Chapter 5
Dane
Ipark in Alex’s driveway and grab my bag of peace offerings, but I don’t get out of the car.
The bag feels sweaty in my hand. I’m so nervous.
I’ve never been here before, not even to one of his high school parties, which were famous.
I was never invited. It looks like a perfect party house.
Modern, sleek, with big windows and a minimalist look.
But it still seems welcoming… to everyone but me.
I can’t really blame him for not inviting me to the parties, to be fair.
He stopped speaking to me after the mistletoe incident.
It’s the kind of thing you look back on and physically shudder about, even years later.
If it’d happened to me I would’ve begged my parents to let me change schools.
But Alex was too brave for that. Much braver than me, as usual.
I shake myself out of the horrible memory of that corridor.
The hurt in Alex’s eyes. I need to get out of the car before he sees me through the cameras that a house this fancy must have.
He’ll wonder what I’m playing at, just sitting in his driveway like a stalker.
A couple of matching real potted Christmas trees flank the front door.
They’re decorated with tasteful white lights.
And there’s a trellis around the porch where wisteria probably creeps affluently in summer.
Alex’s mum is a surveyor and they have a bit of money.
More than my family, anyway. It’s just been him and his mum since his dad left when we were in primary school.
I knock on the door and wait. His mum should be at work, and I’m hoping Alex is recuperating alone.
I didn’t text ahead in case he doesn’t want to see me.
I figure it’s harder to turn me away when I’m standing right here.
While I wait for him to hobble to the door, I examine the wreath.
Lush with dark green foliage and silvery baubles, it looks like it cost at least fifty quid.
Very different from the cheap, tinselly one on my own front door.
Finally Alex’s voice crackles through the intercom.
“What do you want, Dane?”
He sounds tired, and in pain. Guilt pricks at me.
I probably shouldn’t have been distracting him when he was on the treadmill.
But he makes teasing him too much fun to resist. Mind you, those stupid curly elf shoes didn’t help either.
Why didn’t he just choose the Santa costume like all the other men?
Some part of me wonders if he wanted to see my reaction to those tight velvety hotpants.
And fuck, my body reacted. I can’t believe I got down on my knees in a public toilet because I needed to suck him off right then and there.
“I came to see how you’re doing,” I say. I hold up my plastic bag so he can see it through the camera. “I even brought Lucozade.”
The traditional beverage of the ill and incapacitated since time immemorial, at least according to my dad.
“Well, if you brought Lucozade...”
There’s a dry, sarcastic grin in Alex’s voice.
Reluctant, like he’s mad at himself for relenting, but it’s there.
Finally the door opens and he stands there looking at me, propped up on crutches.
He seems smaller than usual, wearing big fluffy house socks in the shape of a snowman.
Also jogging bottoms and a huge REM sweater that dwarfs him.
His hair is messy. He isn’t wearing any eyeliner, and it makes him look vulnerable and unsure.
The biggest part of my heart just wants to grab him and kiss him right now.
Obviously I don’t. He gave me that chance when we were fourteen years old and I blew it.
Anyway. Ancient history. Alex looks at me now, his unusually bare face questioning. I’m just standing here, saying nothing. Probably freaking him out.
“Are you not coming in?” he says.
“Yeah… yeah I am. I suppose.”
“Do you want something to drink?” he says, ignoring how dopey I’m acting.
He leads the way down the hallway on his crutches, slow and laborious. I can’t have him being the host when he can barely walk.
“Like I said, I brought Lucozade,” I remind him.
“That’s such an old man thing,” he teases.
Embarrassment flushes my cheeks. I’ve already put my foot in it.
“Sorry. Should’ve known to bring a light little Shiraz.” I have no idea what that means, and judging by Alex’s face it doesn’t mean much.
“Shiraz isn’t light,” he says. He’s never able to stop himself from correcting me. “But I was only joking about the Lucozade. I appreciate it. Really.”
His gaze flickers up to meet mine. He’s nervous. Same as me. Even though he’s on home territory in his fancy house and I’m the unwelcome guest.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“Come into the living room,” he suggests. “Bring a couple of glasses?”
I do what he says, grabbing a couple of glasses from the kitchen.
We settle down on the huge corner sofa. What shade would you call it?
Duck egg? Shale gray? Anyway, it looks like money.
And it’s so soft. If I wasn’t on edge, I could just sink into it and stay here all day.
The whole place is decorated in expensive, neutral shades, the height of taste as I expected.
