He was eyeing my droopy mum. I’d spotted Lacey in the hall earlier. It was easy to tell he’d put some effort into hers.
“Nothing,” he’d said. “He walks with you like you’re some show dog.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed it off, telling myself he was jealous. But once we were at Breck’s house party after winning the game that night, I couldn’t help feeling like Iwashis Wavette accessory—that I could have been easily replaced by another girl on my team.
Maybe this is what happens when you fall out of love with someone. You begin to realize all the times you were let down. All the times you brushed something aside because your heart was too preoccupied by the what-ifs and what-could-bes. That maybe you should have listened to the nagging part of your brain when it said you could do better.
I run my hands over my steering wheel. I don’t want to go inside and watch as Whitney’s treated mediocrely by someone who’d rather flirt with some college girl who spends Saturday nights bringing beer to a high school party. There was one point in time where Whitney and I valued each other’s honesty, but I know that’s changed. If I brought it up, she’d think I was jealous. I don’t want another fight—especially since I’m still walking on unstable ground with her.
I’m putting my keys back in the ignition right as a truck pulls up beside me. I immediately recognize the deep-green paint job and the rusting bumper.
Alex.
Nervous energy tingles in my fingertips. I spent another hour with him backstage yesterday after they finished the first act, and in between scene changes we studied for our Algebra II test. We’d spread out on the dirty theater floor, reading our notes beneath the glow of our cell phone lights. Whenever he leaned over to compare answers, delicate prickles of energy would explode like tiny fireworks in my brain.
He’s the only part of my twelve-steps list that I haven’t actively worked on. But if I don’t confront him about the text, I’ll never know.
Before I even consider what I’m doing, I walk around to the driver’s side and tap on the glass.
As Alex lowers his window, I notice he’s wearing his typical attire: a black long-sleeve shirt with a greenDEEP FLAME PRODUCTIONST-shirt over it. His black beanie sits atop his head, and his mop of dark curls appear springier than usual as they peer out underneath.
He grins at me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Do you want to skip with me today?” I blurt.
He looks surprised. “Sure,” he says without question. “Hop in.”
My insides flood with relief. I walk around and climb in the passenger’s side. As soon as my door closes, Alex puts the car in Drive and we flee from the parking lot, away from all the gilded mums and past memories that hang over my head like heavy clouds on the verge of a thunderstorm.
“Where are we going?”
We’ve been driving in silence for a few minutes. I open my mouth to give him a destination, but I blank. I only know I didn’t want to go to school. I hadn’t thought where we’d go instead.
Alex must sense my hesitation because he says, “I know a place.”
His sense of control puts me at ease as I settle back in the worn seat. We drive another block before Alex pulls into the donut shop a few stores down from 7-Eleven.
I smile. This is the place where my dad would buy éclairs for my birthday. He’d also get me a carton of chocolate milk until one day in sixth grade when I told him I was “too old” for it and wanted coffee instead. After one sip of the bitter tar-fluid I immediately regretted it, but I was too proud to tell him I preferred chocolate milk.
Alex holds the door open for me. I’m greeted with the warm scent of freshly sugared pastries. The glass case before us holds dozens of frosted options.
I choose a strawberry sprinkle. He chooses a chocolate glaze. On a whim I grab a carton of chocolate milk from the door of the glass cooler. Alex doesn’t make fun of me. He even pays, even though I insist I should.
“I’m the one who askedyouto skip,” I say as we walk out. “I should at least buy you a donut.”
“It’s not like you had to try hard to convince me.” His warm gaze finds mine. “I wanted to come with you.”
My cheeks flush, and I turn into the same sugary, frosted goo that coats my donut.
When we get back on the road, Alex’s hand finds the radio knob. “Music?”
Sensual jazz music flows from its permanent speaker prison.
“Oh god, no,” I laugh as I release my donut from its bag. “It sounds like the sound track leading up to a bad sex scene.”
Alex accidentally taps the brakes, jolting us.
I turn twelve dozen shades of red.Whywould I saythat?
