Chapter 7 #3
“He’s addicted to gambling. Loves to rack up debts and not pay them.
He skips town to avoid the consequences—conveniently ignoring that the consequences always come down on my mom—then comes back home after hitting a jackpot.
Honestly, he’s hit a lot of jackpots over the years, to the point I can’t help feeling like he’s actually really fucking lucky in a twisted sort of way.
But no amount of luck can save you if your vices are strong enough.
“Whenever he left, my mom would swear up and down she was through with him. Done. But then he’d come home, and—he’s charming. He can make my mom fall in love with him all over again. It just gets easier and easier for him. Harder for her. Impossible for us.”
I say the first thought that comes to my mind: “He sounds like a real shithead.”
Alex’s laugh sounds surprised, like he can’t believe he’s laughing about such a thing.
I have the thought, distantly, not quite fully formed in my head, that this version of Alex would be so disappointed to hear what he grows into. Cheating on your wife isn’t as bad as abandoning your children, but they exist in the same ballpark of shittiness.
Then again, who am I to judge? If I were to ask my eighteen-year-old self if she’d ever sleep with a married man, she’d swear up and down that she would never, not in a million years. And she really would mean it.
Funny how life takes its turns.
“He is a shithead. Your turn,” Alex says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“What?”
“My family issues in exchange for yours. I showed you mine.”
“Yeah, but—I don’t have anything like that.”
Alex shrugs. “It isn’t a competition.”
“I thought all conversations were competitions.”
“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
“Never, ever.”
“Emotional conversations are an exception.”
“Well, now you’re just making up rules as you go along,” I say, then take a deep breath.
I don’t know where to start. “My family is fine. My dad is good at the quality time and bonding parts of being a parent. He’s a doctor, and when I was growing up, he was always working, so when he was home, he just wanted to relax.
We’d hang out, watch old movies and TV shows together.
The bulk of parenting and household duties fell on my mother, who also worked full-time.
I grew up watching her and thinking, Hell no, that’s not for me.
You know, like, she had to do all the heavy lifting, the hard work, and my dad got to be the cool parent.
I still wanted… I don’t know. Happily ever after or whatever.
But if that’s what it’s supposed to look like? Pass.
“My mother is difficult. Exacting. She never settles for less than perfection. She’s the child of immigrants—they both are, actually—so I think she always felt like she had to achieve a lot for them, to make up for their sacrifices.
Which is fine, I get it—or I guess I don’t, but…
she expects us to do the same. She planned our whole lives out before we were born.
She wanted a doctor and a lawyer. My sister chose doctor, so… ”
I trail off, then continue. “Sierra’s four years older than me. She’s a surgeon—studying to 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 no move 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? What hmm?” I pull my hand back.
“Nothing.”
“That was a something hmm.”
“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’s your 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 were mine.”
“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 what more felt 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.
“People who don’t want to wait until next weekend,” he says as if it should be obvious.
“We have homework,” I remind him.
“Come over to my room.” He shrugs. “We can do our homework together.”
I level him with a flat look. I remember very well how doing homework together always goes in college. He’s going to have to try harder than that.
“Yes, I will go out with you. Next weekend.”
“I’m not asking yet. Just checking if you’re free.”
I open my mouth to verbalize my annoyance, but he stops me with yet another kiss. Unable to help myself, I take the opportunity to deepen it, pulling away only when I realize we’re crossing the line into making out. I hate to admit it, but I melt more with each kiss.
He takes a step back, then pauses. He leans in and kisses me one last time.
“Good night, Joey.”
Once again, I’m jolted by his use of my nickname.
In my first life, he always called me Josephina.
It’s funny that his absolute refusal to use my preferred name was something that annoyed me for over a decade—an act of rebellion that I took as a sign of disrespect for my preferences—and yet, for just a single fleeting moment, I find myself missing the sound of my full name rolling past his lips.
You can call me Josephina, I almost say. But only you. Only ever you.
Ridiculous.
He can call me whatever he wants, because this thing between us, however exciting, is not built to last. It’s a good distraction. Something to take my mind off the mess I’ve made with Ellie. That’s all it can be.
But I know all too well how easy it is to get caught up in a distraction.
“Good night, Alex,” I say, watching as he walks away. He stops and turns around to smile at me not once but twice, and I realize what a dangerous game I’m playing.
I know all of Alex Aquino’s faults to an exact degree. I have experienced many of them firsthand. Too bad knowing something is a terrible idea doesn’t magically erase the temptation.
He’ll hurt me.
I just might let him.