Chapter 11
Friday evening, it’s almost time for my date with Alex, but no matter how many times I ask, he refuses to say where we’re going. The only clue: “Wear something you’re willing to get dirty.”
I scowl at my closet, wondering what the hell that could mean.
“If someone warns you your clothes might get dirty on a date, where do you think you’ll be going?”
“Hiking?” Madison muses.
“Eh, I thought that. But it’s night.”
I hear her type something. I peek my head out of the closet and see that she’s put the manga she was reading—loaned to her by Patrick—aside and pulled out her laptop. She reads out a list: “Food fight? Paintball? Ooh, cooking class?”
“Hmm. Yeah. Could be cooking,” I acknowledge, but none of those ideas feel quite right.
They don’t feel Alex.
“You really like this Alex guy, huh,” Madison remarks in a tone I can’t quite decipher.
She has a late shift at the library in a bit, but I know she’s seeing Patrick again this weekend, so I take a moment to figure out a response I don’t mind getting back to Ellie.
“He’s cool.” I shrug. “We’ll see how tonight goes.”
“I guess I’m just surprised you’re moving on this fast when you seemed so into Ellie.”
I think about our stilted conversation after creative writing.
“If he wanted me to wait around for him, he should have texted.”
Ha. Let that get back to him.
Plagued by decision paralysis, I finally grab jeans and a cute top after I realize there is not a single thing in this closet I’ll own by my thirties, so even if the outfit I wear tonight gets ruined, it’s no real loss to me. The joys and perils of fast fashion.
By the time Alex and I are in his car, on our way to wherever we’re going, I’m annoyed that I spent hours debating what to wear because he thought it’d be cute to keep his plans a secret.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you think I’m taking you?”
“Are you serious? We’re on the date, and I still can’t know?”
“Dead serious,” he says, then pauses and glances at me. Whatever he sees on my face causes him to let out a small laugh.
“You think this is funny?” I demand, not hiding my annoyance.
Alex shrugs. “Kind of. We’ve got a bit of a drive, so you have time to let your brain run wild wondering. Please feel free to guess out loud.”
“I would have said dinner and a movie based on your text about eating late, but then there was your comment about getting dirty.”
I don’t realize how that sounds until the word is out of my mouth. Dirty. Alex stops at a red light and glances away from the road long enough give me a not-at-all-subtle once-over.
“You look great, by the way. Kind of sad we might ruin that outfit.”
Even though his words send a thrill through me, I roll my eyes. “You’re a shameless flirt.”
“There’s no shame in saying exactly how you feel.”
I run my hand along the plastic door panel, then lower it to the fabric seat underneath me. I was surprised when I first saw Alex’s car last week, a white Corolla old enough that he must have bought it used but not old enough to feel vintage. It smells vaguely of gasoline and old cigarettes.
Such a far cry from the ostentatious sports car he drove in 2019.
“Give me a hint.” As I say this, he turns right onto Sepulveda Boulevard. Before he can answer, I ask, “Are you getting on the 405? Are we going to the Valley?”
Merging onto the 405, he admits, “Since you’ve figured it out, yes. We’re going to the Valley. Specifically Northridge, then Van Nuys.”
I frown, wracking my brain for what could be in Northridge and Van Nuys. I’ve lived in LA for fourteen years—or a month, depending how you spin it—and I’m not certain I could point to Northridge on a map.
“What the hell is in Van Nuys and Northridge?”
I think of the messy-date ideas Madison pulled up as I was getting ready.
Paintball is looking more and more likely.
He laughs and glances at me, and the image of him looking away from the highway brings on a panic so sudden and severe that all logic escapes me.
“Eyes on the road!” I scream. My heart pounds, my breath quickens. I’m not in Alex’s car cruising up the 405. Instead, I’m trying to get far away from Alex. It’s nighttime on the 134. I slam on my brakes. And then—
The silence is deafening in the wake of my outburst. My breathing is loud in my ears, and I’m embarrassed by how ridiculous I sounded. Alex stares resolutely at the road.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft and concerned.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “That was—irrational.”
I realize this is the first time I’ve gotten on a highway since—well, since.
“Don’t apologize. It wasn’t irrational.”
“It was,” I argue. I’m still a little on edge, but the panic is wearing off. I’m fine. “I got into a car accident a while ago—it was pretty serious, but… magically, I walked away from it unscathed. It’s something I’m still working through.”
The weight of my admission brings a frown to his face.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks carefully.
“No,” I say, too quickly. “No. It was just—it’s dumb, but I was distracted in the car, so I think… you looking away from the road just… brought that to mind.”
“I swear I won’t look away from the road again,” he says, his tone so serious that I laugh. Like that, the tension is broken, and a flirty smile plays at his lips before he says, “It’s pretty tempting when you’re sitting there looking like that, though.”
He pulls into the parking lot of one of those quintessential LA strip malls, the two-story kind that takes up a corner and has the mandatory hole-in-the-wall restaurant and vape shop. Someone once told me that LA is basically just one big strip mall, and I haven’t been able to unsee it since.
“We’re getting Salvadoran food?”
“Food’s not until later. Why, are you hungry? We could pop in and grab some pupusas.”
I shake my head, unable to restrain my smile at how eager he is to make me happy.
That is what it is, eagerness, but it’s interesting how it reads on him.
Eagerness always strikes me as youthful, sort of naive, even, but from Alex, eagerness comes across as self-assurance.
If his date is hungry, he’ll get his date food—no question about it.
