I clear my throat, shift my feet in the yellow flats that are supposed to match my sunny disposition. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think it through, once we getpast tomorrow.”
Just then Alex steps back into the dining room, wearing a gray dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a slim-cut pair of black dress pants that look newly pressed, and a pair of what have to be freshly shined black shoes. The stubble seemed like carelessness before, but now it only seems like maximumI-belong-in-a-cologne-adeffect.
In his left hand, he’s got ahold of that damned bag.
I stand from my stool, smooth the front of my dress, avoiding Zoe’s eyes and Alex’s—everything. His whole presence here. I know already that part of the plan is to not lookhis way again.
Because even if Alex Averin were the kind of person who could help you with an art department chair who holds your fate in his hands, he wouldn’t be the kind of person who’d stick around to do it.
* * * *
Dinner’s a hit, the conversation around the room easy and flowing, a general feeling of giddy excitement about tomorrow’s wedding. I don’t participate much, which isn’t all that unusual, but this time it’s less about my shyness than it is about my continued distraction. I’ve done my best to stick to the plan and avoid Alex, but right about the time everyone’s starting in on plates of the miniature lava cakes Betty’s brought out from the kitchen, something—some heavy, inevitable feeling—draws my eyes his way, and I forget allabout the plan.
He’s stiff backed and quiet, looking a bit pale in the bar’s soft light, his mouth set in a tense line, so unlike the easy smile he wore when he arrived. It’s such an uncomfortable posture that I can’t help but feel worse about how I handled our encounter. I’m sure he’s tired, after all. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be late. I’m sure it’s hard, balancing your time, when you’re out there photographing things most people don’t even have the stomach to look at on the morning news.
When Ben stands up to thank everyone for coming, I decide I’ll take a chance and smile at him if he looks over at me, a peace offering that’ll get us through the weekend. But what’s odd is that Alex’s eyes aren’t landing on anything or anyone long enough to notice much at all. They’re bouncing from Ben to the door to the kitchen, to Kit sitting beside him, to their dad over at another table, to his plate, to his own hand, which he’s using to turn his butter knife over and over. When he finally stops, it’s to reach up to his collar and hook a finger on the edge, tugging slightly. The move draws my attention to the line of his throat, and it’s—well, not quiteconvulsing, but he’s certainly swallowing more than any person who’s not even managed a bite of the cake sitting in frontof him should.
If there’s anyone else watching as closely as I am, they might think Alex is sick. But for me, there’s something different about the way he’s moving, the ceaseless, mindless way his body is betraying him, even as he tries to control it. I’ve seen this before, have watched someone cycle through this same grueling adrenaline rush.
I straighten in my chair, wait for Ben to encourage everyone to lift their glasses. I’ve missed whatever the last part of his toast was, but Kit stands from her seat and presses her lips against his at the same time she clinks his glass with her own, so I’m sure it was something typically lovely and loving, the way Ben always is with Kit. Alex, I can tell, knows this is his opportunity, and in one swift movement while Kit’s back is turned, he pushes back his chair and turns to head down the rear hall toward the bathrooms, the only exit strategy available to him without crossing into Kit’s sight line.
I barely wait two full seconds before I follow him.
At first I think I’ll only linger, wait for him to come out from the bathroom and ask if he’s all right, if he maybe wants me to whisper a discreet request for help from Zoe’s boyfriend Aiden, a paramedic who probably knows actual medical treatment for what I think might be ailing him. But as soon as I pass into the hallway, I see Alex’s tall, lanky form ducking through the heavy back door, the one with a neon redEXITsign above, a loud thunk echoing behind him.
For a few seconds I just stand there, a tremor of memory tinkling along my spine—that morning he left the coffee shop, confident and defiant, allI canswagger. I’m almost afraid to go out there and see a different version of him. But behind me, the sounds of Kit and Ben’s party are laughing, joyous, anticipatory. I don’t want him to miss it. And I don’t want her to miss him.
Also, that door locked behind him.
I duck into one of the bathrooms, grab a bottle of soap from the edge of the sink that I can use to keep the door propped open, and take one deep breath beforeI slip outside.
He’s against the brick wall directly across from me, the alley behind Betty’s damp and dimly lit and smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. Not a good place to lose your shit, I’m guessing, and Alex really, really looks like he is—ass against the wall, shoulders and chest pitched forward with his hands resting on his thighs, like he’s just finished running miles and miles. Even from where I stand I can hear him breathing—it’s a hissing, reedy-sounding thing, as though his airways aren’t all the way open.Maybe Ishouldget Aiden,I think, and take a small step back toward the door.
“Don’t,” he says, stopping me, his voice low and pained. “I’m okay.I’ll be okay.”
“You’re not sick?”
It feels like forever before he answers, me listening to thedrip drip dripof Betty’s AC unit draining onto the pavement.
“No,” he finally says. “I’m—I’m having…” He takes another breath, and I cross the alley and turn, leaning beside him, my back to the wall. Against my bare shoulder blades, it’s hard and roughly textured, but it’s been warmed all day by the hot sun, and it feels soothing, comfortable.
“A panic attack?”I say, quietly.
He keeps his hands on his thighs, stays hunched over. But he turns his head toward me, looks up at me from the side of his eyes.
I shrug, feel that warm-brick roughness against my skin. “I recognized it. My brother Humphrey used to get them.”
There’s another long, loaded silence while he seems to hitch against some outer limit of his panting, one of his hands reaching up to press against his sternum. “Your brother’s name is Humphrey?”
“Yeah.” A rare occasion where I’m happy about my mother’s strange taste, if it’ll serve as a distraction for Alex. “Humphrey Bogart Hawthorne. I’m Greer Garson Hawthorne. My sister is Ava Gardner Hawthorne. My oldest brother, Cary—well. I’m guessing you’ve got the gist of it, now.”
“That is…wow.” He gusts out thewow, as if the stricture around his chest has been loosened slightly. Both of his hands have dropped to his sides, his body straightening slightly from where he leans over. “Greer Garson Hawthorne,” he repeats, andLord. I’ve never heard my name sound quite likethatbefore. I shift slightly, feel the rough brick behind me scrapeacross my skin.
“My mom’s an actress,” I say, distracting myself now. “Or, she was an actress, when she was young. She has a flair for the dramatic.” Understatement. If my mother were here, she’d have called an ambulance—big voiced, urgent. She’d have been doing a very beautiful brow-wrinkle while waiting for it to arrive. She would have enfolded Alex in a perfectly posed hug, one that ensured the skin of her arms didn’t smoosh in an unflattering way. “My dad’s really normal, though,” I say—to keep sayingsomething,anything. “Ultranormal. Only-wears-three-colors-of-dress-shirts normal. I think he probably wanted to name us—I don’t know. Jennifer and Brian, thatkind of thing.”
He moves his hand across his sternum now, back and forth, as though he’s trying to massage out the thudding pulse I can see beating out of his heart, showing along the side of his neck. “What’s his name? Your dad, I mean.”
“Michael.”
