Page 71 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

‘Cause I feel the distance, the goodbye, the two of us counting down until the end.

Now he gets to walk away

before it gets messy.

And good for him. He deserves it.

Because let’s be honest: I didn’t throw myself in front of that fist to be romantic.

I did it ‘cause I wanted to hurt.

‘Cause maybe if I bled,

the guilt would seep out with it.

Everything I did tonight—defending him, sliding him cash, taking a punch—was all because I went and got fucked twice.

Not ‘cause I’m a good person.

Nah. I’m a terrible person.

And then I can’t even take a punch right, failed at fucking myself up.

No broken bones.

No stitches needed.

All I got to show for it’s a nosebleed,

a split lip,

and a swollen cheekbone.

I can’t even suffer properly.

The most disappointing performance of my goddamn life.

I keep waiting for him to sigh that sigh.

The I-can’t-do-this sigh.

The this-was-a-mistake sigh.

The fuck-this-I’m-out under his breath.

But when I look over, he’s already watching me, mouth tucked behind his fingers, as if he’s holding back words he shouldn’t say.

Or worse, words he should.

Then his hand moves, one inch at a time, creeping across the leather seat between us.

And stops⁠—

halfway in no-man’s land.

I look down at his hand.

Then into his eyes again.