Page 10 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

The door clicks shut behind me.

I grip the sink and glance up at Andrew’s bathroom mirror. My reflection’s a ghost—mouth bruised, blank stare, face pale, hair fucked. A girl with his kiss still on her mouth and nothing in her eyes.

A girl who stumbled away from something real, and left herself behind with him.

The nausea climbs up fast.

I try to choke it down,

but bile burns bitter in my throat.

My stomach lurches, everything spins, and I throw myself over the toilet.

My knees hit tile.

I scramble to lift the lid,

grip the edge,

and puke up Thanksgiving.

All of it—the food, the feelings.

My hair spills around me,

no time to hold it back.

It’s in my face,

stuck to my cheeks,

sticking to vomit-tears as they shoot down.

My body won’t stop shaking,

my vision’s blurring.

I’m trying to breathe through it.

I hear his voice surround me.

I feel him beside me.

My head falls into the crook of my arm. I don’t want him to see me like this—wet-faced, body heaving from the inside out.

I squeeze my eyes shut as if doing so can take me away from here. As if turning out the lights behind my eyes will make me invisible or scoop me up and take me home.

“Andrew,” I choke, shaking my head. “Fuck—I’m sorry.”

I’ve never apologized for my trauma, but I barfed all over a moment he’s been anticipating. I took the one thing he built up in his head as perfect, the one thing he’s been replaying in his head for weeks, and smashed it to pieces.

Now he’s seen what’s behind the contract.

I bet he’s thinking,

figures. Fantasy’s over. Girl of my dreams turned out a nightmare.

Bet he’s drafting the exit plan in his head as we speak, titled: How To Back The Fuck Out (Before It’s Too Late).