Chapter Forty-One
Marisa
“Hold Me Down”- Halsey
Adele is playingon the radio. The sun is shining. The birds are singing—in Central Park, I’m sure. And I’m soaking in a bubble bath. A nice relaxing bubble bath while reading,What to Expect When Expecting. I set the book on the edge of the tub and place my palm over my stomach. I hope it’s a girl. Justin would look so adorable toting around a pink diaper bag with little daisies printed all over it.
I glance at my phone. 8:32 AM. It was a gamble just leaving him like that, but, as I’ve said a thousand times, he must be taught a lesson. I thought if I played hard to get, that would work. It didn’t. I played him, showed him that even the best of players can become someone else’s toy... but that wasn’t exactly enough. I got pregnant for Christ’s sake. The thing is, while Justin Wild may be a player, he’s only ever played with fans. I’m not a player. I’m not a fan. I’m the motherfucking game. I call the fouls and if one thing fails, I’ll try another and another until something works, because love is worth it all.
I start to text him, but stop myself. An alibi must be perfect. Calculated. I climb out of the tub, dry myself off, and throw on some clothes. No time for makeup, so I rub some shimmering moisturizer on and scurry out of my apartment. I hurry down the road to the coffee shop, grab a Caramel Macchiato and Vanilla Latte, and high-tail it to 212 Water Street. I type in the code: 24456—I’ve paid close attention to him when he types it in, singing it in my head like a little jingle for gum—and the doors click. I text him on my way up the metal stairwell, the sound of my Chuck Taylors running up the steps echoing from the walls.
Caramel Macchiato? Right.
Then a few seconds later:Wake up, sleepy head.And then... I ring his doorbell. I pound over the door and some of his coffee splashes out, scalding my hand. “Justin? Babe?” My heartbeat steadily picks up. My palms grow slick with sweat.Shit.And panic burrows through me like a botfly anchoring itself with its tiny hooks. “Justin? Open the door.”Wham. Wham. Wham.
I hear footsteps. A cough. Cobain barks. “I’m sick, Marisa. Go away.”
“Justin—”
“Go. Away.” I can hear the stress in his voice, the worry. I can only imagine how upsetting it must have been for him to wake up with little recollection of how his fuckbag-of-fun ended up dead on his floor. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I just left him to handle that on his own?
Sighing, I twist the handle.The door swings open and Justin’s standing at the back of his hall—his hall covered in bloody footprints. He’s wide-eyed with wonder. Cobain comes trotting up, his tail wagging. I step inside and close the door before patting Cobain on the head.
“How the... ” Justin’s brow scrunches. He looks pitiful. Dark purple circles sit below his bloodshot eyes. His hair is messy where he’s most likely been dragging his hands through it. Scratches cover his face. The sight of them tugging on my heart. “How did you get in?” he asks.
I know he’s in no condition to rationalize a thing. “Babe... your door was unlocked.” Cobain walks down the hall.
“I... it was?” He nods. “It was.” He stands here, in a daze, just shaking his head as Cobain licks his fingers. “I’ve... ” He raises his hand to drag it over his face and I notice his knuckles, cut and scratched, raw, probably from how often he’s washed his hands this morning trying to get the feel of her blood off.
I slip my keys back inside my pocket before I glance over to the kitchen. Blood is everywhere. Handprints are smeared down the wall. He hasn’t cleaned up a thing. Fuck’s sake. How lazy is he? Jesus.
“I uh... I uh, I... ” And he paces. Back and forth and back and forth, the floorboards creaking under his weight and Cobain trailing behind him like a sad little shadow with his tail tucked.
I stare at Amy’s feet sticking out from the corner of the cabinets, at the dark blood pooled on the floor, settled in the grout. “Justin... ” I slowly glance back at him. His eyes well with tears, and, this is it. This is the moment where he breaks. Where he realizes I will be there for him when all of those other little fucktwats won’t. When he realizes I am his confident. His other half. When he realizes he is no longer a player in this game, but a pawn, a mere character I will bend to my whim to make the story right. “I think I’ve done something really bad,” he mumbles and gestures toward the kitchen.
Inhaling, I steel myself. “It’s fine. It’s fine. We just have to clean it up.” I nod and head into the kitchen, carefully stepping over the puddle of blood.
“Clean it up?” Justin comes walking around the corner. “Clean it up?” he says again. I yank the pantry door open and grab a mop and a bucket full of cleaning supplies.
“Yes, Justin. Clean it up. What else are we supposed to do? Just leave it here?”
“I... ”Enough with the babbling and stumbling over your words already. Fuck!
“Look, I don’t want to know,” I say. “I don’t need to know, I just want this gone.”
“Why are you doing this?” He steps closer to me. “Marisa, I... ” He stares off into the nothing. His chest rising in ragged, uneven swells. He takes another step until he’s right in front of me. His beautiful blue eyes are drowning in tears and he slowly, tenderly lays his head on my shoulder. The saddest, most desperate sob breaks from his lips, rustling against my ear. “I don’t want to be this person.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” I scratch my fingers through his hair to comfort him. After all, there is a formula to love, you see. People bond during traumatic events,and here we are, Justin. Here. We. Are.
“There was so much blood. And she just looked—” His words are lost on a deep cry. And all I can do is hold him. Comfort him. Because how many of his fuckbuddies have held him when he cried? I know none of them have coddled him through something like this. None of them have had his baby in their stomach, growing and feeding.
I pull back and take his face in both my hands, forcing him to look at me. “We all make mistakes.” I swallow, my heart clips and clops proudly like a Clydesdale.
“I don’t even remember inviting her over, but I did. It was right there on my phone. I texted her and asked her over. I shouldn’t have.” His chin drops to his chest and he shakes his head, “I just... ”
See? Now you are starting to see, Justin.“Look at me,” I say as I sweep my hands down his rugged jaw, over the stubble. I stare into his eyes. “I love you. Love conquers all, right?” I feel my cheeks blush. My chest swells and his eyes go soft like putty. Like pliable, moldable putty.
My chest grows tight with sadness and happiness and a sick and twisted euphoria, so I kiss him, and for a moment, he hesitates. He jerks back, but the second my tongue brushes his lips, he caves for me. His hands go to my hair, pulling and tugging in true Justin fashion. And he’s crying, holding onto me and that fucking electricity that no one else will ever have. I think this little arrangement will change everything. For me. For him. For us.
