Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Can I tell you something?” I say, the words muffled between ginormous bites of my double-double burger. We’re sitting in the parking lot of the In-N-Out on the way back from the beach.
I am fucking starving.
After I caught a couple more waves, I opted to sit on the beach and warm myself up in the sun like a cold-blooded lizard, which felt a little too accurate when describing my own heart after spending time with Xander, his mom, and Scarlett.
As the sun thawed me out, it dawned on me that Xander has more than enough love to go around and he doesn’t need to safeguard it. It’s just ever-expanding, free-flowing love.
This idea is so foreign to me that I focused on spending the rest of the time on the beach perving on Xander as I sent him back out to surf himself.
I saw him ditch Old Yello’ for a surfboard that looked impossibly small to stand on to which I said, “Are you for real?” to which he said, “For real” to which I said, “But how?” to which he said, “It’s physics,” to which I said, “I only teach chemistry.” And so off Xander ran, straight into the surf, slicing through those waves like a hot knife through butter.
By the time he caught his first wave, I vowed that physics was cool.
So fucking graceful. And powerful. And soulful.
Just beautiful, really.
I realize I’ve been staring at Xander a little too long. I swallow. “I don’t care for animal style.” I look pointedly at Xander and his animal style fries.
“You’re lying,” he says as he scoops up a couple of fries that are dripping with saucy, melted cheese and hauls them into his mouth without getting any on his T-shirt. “Everyone loves animal style.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s just so messy, I’d rather not,” I say, taking another bite of my burger, the lack of animal style sauce keeping it easy to eat.
“Story of your life,” he says, shaking his head at me through a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“You deny yourself what you really want just to avoid the mess that comes with it,” he says, and now I know he’s not talking about animal style anymore. “But the mess is the best part.”
This hits me right in the feels. “What do I want?” I whisper. The words are absolutely as loaded as the fries Xander is eating.
“You tell me,” he says gently. I watch as his lips curl around his straw and he sucks on his soda. When I don’t answer, he doesn’t ask—he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
It comes out low and suggestive. I tear my eyes away from his lips.
“I want animal style fries,” I say so quickly the words almost blend together.
And before I can reach over and steal a single fry, he hands the entire tray over to me. “You got it,” he says, taking my plain fries from me.
“It’s that simple, is it?” I say, taking a fry and dipping it into the sauce so it’s completely drenched before shoving it into my mouth.
I look at Xander, who’s looking at my mouth.
Before I can reach up to see if I’ve got animal style smeared all over my face, he reaches over and thumbs some sauce off the corner of my lip.
Then I watch as he brings his thumb to his lips and sucks on it, effectively turning animal style fries into amateur porn. “Yes.”
I take a sip of my soda, too stunned to say anything else, when a memory of Xander sucking on his fingers flashes in front of my mind.
I choke.
“You okay?” he says, leaning in to pat my back. The gentle, rhythmic patting has a soothing effect.
“I’m fine,” I say, daring to take another sip of the soda that attempted to assassinate me moments ago. This time I swallow like a champ. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
Xander removes his hand from my back, and I look out the window. I just need a moment of not looking at him. A moment of not wanting him.
“I actually worked here during the summers to save up for university,” he says, offering me more of him. I turn to see him munching on his newly exchanged plain fries like he ordered them. “I know the secret to animal style.”
“They don’t erase your memory when you leave, Men in Black style?” I say, trying to distract myself with banter instead of acknowledging that as Xander continues to offer up information about his life, I continue to find myself gravitating toward him.
“I had to sign an NDA,” he says, giving me side eye. “That’s more ironclad than a neuralyzer.”
I do a double take at him. Really?
He cocks his head. What do you think?
I flick my wrist as I backhand his arm. Smartass.
Still, I can imagine teenager Xander. With his curls popping out of the comically tall white chef’s hat they make everyone at In-N-Out wear. Getting comments from the elderly about how polite he is. Every teen girl who came in secretly hoping he was on the register that day. So adorable.
So unnecessary to be thinking that.
“I wanted to be a chemistry teacher because it’s the study of literally everything around us,” I say, clearing my throat. Maybe if I start talking about myself, I can stop thinking about Xander.
