Page 45 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

His gaze sweeps around us.

“But don’t think I gotta choice here. Pretty sure I’m about to get jumped. Whole bar’s starin’ ‘cause you makin’ me look like a traitor.”

I glance around the room.

One guy sticks out, high-top by the window—slim dark jeans, cuffed over unlaced Timberlands, forearm parked on the table, hand gripping a half-finished beer, eyes all absence as he looks this way, like whatever was in him got stripped. Ink climbs his throat and cuts behind his ear. A Grim Reaper.

I rip my eyes away and face Andrew again. “You really think I’d do that to you?”

I step back to peel off the jersey,

Philly green, gone in a heartbeat,

wearing a sports bra underneath.

Andrew lurches forward an inch,

then halts.

“Jesus. What’re you doin’?” He scans the bar quick to all the eyes watching.

I take my old Giants crewneck out of the plastic bag, slip it on, then my hat. Toss the bag and Eagles jersey into the corner trash.

The room erupts into cheers⁠—

chairs scrape,

beer sloshes,

some guy on a barstool yells, “THAT’S WHAT I’M FUCKIN’ TALKIN’ ABOUT!”

Andrew’s head cocks sideways, and he gestures to me. “Nah. Nah, see. Look at you.” He grabs the brim of my Giants hat and pulls it down over my eyes. “Now you’re even more fuckin’ dangerous.” He tries to smile, but it only makes it halfway before it falls off again. “Aight. Put the Eagles jersey back on.”

For half a second, I feel the tension.

I feel his fingers brush mine, craving to slip between my fingers.

But he hesitates, then pulls away, slipping his hand into his pocket instead. “C’mon. Guys are in the back.”

I follow him across the bar, weaving between bodies and tables, my shoulders curling inward to avoid bumping into anyone.

The bar’s louder in the back. Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle” shakes the speakers.

Every table’s packed,

every glance staying longer than I want.

“Yo,” Andrew says when we reach the table, where two other guys are sitting. “This is Allison, my pain in the ass.”

There’s a little fucking smirk when he says it, his eyes sliding to me to catch my reaction, his thumbnail itching his brow.

His words bounce around the table.

A millisecond of silence passes,

then a Boston accent in a faded Red Sox hoodie and backwards cap rips the quiet apart, all attitude and vowels that never end. “Hold the fuckin’ phone.” His mouth pulls into a shit-eating grin, and he looks between us, as if he’s picturing us doing filthy things to each other. “What is this, fuckin’ bizarro world? Andrew Harding bringin’ a woman into public?”

Boston wipes his fingers with a napkin, then bends over the table and offers his hand. “Peter. Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”