Page 433 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

I’m staring down at them, chest heaving,

pretending that I’ll be okay.

But I’m not okay.

For the next hour,

the new Pillow Panties haunt.

I still see them lying there as I unbox the new glass containers, wash them by hand, rinse them, dry each one with a dish towel, and transfer all the food from the plastic into the glass. Paola keeps sneaking pinot noir into my glass every time I turn around, pretending not to get me drunk. Like she’s slipping a sedative to a confused bear in Midtown for when animal control gets here.

“I see you,” I tell her,

shoving another container into the trash.

Paola ties it up tight.

“What’s this really about, huh?”

She sets the bag full of plastic next to the others, where they all line up against the island.

“This is what it’s really about,” I mumble, snatching a new trash bag.

Hallmark’s glowing from the living room, a couple baking together on-screen.

Maria and Gabby are passed out.

The rest are giggling drunk.

“Allison,” Paola insists.

“Stop. Take a break.”

“I’m fine.”

She catches my wrist. “That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough.”

She doesn’t let go.

“I can tell you’re not fine.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re overwhelmed,” she says.

“And you’re scared.”

The container falls from my hand and drops into the sink, the past three months rewinding fast, choking me:

‘You got issues. No, for real…’

‘You can’t take bein’ left.’

‘I need space. From you.’

‘We’re all just pawns in Allison Taylor’s fuckin' world.’