“I ate earlier. But I don’t understand… are we here to pick up an Edible Arrangement?”
“Stop guessing,” he jokingly reprimands me, then presses his hand to the small of my back to guide me to the right. I jolt at the touch, the first reminder of the kisses we shared just days ago.
Everything else escapes my mind, all my focus pulled to that tiny spot of contact.
I don’t make another guess about where he’s taking me.
He could be leading me to the storefront he rents to stash the bodies of his victims for all I care.
All that exists are those few square inches where our skin is separated by nothing other than the thin fabric of my top.
He isn’t even touching me with his whole hand, just the tips of his fingers, exerting gentle pressure to guide me toward the stairs leading up to the second story.
Halfway up, I glance at him and see that his attention is firmly focused on the same spot.
He’s just as affected as I am.
Either that or he’s staring at my ass, which I know looks great in these heels. At least they’re good for something, because with each step, I worry I’m about to trip and twist my ankle.
Mental note: Prioritize more sensible footwear in my second life.
I stop walking, and Alex meets my gaze. Oh yeah, that little point of contact is driving him just as wild as it’s driving me.
He blinks his eyes and clears his throat as if he can will his lust away.
“Joey—” he starts, almost as if he’s about to apologize.
I reach out and cup his chin, delighting in the surprise that elicits. I lean forward slowly, leaving no question what I’m about to do. As tempting as it is to deepen the kiss, I keep it to a chaste press of our lips, aware that we’re in public, and this is the start of the date.
It’s a good kiss, as chaste as it is, but when I pull away, I find myself frowning. “Why do you taste like watermelon? I thought you quit.”
It takes a few moments for his confusion to clear, but when it does, a sheepish smile replaces it.
He reaches into his pocket, and I’m not sure what I expect him to pull out, but a Jolly Rancher definitely isn’t it.
“Replaced one addiction with another. Want one?” he asks, offering it to me, his voice deep and throaty, betraying how affected he is by our kiss.
I shake my head. Years of having to religiously use prescription sensitivity toothpaste to keep my teeth from being in a constant state of pain has completely turned me off hard candy.
“I’m good,” I assure him. He shrugs as if to say, Suit yourself, and pops it into his mouth.
It shouldn’t be hot. It should not be hot to watch a guy eat candy. But something about the motion, him bringing it up to his mouth and closing his plush lips around it, combined with the fact that his voice never lost that lust-filled huskiness does something for me.
If I weren’t so curious to find out where he’s taking me, I’d grab his hand, lead him back to his car, and demand he drive us somewhere we can have some privacy. Why the hell not? Didn’t he say we could keep this casual? A car quickie is about as casual as it gets.
Though driving across town to a surprise date he planned doesn’t exactly scream casual.
“You’re just really excited about your Edible Arrangement, aren’t you?” Alex jokes.
“I knew it.” I laugh. “You know they deliver those, right? I mean, I’m sure they’ll appreciate you going through the effort of picking it up…”
“You’re very funny, and normally I would take the time to see this bit out to its natural end, but we’re late. Come on.”
“I didn’t realize the people at Edible Arrangements were such sticklers for punctuality,” I retort, continuing up the stairs.
I stop short when I look into the window of the only place that’s currently open, its brightly lit interior on full display through its huge floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You didn’t.” I gasp, turning toward him to see that he looks… unsure? Wary, even. “You booked a pottery class for our first date?”
“You said you always wanted to learn,” he says simply, as if this weren’t the most thoughtful date anyone has ever planned for me. “I know you’re going through the prerequisites right now, but I figured, why put it off?”
Throat clogged with emotion, I realize that if I had truly met Alex for the first time on Saturday—if I didn’t know the cheating asshole he once was, and if I weren’t already in love with Ellie—this sweet, tremendously thoughtful date would feel like the perfect follow-up to that first night where we just clicked in a way that felt like kismet.
Or it would have felt like kismet, had I not walked up to him that afternoon with a plan, knowing exactly who he was, pushing all his buttons on purpose, and trying to punish him for misdeeds he had yet to commit.
Hell, I even knew he liked punishment, just a little bit, in that weird way he always loved to hint at.
Does this feel like kismet to him?
Does it feel like fate dropped me in his lap on Saturday, just a wild, contrarian girl walking around campus in her pajamas who could talk for hours about the same inane stuff as him?
Is he mentally writing the screenplay of his life, casting me in the role of his manic pixie dream girl? Or does he think this is the real deal?
Real deal?
I can’t allow myself to think this could be real. To think we could be real. I won’t be the fool I once was. Whatever he might think, I know better.
I know where this story ends. I know where his story ends, even if I’m rewriting my own.
Alex Aquino is going to be a very successful man.
And in his success, he will succumb to the same downfalls to which I imagine many successful men succumb.
The entire world will be within his grasp, and in his greed, he’ll try to take it all.
He’ll have the perfect wife who is, if not loyal or doting, at least beautiful and decorous.
And what he doesn’t get from her, he’ll find outside the marriage—because I know, I always knew, that I was not the only person he used to cheat on Ingrid.
Alex Aquino is, quite simply, not a man made for true love.
And yet—is it possible for me to rewrite his story?
Who are you? I mentally beseech him. Are you this boy, or are you that man? Is it possible to be both?
“What are you thinking?” he asks after several moments of me staring and him staring back, a curious tilt to his chin, a confused squint to his eyes, a wary turn to his lips.
I shake my head, not wanting to go there.
Instead, I joke, “This is way better than an Edible Arrangement.”