"Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one."

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔

I had to sleep in one of the guest rooms. You know, it made me realize that we need better mattresses in there. My night was restless. Without Morgan, I was tossing and turning.

I don't know what the fuck I'm going to do about Cleo. She has no one. Well, she has Sabrina, but I wouldn't contact her.
Cleo's father, Shawn Bowie, is behind bars, and rightfully so. Her mother? She never really talked about her, just said she's a "stuck up bitch." I can see that, the whole family is.

After a shower, I needed to clear my head, so I've been sitting outside smoking a blunt while the dogs run around, eat and drink.

"Come get the ball, Stevie." I talk at my dog.

She just blinks at me with this head tilt.

"Stevie, come get it. Come get the ball!" I try using a baby voice to sway her. She doesn't budge but that normally works.

Huh. That's unlike her.

Instead, Stevie lays down in the grass and whimpers.

"You mad at me, too?" I cough, sitting back in the lawn chair.

8:48 am

I told work that if I do come in today, it'll be late. That's a big ass "if." I don't want to go to work, there's a lot of shit I need to figure out at home; starting with finding somewhere safe to take Cleo.

I'm hungry. Starving, even.

Usually, Morgan would have breakfast made. She'd make my plate and smile as she watches me eat it.

I guess she's still asleep. Last night was a lot, I don't blame her for not wanting to wake up and deal with this shit.

Frustrated when I go in and see there's no there's no food in the fridge, I slam it shut.

"What?! What's that?!" A startled Cleo jumps up from the couch.

I didn't even know she was lying there.

I settle down and non-verbally apologize for the loud noise.
Last night, I read that after an overdose, aggression, paranoia, and confusion are to be expected.

"Chris?" She asks if it's really me standing before her.

I nod, carefully walking towards her.

She looks... less dead than before, I'll say that. At least she doesn't stink or have any private parts exposed.

"It's okay. Go back to sleep, it's still early." I tell her in a calm, low voice.

"I-I can't," her voice trembles. "I'm freezing."

I can tell. She's got herself wrapped in a comforter and is still shivering.

Just because, I sit beside Cleo and she leans into my body.

"H-help me, Chrissy," she shivers. "Warm me up."

I don't know how she means. So, I only rub her shoulders.

"No," she clicks her teeth. "Lay next to me. Please. It'll be like— like that o-one time when we cuddled. R-Remember that?"

She's referring to a late night we had last year. Cleo was drunk, so was I. It was storming - heavy rain, thunder, lightning. She was scared, asked me to hold her like her father used to. If she didn't keep screaming, I wouldn't have done it, but she was petrified. It didn't mean anything, I felt nothing, of course. Neither did she. I can't even say it felt nice because I kept pillows between my front and her backside. But I'm happy I was there for her, I guess.

Cleo lies down, looking at me with anticipation. She looks like a poor, wet, homeless puppy. An ugly puppy, one that you feel sorry for so you say it's cute but it kinda creeps you out at the same time. Like, it's cute because it's so ugly, you know?

I can't look at her like that for another second.

I exhale and lie down beside her. "You're lucky." I grumble, making myself comfortable.

She offers me the blanket and backs into me. I don't like this.

"I'm not going to warm up if you don't hold me, Chrissy. Hold me. Here, like this." Cleo directs, pulling my arm over her body. I get the pillows between us again.

She hums, "Ahh. That's perfect."

It doesn't take long for her to stop shivering.

"I'm sorry, Chris." Cleo randomly tells me.

"You don't have to talk, Cleo. This is uncomfortable enough."

"I wish things were how they used to be."

"What do you mean?"

"Before Sabrina got crazy. Before Morgan came..."

I can't even react before I hear footsteps stomping down the stairs.

Shit!

I sit up and see Morgan storming off.

Fuck, how much did she hear? Did she see us laying like this?

"Morgan!" I yell after her, rolling off of the couch.

She's goes to our bedroom, furiously stuffing her belongings into a large tote bag. I can practically see the steam radiating from her.

I've only seen Morgan genuinely angry a few times. I don't mean upset or just momentarily mad, I mean pissed. Fuming.

The first time was when we were in line at the grocery store one day. This white lady in front of us started touching this little black girl's Afro. She didn't know her at all, she didn't ask for permission, or even give a warning.
The little black girl didn't say anything, but you could tell she was uncomfortable. I just knew I'd see a TikTok about it later that day. Anyway, Morgan slapped the woman's hand and told her "this isn't a petting zoo." She went on to call the Karen an "old, entitled bitch." I loved it.

