I trail off, then continue. “Sierra’s four years older than me. She’s a surgeon—studyingto be a surgeon,” I rush to amend. “She’s brilliant, but she has this way of making me feel small anytime she talks. She loves to center herself, even during my moments.”
I shake my head, embarrassed, and add, “Sorry, I sound like a brat—”
“You don’t,” he says, his expression serious. “I get complicated families.”
“Yeah, but my situation is nothing compared to—”
“It’s not a competition, remember?” he reminds me, reaching out and placing his hand on mine. I stare down at our hands but make nomove to pull away, surprised by how comforted his touch makes me feel. How grounded. “So you’re pre-law, then?”
“I am,” I confirm.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm? Whathmm?” I pull my hand back.
“Nothing.”
“That was asomethinghmm.”
“It’s just… if you were in your hypothetical situation”—I almost laugh; little does he know—“would you spend your whole second life trying to live up to your parents’ expectations? It’syour life. You’re the one who has to live it.”
“I think that’s easier said than done,” I mutter, unwilling to admit that his words have hit me hard.
“It is,” he acknowledges. “The one thing I’ve always wanted most is to make sure I live my life according to my own rules. Master of my fate, captain of my soul—all that poetic shit. To own my choices and know that, for better or worse, they weremine.”
“You want control,” I interpret. That tracks.
“Control would be nice,” he concedes. “But the illusion of it is enough.”
Well. Maybe eighteen-year-old Alex wouldn’t be as disappointed in thirty-two-year-old Alex as I thought.
After dinner, we stroll in silence to my dorm, together but both of us lost in our own thoughts. Or at least, I’m lost in mine.
“You didn’t have to walk me back,” I say.
“I know. I had an ulterior motive.”
I see what’s coming well before it happens, but I make no move to stop him as he brings his lips down to meet mine.
The kiss is at once completely familiar and totally new. Soft and sweet, it’s an innocent kiss in many ways, but the hand that isn’t gently cupping my face reaches around to my back, and I feel the way his fingers grip the material of my sweater, hard, hinting at a desire for more.
It calls to mind the memory of exactly whatmorefelt like with him.
“How about that number,” he murmurs, and pulls away, but just a bit, so our foreheads still touch.
I hesitate. If I give in, there’s no turning back.
I breathe in the scent of him. He smells a little like butter from the lobster, which nearly causes a poorly timed laugh to rise to the surface.
Who am I kidding? I passed the point of no return somewhere between lobster pajamas and actual lobster. I nod, and wordlessly, we pull out our phones and exchange numbers.
“I’m going to text you tomorrow,” he says.
“Please do,” I reply, thinking—for the first time in hours—of Ellie and the text that never came.
“I’m going to ask you out.” He kisses me again, lingering longer this time. His hand is still on my back, though his fingers have loosened their grip. “Are you free Tuesday?”
“Tuesday? Who goes out on a Tuesday?” I laugh.