Except for the Christmas tree. Several of the decorations were obviously homemade by a kid, and they mess up the fancy color scheme.
“You made those decorations when you were in primary school?” I say.
Alex flushes a little. “Yeah. I can’t stop Mum bringing them out every year. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“My mum does the same thing,” I confess.
He gives me a small, nervous smile, then flicks on the giant TV. The noise helps take some of the edge off the atmosphere.
“Give me some of that medicinal Lucozade, then,” he says. “Get me walking again.”
I open a bottle, careful not to spill on the perfect furniture.
“I brought Christmas wraps too,” I say.
“You brought me lunch?” he says. He looks confused. “Why are you being so nice? I assumed you came here to gloat.”
Huh. I suppose that’s fair.
“It’s a multi-purpose visit,” I say. “Gloating and lunch. I just feel bad that you were so distracted by my hotness that you fell off that treadmill in front of everyone.” I smirk at him. “Must’ve been pretty embarrassing for you.”
He rolls his eyes. “That sounds more like you. I was getting worried you’d been visited by Christmas ghosts or something.”
He grabs a sandwich, opening the paper to reveal turkey, ham and stuffing with cranberry dressing in a tortilla wrap. I bought it from the fanciest café in town.
“This looks amazing,” he says. I spot the exact moment he realizes he sounds too genuine and grateful. Like we’re actually friends. He narrows his eyes. “Is it poisoned or something?”
I grab it back and hold it out of reach. He’s injured so it’ll be easy to mess with him. There isn’t a thing he can do about it.
“If you don’t want it…” I say.
The delicious scent already hangs in the air between us. He looks at the food longingly.
“No, I want it.” He holds out a hand, his big brown eyes pleading. “I knew you didn’t come here to be nice.”
That pleading look always gets me going, but this time I feel a flicker of something deeper than lust. It unnerves me.
“I did come here to be nice,” I say. I hold his gaze for a moment too long, until the curiosity in his eyes makes me look away. “Temporarily, I mean. No fun tormenting you when you’re this helpless.”
I hand over the sandwich.
“Thanks,” he says.
He takes a big bite. It makes me look at the full, perfect Cupid’s bow of his lips. I drag my eyes away, concentrating on the TV.
“What is that crap anyway?” I scoff.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Traitors. You’ve never heard of it? Everyone is watching it.”
“Reality TV?”
I don’t mean to sound so superior. It just comes out like that.
I’m too used to sparring with Alex. Insulting each other instead of having proper conversations.
But now he doesn’t answer back, just looks at me with his big, unmade-up eyes, and I feel bad.
I really didn’t come to gloat. I actually came here to cheer him up, not to snipe at him.
But it’s tough to remember. Do I even know how to be nice to him?
We’ve fallen into a pattern of being rivals—enemies, actually—on the tennis court.
I didn’t expect Malachi to start picking him for the team so soon after he started playing.
Didn’t expect him to be such a natural. If I’m honest, part of me is jealous.
Sport is supposed to be my thing. I play hard against him, but he can take it.
He throws it back, too, with interest. Maybe because he loves tennis and maybe a little bit because of what I did to him at school.
I didn’t know what to do except throw that aggression right back. Both on the court and when we fuck.
But I guess I can try a change, now. I’ve come this far.
Nerves prickle up my spine, along with something else.
Hope. It starts somewhere deep within me as I look at Alex’s face.
He’s making it so obvious that he’s ready to bury the hatchet if I want to.
I’m at a crossroads. I can either make some snarky comment and he’ll have to protect himself, offering me hostility in return.
Or I can do the really brave thing and show him that I’m ready to lay down my weapons too.
“I guess I can give Traitors a chance,” I say.
The smile that spreads across Alex’s face is worth the moment of fear before I jumped.
His eyes light up and he keeps eye contact.
I feel something crack between us, like the first crack in an icesheet that marks the beginning of the end of an ice age.
Or maybe that’s too overdramatic. Maybe being in thespian boy’s house is infecting me.
We focus on eating and watching quietly for a while.
I try to give the show a chance, I really do, but it’s not my thing.
The coffins are fucking creepy. Who signed off on that idea?
I don’t say anything to Alex because I would never admit to him that it freaks me out a little.
I’m learning the benefits of biting my tongue, especially as he scoots a little closer on the sofa, all companionable.
Any closer and I could lay my arm ever so casually over the back of the sofa like in a romantic movie and let him snuggle into me.
Is that what he’s angling for? My muscles almost make the move before I can stop them. What’s wrong with me?