THIS IS WHY I NEVER MAKE DOLLS OF GUYS.
July 9th, 2012: Time for some girl bonding! Allie’s called everyone over to her apartment for a little slumber party. Wear your comfiest pajamas and bring your favorite chick flick, but always be prepared for a little catfight.
COLLAB WITH @sky-rocketer (part one here: http://www.polyvore.com/who_will_love_you_fight/set?id=52804117&lid=1688676)
Allie stands in front of us like a deer in the headlights. I don’t know what’s going through her mind now – wondering whether we’re going to kill her or something, probably, based on what she heard – but it’s not good.
“F-ck,” I say. I try to backtrack, but it’s obvious that Allie has heard everything we’ve said. “Allie, sit down.” I’m using my calmest voice. I widen my eyes over my shoulder at Andrew, and we make a truce. Neither of us needs Allie getting involved with this.
“Here,” Andrew says, yanking a blanket off the back of the couch. “Stay warm.” He tosses it to Allie, who instinctively wraps it around her shoulders. The soy sauce stain flows across the floor. Nobody moves.
“Kitchen,” I say finally. “Now.”
“Oh, the woman’s going to the kitchen. How clever. Make me a s –“
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” I say through gritted teeth. “Go. Now.”
“Don’t order me around in my own house,” Andrew replies, but he follows me anyways. The door doesn’t shut, so I try to keep quiet.
“What are we going to do?” I hiss. “She heard everything.” I try to be as nonspecific as possible; I can tell Allie’s trying to listen closely to our conversation. I just hope Andrew has half a brain and can do the same.
“Why should I be concerned about your friend?” Andrew frowns. “It’s you I’m worried about. I should turn you in right now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You should handcuff me and read me my rights, honestly.”
He looks at me. “I don’t work there nowadays. I messed up, and they got rid of me real quick.”
We’re just trying to make pleasant small talk to distract Allie, but I have a hard time just chatting with the man who (until now) was completely and total dedicated to locking me up in some h-llhouse. “Was it because of me?” I manage. It’s the only thing I can think of.
He tilts his head. “What do you think?”
I sigh. “Okay, I’m going to bring my friend in here, and you’re going to give her a plausible excuse for our conversation. Then it’ll be good. Right?”
“I’m not really sure that’s the way things work around here, Miss Cole.”
“Drop the formalities,” I snap. “You obviously know more about me than anyone else. No need to pretend we’re strangers.” And it’s true. In the years he spent investigating my case, I’m sure he learned everything from my favorite color to my shoe size to the reason I hate criminals.
“Hi, Allie,” Andrew says as we walk back into the living room. “I see you know my old friend…Savannah.” It’s like it hurts him to say my name out loud.
Allie’s wrapped up in the blanket, still curled up on the couch. She has one of Andrew’s photos in her hand, but she has it pulled out of the frame. Something’s written on the back, I guess, and I don’t know what until I see the picture.
It’s a picture of me. I’m not really surprised, I guess, but it’s still weird. It’s the same picture they showed on the news when they talked about how I wasn’t just missing, how I was also a murderer.
The note on the back says, “Taken by security camera at gas station 10/7/2010.” Little did Andrew know then, but this would be the case that would break his career.
“How do you know each other?” Allie says finally.
Andrew sits down beside her. “I know Savannah from back in Georgia. We’re…old friends.”
Yeah. Friends. You could say that.
“You should go now,” I say, dragging the blanket and photo out of Allie’s hands. I hand the photo back to Andrew and toss the blanket on the sofa.
“Mhm, okay,” Allie replies. I’m not sure we’re actually getting through to her, so I escort her all the way back to her apartment. She’s smart. Smart enough (I hope) to keep her mouth shut and her head down. This isn’t the kind of thing I need anyone finding out.
I’m about to follow her in when I see Andrew from across the hallway. He whispers, “This isn’t over.”
And it’s not. It’s not even close to over. Because if there’s one thing I know about Andrew Carlyle, it’s that he /loves/ his job. In almost two years of chasing me, he never gave up. I heard on the news that the FBI was still looking for me, and I knew that it was his influence, that he wasn’t about to let me get away.
Now, because of me, he doesn’t have a job. I don’t know exactly what happened, but like it or not, I am indirectly involved with Andrew losing the one thing in life that he cares about.
I watched him watching me, and I never saw a wife or a girlfriend. I never even saw a fling. I saw late nights with Chinese takeout. I saw him turn off the seventh game of the World Series. Neighbors told me he turned down advances from beautiful women.
Since I’m back, I am no longer the one thing standing in Andrew’s way.
No, the only thing standing between him and his old job now is probably a pair of handcuffs and my Miranda rights.
You should tell me if you read it. And stuff.