Page 6 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

‘Don’t bother answerin’ my texts,’ I snapped, steppin’ back. ‘I blocked your sorry ass.’ It was a lie. But if he does text me back? I swear I’ll block him.

I stormed off with my middle finger behind me, pointin’ at the sky, before he could pull the soft-eyed sorry act. He didn’t stop me, probably processin’ what happened, not used to girls rejectin’ him.

I give it three hours before he’s scrollin’ for my message in his phone to hit me up. But, nah. I’m done. Hope he catches TMJ every time he tries to make another girl see stars.”

NO. 08: JUST A GUY

// ANDREW - JULY 4, ’23 - 10:12 PM - WEEHAWKEN, NJ //

Andrew Harding just wanted to be left the fuck alone.

Fireworks were poppin’ off over the Hudson, cheap ones by this time. All the big finales were done. He was leaned back against the trunk of his Civic, arms crossed, watchin’ smoke ghost under the ferry dock floodlamps while Manhattan blazed across the river, untouchable.

Weehawken was sweatin’, street still steamin’ from sunburned pavement.

Someone was blastin’ REO Speedwagon down the block, the bass thumpin’—a slow-punch heartbeat under his feet. A few feet away, a cluster of drunk girls stood by the railing, red Solo cups in hand, heels off, gigglin’ back and forth as ferry water slapped the dark.

They’d been lookin’ over at him, whisperin’.

One did the elbow-tap thing, go talk to him.

He dodged their stares, not wantin’ to invite it. Which made him seem like an asshole, but he didn’t have it in him tonight. He was tired, exhaustion livin’ in his joints, and sick of smellin’ the alcohol buzzin’ off everyone around him.

Mikey was in the car, windows steamed up, backseat rockin’, too far gone to know he was fuckin’ his brother’s ex. Andrew tried warnin’ him. Bro didn’t wanna hear it.

Jay and Nico dipped, said somethin’ about hittin’ a rooftop spot in Jersey City, but Andrew didn’t wanna leave Mikey and his car behind. So he posted up, black T-shirt soaked and clingin’ to his back, sweat at his temples, tryin’ to avoid eye contact, avoid girls, not flinch each time a bottle rocket popped off, not fall asleep standin’ up.

Then headlights splashed across the pavement, tires crunchin’ on gravel as a gray Ford rolled up, windows halfway down with loud-ass reggaeton leakin’ out.

‘Yo, let’s go!’ the driver called out, snappin’ the girls out of their laughter. He had a snapback turned backwards, neck covered in tattoos, an arrogant face for someone pushin’ a ’98 Taurus.

The guy scanned the street, then glanced left, stare landin’ on Andrew.

And stayed.

‘Yo,’ the guy said, tossin’ the word into the backseat, eyes on Andrew. ‘Yo—hold up.’ He turned to talk to his boys. At once, the two in the back turned to look at Andrew.

The engine cut out, the doors opened, and three sets of shoes hit pavement—dirty white Uptempos, creased Timbs, and slides with socks (real disrespectful).

Behind ‘em, the girls kept gigglin’, fireworks kept poppin’ off, but Andrew wasn’t movin’, his pulse kickin’ in his ears as he clocked every single one of them—watchin’ hands, readin’ body weight.

They walked up to him, all three of ‘em spreadin’ out to box him in. Streetlights glowed over their shoulders, faces half-snatched by shadow, the universe blurring ‘em on purpose.

The one in the slides had his hood pulled over his eyes.

The guy on the left, in the Nikes with the lip scar chuckled. ‘Ain’t this somethin.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You Harding? The pussy whisperer?’

The other two laughed.

Andrew didn’t. He knew talkin’ only made ‘em angrier. Guys like him didn’t wanna hear reason, they wanted to hear themselves. They wanted you humiliated and bleedin’ with your mouth shut.

They stopped about five feet from him.

When Slides finally looked up.

He was younger than the other two with a baby face, but he had eyes as if aggression ran in his bloodline. ‘Yeah, that’s him.’

Then Nikes again: ‘Man’s got girls cryin’ mid-head. That what they said?’