Chapter Forty-Four – Alex
Everything that God created, He made thinking of you:
He made the Milky Way, He made the dinosaurs.
Without thinking about anything, He made my life
and gave it to you...
Eu Te Devoro – Djavan
My first impression of A.J. was just the band guy flirting with me before he even knew me.
For weeks, we’d meet to rehearse, record, and re-record “Maybe,” and as long as I skirted around telling him outright that his pick-up lines were wildly inappropriate, he acted like it was hilarious to throw the worst flirts ever my way.
But my second impression was of a completely different man.
The one who heard me telling my cousin that my dad didn’t love me because of music—and instead of comforting me, or saying my dad would come around someday, or that I shouldn’t worry—he just invited me to a party so I wouldn’t spend the night alone stewing in that.
And when he saw I was still down the next day, he took me on a tour of my own city and looked after me without ever mentioning my “problem.”
A.J. never demanded explanations. He just showed up. Anthony never pushed me to talk… but he always listened, and more than that, he always saw me.
He was, before being a great love, an incredible friend.
But I’m not A.J.
I’m a girl still piecing herself back together—I stumble, I dive in headfirst… which is probably why I messaged that account always dropping the sun with sunglasses and red-heart emojis on all his posts.
After our first show back from Disney, Daniele asked to talk.
I thought it was a typical girls’ chat, but she and Rick had traced that profile—every post flooded with sunglasses emoji and red hearts—only followed people connected to A.J.
, Vicious, and, oddly, his dad. Knowing even the biggest fan wouldn’t know who his parents were, Rick suggested it might actually be his mom behind the account.
With help from “some guy who handles artists’ internet stuff for Victor,” they traced the IP to an address in Canada. The city and neighborhood checked out, so they were sure: it had to be one of A.J.’s parents, even though the profile pic was a “Pinterest-style” girl.
That left me with the job of messaging them on Instagram—and after everything A.J. has done for me, it was my turn to give back.
I don’t know if the meeting ended in cathartic tears and apologies, or if they aired every grievance, or if now they hate each other more than before I left.
What I do know is the kid who bolted six years ago chasing a dream—and never came back because he didn’t want to tell his parents he’d hit rock bottom—deserved that conversation.
And I sincerely hope, from the bottom of my heart, they managed to talk.
A.J.: We need to talk.
His message makes me drop my coffee cup on the sidewalk. When it shatters, I curse at the world—my jeans, my shoes, every name I can think of.
But I don’t care, because A.J.’s words echo in my head…and I hate those words.
A.J.: I’m not breaking up with you, and I’m not pregnant. I just wanted to ask you to come home.
Great. Now he explains it.
***
I open the apartment door, expecting total silence and only A.J. inside.
“Kitchen!” he yells, and I take four steps before seeing three people in the spot that’s always just been ours.
His face is swollen, his eyes rimmed red, but he’s the best off in the room.
“Hi,” I say, waving awkwardly at the three of them, stepping around Martha. I notice plates of carrot cake on the island.
“Come here. I know you know them already, but I want you to meet them,” A.J. says, opening his arm in that familiar way. I approach, head bowed.
“You don’t hate me?” I blurt out as he drapes an arm over my shoulders.
A.J. smiles and kisses my forehead for a good two seconds.
“I feel a lot of things for you, Alexandra. None of them—ever—was hate,” he promises, sealing my brow with another kiss. The tall man with salt-and-pepper hair rocks on his stool with nerves, and the woman behind me sniffs. “You promised you wouldn’t cry again.”
“Sorry—it’s just the first time I’ve seen my son in love, but I’ll get it together,” she says, almost embarrassed to call him “my son.”
“Sweetie, these are Martha and Patrick,” A.J. introduces them with a finger.
“We talked a lot today—there’s more to say—but Martha promised not to cry anymore,” he adds, glancing at his mom, who nods and wipes a tear. We all let out a shy laugh. “And, well, this is my girl.”
I notice he never said “mom” or “dad,” but seeing them here together tells me things weren’t as awful as I feared. Maybe this is all he could do right now.
“Oh girl, you gave us the best Christmas gift when you reached out,” Patrick says, scratching his neck just like A.J.
“I’d given up on hugging my son again, you know?” Martha admits without looking at me. “So much time passed, but somehow you saw my comments and found me.” I beam like an angel, not like the crazy girl who hated the person leaving hearts on the posts of a guy who wasn’t even hers. “Thank you.”
“I’m grateful, too,” Patrick rushes in. “I always had hope, but wanting something and seeing it happen are very different. I’m happy my son has someone to look out for him.”
“I’m just returning the favor,” I say, and A.J. squeezes me. “Your son saved me more times than I could count. Will you stay for lunch?”
A.J. tenses immediately, and they seem to notice—Martha shakes her head and stands.
“We already had lunch before coming, sweetheart,” she tells Patrick, who looks confused. “We don’t want to intrude on your day. We’re just overjoyed to have talked to Anthony and tasted all this wonderful food,” she says warmly—but her eyes on A.J. plead for him to invite them.
“Yes—that’s right. We already took up enough of your time, but we’ll wait for you at our place,” Patrick says, voice thick. “A.J. wants to take you to see the house he grew up in.”
“You flying back today?” the trembling man in my embrace asks, voice cracking.
“We haven’t booked the return flight yet,” Martha lies with a brave smile, saying they couldn’t plan ahead.
“We’re having pizza night with the band—and more cake—if you’d like to join,” A.J. finally offers, warming my heart.
“We don’t want to intrude, Anthony,” Martha whispers.
“If you were intruding, I wouldn’t have invited you,” he snaps—so I pinch his side—“but I get it if you can’t.”
“We’ll come back around seven?” Patrick ventures, since Martha can’t speak.
“Nine,” A.J. corrects, calmer. “Send the hotel address to Alex and my security will pick you up.” Patrick and Martha exchange a quick glance and nod, and A.J. smooths his pants before sliding an arm around my waist.
Together we head for the door, the others trailing behind with tentative steps. He swings it open, they step out under tentative smiles, and we all wave awkward goodbyes—no hugs. It feels strange, but I remind myself we’re all doing our best.
As soon as the door clicks shut, A.J. strides past me, jaw clenched, eyes redder than ever. In the living room, he slumps on the couch, head bowed. I have no idea what he’s feeling.
With two taps on his side, he invites me to sit. I do.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened…” I say, voice gentle. “I just want to know how you are.”
A.J. lifts his head after a long moment.
His tear-filled eyes say it all. Then he shakes his head, unable to speak a single word.
He moves closer and rests his head on my lap.
The crying starts low, silent. With a shudder in his chest and ragged breaths, it quickly builds into muffled sobs.
His hands clasp mine so tightly they almost hurt.
I don’t try to stop him or reassure him. I just stroke his back, run my fingers through his hair, let him pour it all out. Feeling his pain through my skin, I cry too.
Watching my human Labrador curled up on the sofa, I realize that when the world goes quiet, we’re all the other one has. Because we understand each other, share our hurts, and can—in a brutally honest, pure way—always be honest with one another.
And that’s so much more than I ever thought love would give me.