Chapter 7
I need to go.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it as I stand up from the picnic table.
I remember I’m in my lobster pajamas, of all things.
And I’m not wearing shoes. Or a bra. I cross my arms, then wonder if doing so only makes my state of undress more apparent.
I uncross them, but when I catch Alex’s gaze glancing down to where I’m sure too much is showing, I cross them again.
I want to scream.
Did I really think it didn’t matter what I wore the first time I met Alex?
“You just got here.” He frowns, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.
“Right. I did. And now I’m going to go.”
I make it only a few steps before he calls out, “When can I see you again?”
I turn around. Confusion is written all over his face.
Was he always this adorable? The thought that sent me spiraling. That told me it was time to cut and run, to put as much space as possible between us before he ruins me all over again. Because, yes, he absolutely was this adorable. And charming. And cute.
Until boyish charm morphed into manly manipulation.
Until he realized he had something most people only wish they had, something that can’t be learned or faked: magnetism.
And, boy, did he use that magnetism to his advantage.
How did I allow myself to forget, even for a few minutes, that nothing with Alex is ever genuine?
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“At least give me your number.”
“I—” I’m about to say I don’t own a phone when I realize I’m holding it in my hand. Okay. Well. Good thing I’ve never shied away from being a bitch when need calls. “I’d rather not. Bye.”
I practically sprint away, ignoring the sound of him calling my name.
I take the stairs to my room, punch my code into the keypad on the door, and make a beeline to the window. Alex is still in the same position I left him, turned away from the table and staring toward the door of the building like he’s not quite sure what to do with this.
He glances up, his focus pulled straight to my window as if by an external force.
As if he could feel my attention.
I’m rooted in place, arrested by the feeling of our eyes locked together, connecting us across the distance.
I don’t know what I expect, but it certainly isn’t for him to lean back against the table on both elbows and stare up at me, a small smile slowly curling his mouth, everything about his posture and demeanor working in tandem to send the exact same message:
I can do this all day.
Unbothered. Not a worry in the world. As if things are going exactly his way.
I step back from the window. I’m not doing this. I refuse to get caught up in whatever game he thinks we’re playing. When Alex plays, he plays to win—and he’s never much cared if his wins come at the cost of everyone around him losing.
I need to shower.
That’s right. I need to take a very long, luxurious shower—as luxurious as a shower can be in a communal bathroom. Which, admittedly, is not very. Out of all the things I’ve had to adjust to back in college, using the communal bathrooms might be the worst.
Right now, those communal showers might as well be an oasis.
By the time I get out, Alex will be gone.
Unfortunately, while I might have gotten away from Alex in a physical sense, my brain refuses to comply.
The whole shower, my thoughts keep returning to him.
His obnoxious, self-satisfied smile. His easy confidence.
The fact that I can hold all the cards, have all the foresight in the world, and still find myself sucked into his orbit.
Now that I’ve removed myself from said orbit, I kind of hate that I ran away. This is my dorm, and that should be my table. If anyone should run away, it’s him.
It’s admittedly nice to have something other than Ellie to focus on. For the first time in days, I’m not spiraling into sadness, I’m working myself up into a rage.
It feels kind of good.
I take the time to blow-dry my hair. I put on skinny jeans and a thin black sweater—cheap polyester, like everything else I owned in 2012 apparently.
By the time I get back to my room, I’m high on my anger.
I head straight to the window. I don’t know what I expect to see more—Alex still sitting there, in the same relaxed position, staring up at me like I never left, or an empty table, Alex having vanished like a ghost, leaving me to worry if our exchange was nothing but a product of my imagination.
What I don’t expect is for him to be there but not looking at my window, his head in his book like none of it happened.
I fume as I watch the ease with which he turns a page, then another.
I’m about to do something unhinged, like bang on my window to get his attention, when he looks straight up at me and smirks. As if he’s known I was here all along.
I realize that he’s now on the opposite side of the table, perfectly positioned to glance up at me with casual indifference.
He’s fucking with me.
That’s it—
I raise my window the few inches it will actually open and yell, “Leave. Now.”
His smirk widens into a smile like he thinks my words are cute. He stands up, rounds the table, walks toward the building until he’s right under my window, and calls up to me like Romeo professing his love for Juliet.
“I’ll leave when you give me your number.”
Okay, not quite a profession of love.
