Chapter Nineteen - A.J.
Cause I try and try to forget you, girl
but it’s just so hard to do
every time you do that thing you do
That Thing You Do - The Wonders
I never thought I’d have a roommate until Alexandra showed up with her little quirks, her smiles, and her judging looks every time I screw up.
Besides turning the front bedroom into a TikTok rich girl livestream set, my friend also discovered the best restaurants across three delivery apps, got me hooked on animated movies, and proved that pulling all-nighters watching films on a sofa bed is, in fact, the best use of furniture.
It’s been about ten days since we got here, and even though things started off a little messy, the “maybe I have a crush on her” phase turned into the “yeah, she’s totally charming, but she’s my friend” phase. And everything was going fine. Until Rebeca showed up.
“I didn’t know you’d brought a guy to share the apartment with you, Mr. Anthony,” she says as she walks into the supply closet between the living room and kitchen.
“What do you mean, Beca?” I ask, watching Alexandra stroll down the hall.
“This mess,” she laughs, shrugging. “Is it okay if I stay a bit longer today?” she asks, probably worried about getting paid, while grabbing the mop and a bunch of cleaning supplies I don’t even recognize.
“Of course. But I didn’t bring a guy,” I say, pulling Alexandra close and kissing the top of her head in a sort of ‘good morning.’ “I brought this lovely girl.”
“Your girlfriend is very pretty,” Rebeca says with a smile, though her eyes are still nervously scanning the space.
“Brazilian?” Alex asks, and Beca nods enthusiastically.
“From Minas. And you, miss?”
“Rio,” Alex replies, reaching out to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Alexandra, but you can call me Alex,” she says in Portuguese.
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll let you have your coffee,” Beca says before turning to me. “I’ll start with the bedrooms, Mr. Anthony. See you in a bit.” Then she’s gone, reminding me I’m supposed to be leave the house when she comes to clean.
“That was so embarrassing,” Alexandra huffs, stepping away.
“What do you mean?"
“ Us , A.J. We totally lost it,” she says, opening the cabinets – then closing them again and leaning on the counter, turning back to face me.
“She just didn’t know you were a girl.”
“You’re seriously saying that?” Hands on hips, head tilted – everything about her is warning me not to answer honestly, so I stay perfectly still.
“Rebeca didn’t say ‘a guy’ because she thought you had a boyfriend.
She said it because this apartment is a…
” – she looks at me for a second, searching for the word – “pigsty.”
“What?”
“A disaster, A.J.” Alexandra slumps over the island like she wants to scream, scanning the room.
I follow her gaze. Her eyes land on the pizza boxes and delivery containers piled in the sink, then shut tight when she sees the microwave — an actual war zone with crumbs and sauce stains everywhere.
And let’s not even talk about the overflowing trash.
I don’t even remember the last time we took it out.
She straightens up and walks to the living room to our left, where cushions are scattered on the floor and a blanket’s draped across the couch — no wonder she looks so disappointed in our shared domestic skills.
“We need some basic hygiene, you know?”
“I do have hygiene — I also have a cleaner,” I say, fully aware of how that sounds, and she gives me the kind of look you’d give someone who just kicked an old man.
“That’s not how this works, A.J. You don’t just let the place rot because someone comes to clean every two weeks.”
“She comes every Thursday!” I throw up my hands in defense. “She missed last week because of a personal issue.”
“You could’ve told me, I would’ve helped.”
“Oh, so the house has been a mess this whole time, and you , Saint Alexandra of Sparkling Floors, didn’t notice?”
Her jaw drops. Then she tries not to laugh.
“You’re right, I dropped the ball,” she admits, clumsily trying to tie up her big hair into a bun before leaning against the wall.
“We’re still learning to live together, Alex. It’s fine.”
I walk over and take the hair tie from my wrist, fixing her bun myself.
“I’ll do better at keeping the place clean – but I’ll need your help.”
She studies my face while I finish tying it.
“Don’t worry. We’ll stay on top of it.”
“You better. Just because you refused help with rent doesn’t mean I’m turning into your maid.”
“We’re still on break. Let’s stay mindful, not go full clean freaks.”
“Just because we’re on break doesn’t mean we live like trolls, A.J. Sleeping at sunrise, waking up at noon, living off delivery – this isn’t sustainable!” she says, trailing her hand down my chest like she forgot her whole “I’m mad” stance.
But hearing her call me Anthony knocks me off balance.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“I hate that name.”