Another time, I went to Chick-fil-a and didn't get her anything. She was pissed. I know it sounds petty— and trust me, at the time, I argued back because it was so immature, I thought— but she had been talking about Chick-fil-a all week and is actually the reason I got it that day. She sent me a text on my way home asking for a number one meal with a lemonade but I completely spaced when I got to the drive-thru and only ordered for myself. The worst part being I got the same exact meal she was craving.
She called me inconsiderate and cried because I "didn't care about her."
Probably dramatic but honestly, if she got Chipotle without me, I'd act the same way.

"Morgan, it's not what you think-" I immediately start to dig my way out of this hole. Or, try to.

"I really don't want to hear what you have to say right now." She counters.

I walk further inside the room and snatch her bag away. She's not going anywhere.

"Give me my goddamn bag back!" She yells at me.

I'm taken aback by her tone. That's extremely rare.

"I was just laying with the girl. She's— she needs help, Morgan."

"I'm not mad at that, Chris. I know you don't want her."

I flail my arms. "Then what are you doing all this for?"

"I DON'T WANT HER HERE!"

I just look at her, take in how hurt she is. That's it, she's hurt. I just don't fully understand why.

"What am I supposed to do?" I sigh.

"You weren't supposed to bring her here in the first place! She makes me PHYSICALLY FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE. I told you that I don't trust her. I— every time I see her I think about when you left me, and I'm reminded of what you did with her fucking sister. Now all of a sudden you know what fucking empathy is." Morgan vents.

She balls her fists and paces on the other side of the bed. The concealing of her lips tells me there's something she doesn't want to say.

"Where was this compassion when I had something vacuumed out of me?! Oh, right, your ass was on a plane here to be with her and her fucking sister." She says it anyway.

I've never heard her drop the "f" word this many times.

"What the fuck do you want me to do, Morgan, drop her off on the fucking road and let her kill herself?!" I say that sarcastically but honestly, I'd do it if she really wanted me to. Except she doesn't, she would never, because she's a good person.

"Please don't make me answer that." She laughs. It's quite an evil laugh, one that scares me.

I shake my head at her. "This isn't you, Morgan."

"No... it's not," she pauses, "it's who this place and those people have made me. And you're very close to being a part of that list."

"Fuck, Morgan!" I roar, punching the wall.

I just shout and grab my hair at my temples, frustrated.

"You're the one who made me like this! You always say you want me to be a good person. Well, now I'm tryna do the fuckin' right thing here and you're trying to leave me for it?!"

She gets in my face to take her bag back and tries not to say anything.

"I AM YOUR GIRLFRIEND, CHRIS," she roars, "and I'm telling you that I am bothered by her being here. The fucking right thing to do would be to take that bitch back to where you found her; you shouldn't have brought her here in the first place!"

Morgan stares into my eyes and then backs away, wiping her tears, mumbling something. I'm not sure what she said, but she sounds about done.

"Where are you going?" I run downstairs after her, demanding answers.

She's all the way outside before saying anything back to me, scrambling to find the keys to her Lexus in that stuffed tote bag.

"Morgan, Morgan!" I fume, grabbing her arm. "Don't do this. Where are you going?"

"Away from the both of you," she scowls, managing to break away from me. "I want her gone when I get back. If I come back."

In less than a thirty second span, she finds the keys, gets in the car, and speeds off.

"GODDAMN IT!" I scream, kicking the trashcan on the curb.

I pound my fist into my palm and walk back towards my home.

Tim's on his stoop, lighting a cigarette between his teeth.

"Well, you handled that well." He scoffs, blowing smoke my way.

I swing my door open and walk through it, "SHUT THE FUCK UP, TIM!"

