Ugh, maybe Drew was right.
Bounding sideways toward the mirror by my door, I run my hands through my hair and readjust his t-shirt. I make a mental note that Ishould probably give it back to him, but part of me hopes it'll be his to clean up after his visit to my apartment.
A few moments later, there's a quick knock at the door. Moving toward it, I inhale deeply. It registers how most of what I'm feeling is excitement. That our day doesn't have to end after all. That he came back.
That he's here.
Exhaling slowly through pursed lips, I rip the door open, a smile on my face and heat in my eyes. "I thought y—oh."
"Are you sick? You look a little flushed?"
I freeze completely, my mouth still open as Alex pushes through the door. She bumps past me, heading straight for the kitchen. "I brought sweet potato tacos from that truck you like," she calls to me as I continue to linger in the doorway.
I remain motionless, actively trying to wrap my head around how completely wrong I was in thinking it was Drew. To say I'm disappointed would be an understatement, and that alone blows my mind. I knew I was having second thoughts about how I felt about us, but to be borderline annoyed to see my best friend?
"I'm losing it," I whisper to myself. Shaking my head clear of the chaos, I reset and present with my typical attitude. "Well hello, Alex. Good to see you too. Hey, why don't you come on in?" I say loud enough for her to hear while throwing the door closed and rolling my eyes.
Alex shoots me a glare jokingly before sliding a brown bag across the counter and reaching into my fridge. "How was your day with Drew?" she asks, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane still ripping through me.
"Uh..." I take the bag in my hands, rubbing the rough paper between my fingers, my mind actively trying to process what the hell kind of rollercoaster ride my emotions just took. "It was good," I say eventually. "Ya know, to be expected."
Alex pauses, her hand halfway to my wine glass cabinet. "That's it?"
I shrug, my eyes wandering everywhere but to hers. "I don't know. I guess?"
She slides her arm back down, twisting both across her chest. "Spill."
"Spill what?" I ask, reaching past her and pulling out two glasses. I pop the cork on the chilled white she took from the fridge and look at her sideways.
"Please tell me you didn't sleep with him… again," she says warningly.
I click my tongue, filling one glass. "I did not sleep with him." I move to the other as Alex waits for me to continue. I watch the liquid fall into the cup as I pray she fills the silence. When it's clear she isn't going to, I huff out a breath. "But I think I want to," I add quickly, slamming the bottle on the counter.
"I knew it!" she cries, grabbing her drink. "Brooke, no. We talked about this!"
"I know," I groan, taking a massive gulp of much-needed alcohol. "But Al, you didn't see him today."
She sets her glass on the counter and leans her hip against it. "Listen, I know he's all abs and aesthetics. And he's got those tattoos and that chain. And don't get me started on the hair that you just wanna—"
"Okay, slow down there, wifey," I cut in, shoving her hand back down that was raised to act out her words.
Alex clears her throat and takes another sip of wine. "Sorry," she mutters.
"Levi's been busier lately now that the season's kicked up, hasn't he?"
"So much," she says, bringing her glass back to her lips.
"Imagine how I feel," I say only partially under my breath. "But that's not even what I'm talking about." I nod toward the couch and walk over, plopping down on one side while Alex takes the other. "He just seems so unlike what I expected," I set my glass on the coffee table and pull a pillow into my lap. "Yes, he's Drew freaking Anderson, which means he's smug and edgy, but I'm into that. Especially when he's also kind of sweet, and sort of funny, which I like, and..." I sigh, letting my head fall backward into the cushion. "I don't know, maybe I was too quick to judge."
I stare at the ceiling, waiting for Alex's opinion. When it doesn't come, my neck rolls to the side to see she's sitting there, chewing her lip. "Say it," I grind out.
She winces like she's trying to hold back whatever it is that's sitting on the tip of her tongue. When my eyes go wide, telling her to spit it out, she squeezes hers shut. "He's twenty-five, B."
Lifting the pillow, I smother my face in it and groan. "I know," I whine. I let the cushion slowly fall back into my lap. "But maybe that doesn't matter?"
I glance back at Alex, who is wearing a polite smile. "Maybe," she says, her voice an octave higher than it should be.
I stare at her blankly. "Go on."