He barely has to raise his voice for it to project across the distance, in stark contrast to the veritable shriek of my own voice—but I push through.
“I’m not giving you my number.”
“Then I guess I’m not leaving.”
“Some would call this stalking.”
“Some would call this a public table.”
“Go. Away.”
“You go away. I’m trying to read.”
He turns his back to me and sits down, this time facing away from the window, and picks up his book.
I grab my ID and hurry out the door. I rush down the stairs, storm up to him, and rip the book out of his hands.
“Oh, good, you’re back,” he says as if nothing is amiss.
Hands spread out on the table, leaning over him, I demand, “Why are you doing this?”
“You’re the one who came up to me,” he says, and I’m not quite sure if he’s talking about earlier or right now.
I sit down across from him. Take one deep breath, then two. He smiles all the while like he’s eating this shit up.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I told you what I want.”
My number. “You’re not getting it.”
We’re locked in a heated stare, and to my satisfaction, he’s the first to break, with a glance down at my sweater.
“Your lobster pajamas are gone,” he remarks softly. I’m so thrown by the change of topic that I respond on autopilot.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Probably for the best.” He shrugs. “I’m kind of scared of lobsters.”
“You’re scared of lobsters?” The revelation shocks a laugh out of me.
“Oh, you’re laughing at me. That’s great. I trust you with this confidence—”
“That’s your own fault. I never said you could trust me.”
“I don’t think a fear of lobsters is very funny,” he says with mock seriousness.
“Maybe not funny—but it’s certainly ridiculous.”
“They’re basically sea spiders. Totally freaky.”
“They’re more like sea scorpions,” I argue.
“Even freakier. I can’t believe people eat those things.”
“I’d try a land scorpion if given the opportunity.” I shrug. “Maybe. Sea scorpion or not, lobster’s delicious.”
“I’ll pretend I believe you, but—”
“Do you not know? Have you never tried lobster?”
“I refuse to eat lobster on principle, because it’s gross.”
I would bet money that the Alex I left behind in my first life had tried lobster, but the more I think about it, the more I guess it isn’t surprising that this Alex hasn’t yet.
Alex was always open about his working-class roots growing up in a small town in New Jersey.
Wore those roots like a sort of obnoxious badge of pride after he made all his money.
I pause, realizing how quickly I got sucked back into conversation with him.
“Confident lobster hate from someone who’s never even tasted it,” I say.
I’m about to tell him to fuck off when he abruptly stands and says, “Fine. Let’s go.”
“What?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Let’s go get lobster.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“What happened to your principles?”
“Fuck principles. I’d rather get dinner with you.”
“I’m not getting dinner with you right now,” I tell him.
“That’s okay, I’m open to a rain check.” He grins, then adds, “If you give me your number, we can set something up.”
Jesus. “You think you’re pretty smooth, don’t you.”
His grin only widens, and he ignores my comment. “Have dinner with me. I’ll buy. If you still don’t want to give me your number after, I’ll leave you alone and never bother you again.”
I open my mouth to protest but find myself pausing. I’m hungry. It’s a free meal. An easy way to get him out of my hair. And—maybe most important—it’s a distraction.
I’ve hardly thought of Ellie since Alex came into the picture.
“Okay. Fine. One dinner—but it’s not a date. And not lobster.”
“Why not?” He frowns. I can’t tell if he’s protesting the fact that it’s not a date or that I’ve vetoed lobster until he sarcastically adds, “I mean, if it’s so delicious.”
“You’re a college freshman. You can’t afford lobster.”
“I have a part-time job.” He shrugs. “I can think of worse things to spend my paycheck on than dinner with a pretty girl.”
One dinner. Not a date.
“Besides,” he continues, “now I need to try lobster. It’ll be disgusting, and I’ll win this conversation.”
He’s still standing. I stand too, just because it feels weird to be staring up at him.
“I didn’t realize this conversation was a competition,” I say, though, really, I should have. Everything is a competition to Alex. He said that in an interview once. That’s what drove him to amass so much wealth—he saw life as a competition, one he was determined to win.
“All conversations are competitions,” he remarks offhandedly.
My phone vibrates with an incoming call. I glance down and see it’s my mom.
A conversation I’m still not ready to have.
“Shouldn’t you get that?” he asks, and when I look up, he’s staring at my screen.