Xander and his curls. Xander and his fingers. Xander and his lips.
Xander and his heart.
“Everything?” he says, chewing on the word. “Including the chemistry between two people?”
“Yep,” I say, continuing to nod, nonchalant. “That too.”
I take another French fry dripping in sauce and eat it, making sure this time I lick my entire lip. I don’t dare look at him while I do this, but I feel his eyes burning into the side of my face.
“Can you explain it to me, Miss Ashleigh?” he says, and I immediately feel itchy everywhere. Because even though I’ve learned that Xander is a surfer boy, he’s also the smartest person I’ve met.
I clear my throat. “Certain chemicals in your brain create feelings of desire, pleasure, and connection,” I say, the same spiel I do in class except this time, my student doesn’t fall into a giggling heap at the word pleasure, so I continue.
“We have dopamine, serotonin, and norepinephrine, which help determine if you are initially attracted to someone.” I look at him.
“So you were my shot of dopamine that night?” he asks.
I suck on my lip and offer a tight nod. “Yep.”
“And me? Was I a shot of dopamine for you?”
I continue nodding. “Yep.”
We hold eye contact and the way his eyes darken, I know exactly what he’s going to ask next. I brace for impact. The L word.
“What about love? Is that a chemical reaction?”
“When we find a connection, there’s an increase in oxytocin. This rewires our brain so that now we have an emotional attachment to that person,” I say, taking a sip of soda. The only problem is, it’s finished, so all we hear is my poor attempt at sucking the last few drops through ice.
Xander automatically hands his soda to me. I take it. But I decide that if he wants to talk about how oxytocin creates love, he can also learn about what erodes love too.
“And just as chemicals can rewire your brain when you’re in love, stressors can break down those bonds and reshape your brain, too.”
“Stress like infidelity?”
“Turns out, cheating’s a real buzzkiller,” I say, deadpan.
“Avoid the connection, dodge the oxytocin, and never get hurt,” he says, perfectly summing up my rules. “One commando crawl at a time.”
I look at him with an eye roll. Touché.
He throws me a self-deprecating smile that reverberates in every cell of my body. Including my heart.
Ignore it.
Then he clears his throat and says, “I’ve got one more place to show you.”
“Oh?” I say, more so to help move this chemistry along.
He dusts the salt off his hands and turns the engine on.
I don’t know how much more Xander I can take.
After driving for a while, he turns off Sunset Boulevard and onto Hilgard Avenue, the stretch of road that houses twenty-three fraternities and sororities of UCLA.
And I can’t control it. I’m back in the memory of the night we met.
I can’t see you again. Sorry.
I stare at the text message I’m about to send to last night’s hookup for what feels like the hundredth time in the middle of a frat house living room turned dance floor.
My phone says it’s 10:59 PM, which is college o’clock for party time.
I should know; I’m in my junior year. But I’m no longer in a partying mood.
My phone lights up again. For the third time in as many minutes.
Words of warning from my mom, printed on reams of paper, displayed across every bookstore in the nation, splashed across every magazine, flash through my mind: Love and chemistry can’t coexist. She’s right.
I decline the incoming call and hit send.
Note to self: Never fall asleep in someone else’s bed.
Never accept breakfast. And never ever get sucked into morning sex.
It always gives the wrong impression that there could be more.
But there’s never more. Sure, he’ll be hurt for a hot minute.
But this too shall pass. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I take a deep breath and slip my phone into my jean shorts pocket, then use my thumb to gently press my blackened eyelashes for a spot dry. Time to pull a Houdini.
Before I can make a beeline for the exit, a roar goes up in the corner, snapping me out of my shell-shock. I look over to see a pair of jeans and white high tops floating upside down in the air. Correction: 10:59 PM is college o’clock for keg stand time.
“Ash!” a voice calls from across the living room. It’s Leo, one of the hot frat guys from Sigma Chi. “You’re up!”
I try to wave him off, but it’s no use. The peer pressure is strong in this one.
I lift up a single finger as Leo comes barreling up to me like an overexcited golden retriever. You do one hell of a keg stand and you’re treated like frat royalty forever.
“I mean it,” I say to Leo. “One.” Then I’m bailing. Because no matter how many times I have to end it, it doesn’t get easier.