“The cleaner literally just called you that.”
“The agency gave her that name when she started. I’m too embarrassed to correct her now. You call me A.J.” I cross my arms, half pouting. “And I don’t get why you’re suddenly mad at this amazing life we’ve been living these past ten days.”
I don’t mention that I actually have a routine. I hit the building’s gym early every morning, go for massages once a week, my skincare game is solid... But Alexandra just seemed so happy being carefree, I didn’t even bother bringing it up.
“A.J., we’ve been acting like two teenagers in a frat house,” she counters, and I roll my eyes to keep from laughing.
“We were on tour for six months. Wanting to slack off a bit makes total sense,” I say, throwing myself onto the couch. “And my name is A.J.”
“Oh my God – keeping the apartment clean is an issue, saying your name is an issue. Is there anything I can do?”
“Sit next to me and help figure out what to cook?” I pat the couch. “We also need to cut back on ordering food or we’re gonna die from junk.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, turning to head back to the kitchen. But I jump up and catch her halfway, spinning her around by the waist.
“I’m very much believable,” I say, pulling her closer. “And I have a proposal.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s not having it, but her body relaxes into mine.
“And what’s this proposal you’ve got?” she asks, raising one brow.
“Let’s order something different tonight. Tomorrow we go to the store and buy real ingredients.”
“There’s pasta in the cupboard. We could cook tonight.”
“Yeah, we have pasta and water, Alex. We haven’t gone shopping once. I’m not eating plain noodles.”
“If – and only if – we order food tonight, you’re on dish duty and you take out the trash.”
My eyes flick to the dishwasher she still hasn’t met.
“And after that, we each sleep in our own rooms. That poor couch deserves a break.”
“And tomorrow we get breakfast out, then go grocery shopping,” I say, trying to sound like I’m in control, because I seriously can’t take her bossing me around anymore.
“And to do that, we go to bed early tonight. No more staying up till 4 a.m.,” she insists, hands on her hips like my arms aren’t still around her.
“We could even run out the door in a fake panic so you can hail a cab with a travel mug in hand.”
“I liked your proposal,” she says, grinning – but her eyes aren’t playful. They’re teasing. “but… still sounds like an excuse just to grab me in the middle of the room.”
Her words make my skin burn everywhere we’re touching, and I drop my arms.
“Please. I was just trying to make you think clearly. We don’t even have food in the house and you’re off daydreaming.” I give her a little shoulder nudge.
“Sure. Because you’d only grab me if I begged ,” Alexandra says as she walks past, slamming half her tiny body into mine like she thinks she can knock me over. She’s definitely still feeling that hit.
***
It only took three episodes of Hell’s Kitchen and two of MasterChef before we gave in and started watching specific YouTube videos like “How to roast a decent fish” and “What sauces pair well with red meat,” because whatever those so-called amateur chefs were doing on TV was way beyond our skill level.
If the gossip pages and the fan club were already curious about what Alex and I were doing together all over Manhattan before our little culinary experiments… now things were on a whole new level.
Luckily, we’re on break – my bodyguards, however, are not.
And nothing stresses Hammer and his team more than our visits to Brazilian spots.
Whether it’s crossing the city to get to Alexandra ’s favorite grocery store, hunting down specific ingredients in Brazilian markets, or heading to Times Square just to eat a coxinha [7] – those moments easily rank as the most chaotic when it comes to fan interactions.
It’s not like Americans don’t freak out, but Brazilians? They go feral for me and Alex as a duo. And it doesn’t look like that hype is dying down anytime soon.
On the bright side, the apartment’s cleaner, and we barely ordered takeout this week.
Over the last few days, we burned two fish fillets and oversalted a quiche – it was garlic and cheese flavored, so maybe I wasn’t that mad about it.
But we nailed the pasta and the risotto. I’ll say it: we’re improving.
Tonight’s dinner? Rice, beans, potato salad, and roasted pork. A meal fit for the gods. My rice is a disaster, so she’s in charge of that, but my beans turned out so good they didn’t even taste canned.
Cooking may not be our greatest passion, but we’re getting by. More importantly: we’re back to our nightly movie tradition. These days, it’s just one film before bed, to help us sleep better.
“I’ll admit it,” I say, unfolding the sofa bed while Alexandra reads the movie synopsis. “Having a routine isn’t so bad.”
“Having a routine is great ,” she shoots back. “So, are we watching Atlantis or not?” she asks, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, clearly done waiting for my answer.