inside flirting with the waitress.

The street’s disgusting.

There’s trash juice in the gutters.

A man just burped beer-fog near my ear.

Another guy’s chanting ‘let’s go, baby’ at a trash can. A girl’s screaming at her boyfriend for liking his ex’s story.

Inside, it’s all high-tops and high-volume and people pressing their whole bodies against other people’s whole bodies for no goddamn reason.

I already want to go home.

“Celie, there’s strangers touching strangers. Like full-on, open-air arm brushing.” I groan. “I haven’t even walked in and I already feel their sweat on me.” I lean my head against the brick and close my eyes. “This isn’t my scene. Everyone’s wearing the same fuckin’ thing. People are high-fiving and shit.”

Celie clicks her tongue. “Nah. In a sports bar? In Midtown? During a Giants game? How weird.”

I hunker down and whisper-shout into the phone, “My tongue? It’s heavy as fuck, bro—swollen with secrets and lies. Brandon’s name’s gonna burst outta me.”

I hear Celie sit up taller. “That’s why you gonna keep your mouth full,” she says. “Fries. Wings. Coke. Six-Point-Five’s tongue. I don’t care.”

“Nah, too risky,” my hand cuts the air, “what if I just throw it mid-sentence like ‘pass the mayo, I fucked Brandon’?”

She groans. “C’mon, Allie. What’d I say about eatin’ that shit in public? Deadass, one fry in mayo, and he’ll never look at you the same. Don’t do it.”

“He’s gonna ask about my weekend. What then?”

“Pretend your ears broke. Kiss him, drop a napkin, grab his thigh. He’ll forget.”

“I can’t lie to him, Celie. He’s...” My eyes slide to the window, crash into him through the glass, and my voice falls away.

He’s sitting on a stool, one leg kicked out, arm thrown lazy over the table, laughing with his head tipped back, neck veins out. He’s wearing a grey Giants crewneck with the sleeves shoved up, forearms showing, navy trousers, a backwards cap, glasses, his long fingers wrapped around a glass.

I haven’t seen him in two days, though it feels like twenty. And now he’s sitting there like Sunday mornings—worn-in, cozy, warm and safe enough to curl up in.