SLAM!

~~~

I'm sitting on the edge of the couch, waiting for Cleo to wake up. It's been hours. Still no sign of Morgan.
"Worried" is an understatement.

She hasn't texted me back. Oh, wait, she can't: she blocked me.
I'd say how immature that is of her, but I've come to understand that this is a part of her process in needing space after a fight.

It shouldn't have went down like that. I was just trying to do the right thing, play Good Samaritan. See what that gets me? Aheh.

The more peacefully Cleo drifts further asleep, the angrier I feel myself getting with her.
Why does she get to rest and recover, worry-free, when she's caused all this turmoil in my relationship?

Morgan was right, per usual. I shouldn't have brought Cleo here. She needs help, a hospital would've sufficed. Whatever would've happened to her once she got discharged, wouldn't have been my business. Now I'm stressed because I have no where to take her, and my girlfriend left me.

I'm not fucking Robin Hood, or Superman. I'm not even Captain Save-a-hoe. The fuck was I thinking rescuing this girl?

Finally, though, Cleo wakes up with a yawn.

"Where am I?" She asks. Cluelessness is also a post-overdose symptom.

"Cleo, do you know anything that happened last night?" I question.

She shrugs. "I know that we cuddled."

"That was today. And we didn't cuddle. You OD'd, Cleo."

"Again?" She scratches her head. "I do that sometimes. What, you've never gotten so high that your heart stops?"

I stand up and wait for her to, too.

"No. No I haven't. Look, Cleo, you gotta go."

She looks up at me with worry. Or, fright.

"Where am I supposed to go? Sabrina's— Sabrina's, um, gone so I have no one. Unless you want to lock me up like you did my father."

I hesitate for a second, being accused of putting her father in jail when he did that to himself. All I did is tell the lawyers the truth - that he was friends with Malcolm Jameson, and that's not good for business. They uncovered his shady (illegal) dealings themselves.

"You can't manipulate me. Here are some clothes, put them on. We're leaving. Now." That's an order.

~

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I impatiently wait for this bitch to open the door.

I look down at Cleo and she rolls her neck.

"I told you the bitch won't answer. I don't even know why you wasted your time coming here-" Cleo says but gets cut off.

"What the hell are you doing here?" A very tall and thin woman speaks.

Cleo goes mute for once in her life.

"And you are?" Asks the lady, her blue eyes focused on me.

"Just dropping her off. Here." I insist, pushing Cleo towards the woman who gave birth to her.

"I don't have any money to give you." The woman, Marsha, says to the back of my head as I descend the outdoor stairs of the mansion.

"I'm sorry?" I curl my face.

Marsha glares at Cleo and then to me. "If she broke something of yours or stole it, I'm not responsible for replacing it. I'm also not a part of whatever she and Sabrina have going on."

"And what exactly do they have going on?" I ask.

"You've said too much. Go inside. Now. Go!" Cleo barks an order at her mother, shoving her inside.

I run back up the stairs to barrel my way inside but it's no use, the doors are locked.

I'm left with two questions. One, what the fuck is wrong with this family?
Two, what do Cleo and Sabrina have going on?

~~~ The Next Day ~~~

I leave before Morgan wakes up. I'm just happy she came home. My mental or my heart can't take another breakup.

"Thanks for agreeing to meet me here." Says Marsha.

I take a seat at the table after being escorted by a country club member.

"Didn't sound like I had a choice over the phone." I clench my jaw.

Marsha removes her dark shades and smiles wickedly.

"You always have a choice, I just thought you'd want to know some things. And, if I may, you are very, very handsome, Christian."

"It's Christopher." I correct her.

She bites her knuckle. "It is, isn't it?"

"What the fuck do you want, lady?" I rush her to the point.

She throws a vanilla pronged file down in my face.

"What's this?" I ask as I hesitate to reach for it.

She just sips her wine. . . At six in the morning.

"Sabrina isn't Sabrina at all. I adopted her when she was eleven. Her real name is-"

"Marissa Mullins," I read from the chart. "Why are you telling me this?" I wonder.

Marsha swallows and then leans in. "Keep reading."

I go on to discover that Marissa has been on medication since she's young. Been in and out of psych wards and ran away at sixteen to live with her best friend. There, she fell in love with the man of the house. When she couldn't have him, she obsessed over becoming the wife.
An article states how she seduced the husband and finally had her way with him, breaking up the once happy home, only for them to run off to another state. That is, until Marissa got bored of him and ruined his life. She got him arrested for sleeping with a minor. Once he was behind bars, she did the same thing to other men across a few states.

She returned to New York when her father, Shawn, got the job where I work. Marissa was promised to Shawn's boss as a gift to his superior who gave him the promotion. She was abused by rich, cruel men in every way for years until she and Cleo "found him dead." Marissa did time for robbing the dead man but was somehow released. Shawn managed to "fix her," cleaning their image. She changed her name to Sabrina, but not much else.

I sit back, feeling uneasy.

That was... a lot.

I'm speechless.

My eye catches something else on one page. I go on to read that Sabrina is from some farm outside of the city. There's photographs and more news clippings attached. One of them is eerily familiar. It's Sabrina/Marissa standing in front of some hick store.

I snap my fingers once I realize: it's the same racist store in bumfuck nowhere that Morgan and I had the misfortune of visiting on our way to Yara and Nick's home.

"This store..." I squint to read the business name on the old black and white photo of a large group of men in front of a confederate flag.

The banner above their heads reads "Jordan's Market." Under it, a plaque awarding a Beck Jordan Sr.

A quick Google search shows me that Beck is actually Beck Jordan the third and that his conservative family is made up of farmers on the outskirts of New York, borderline New Jersey, and that they do, in fact, own that goddamn convenience store. So, Beck is a junior? Our company owner isn't a senior, though, he isn't named Beck Jordan at all. . .

"So?" Marsha drawls, tapping her disgustingly long red nails on the tabletop.

I sit back and deeply exhale. "Is it really a small world, or is everything a coincidence?"