Alex tips his head. He looks confused. “Hope what’s good?”
“A good workday,” I explain.
His expression clears, then brightens. “Oh, it will be.” He starts walking backward, wearing a sly smile that means he’s up to no good. “Even while Olu’s yelling at me for how poorly I prep mirepoix, after I send that email to Ethan, I’m going to be riding a real high.”
“Donotsign your email to Ethan with ‘Fuck off and have a terrible day!’?”
“I won’t,” he says. “But I am going to derive an immense amount of satisfaction from the mental image of his choking on Argos’s noxious flatulence for six straight hours.”
A laugh jumps out of me. “Haven’t you heard, schadenfreude isn’t good for the soul?”
“Whoever said that,” Alex tells me, “never met Ethan.”
CHAPTER 13THEN
July 28, two summers ago
I make it three days before I cave and text Alex.
I held it together on Friday, after Lauren told me she was moving away and we talked about what the next few weeks would look like over a bottle of Cinsault rosé and a truly obscene amount of fried food; when I hugged her goodbye and watched her drive off, thinking that soon I’d be waving goodbye to her, except that time she wouldn’t be coming back. I held it together while I buried myself in work through the weekend and today. Until I came home after work, desperate for a cuddle with Argos, then remembered he’s still at Ethan’s.
That’s when I fell apart.
I’m clutching my phone to my chest like it’s a lifeline when Alex shows up outside my apartment building looking windblown, rain splattered, and slightly winded. I push open the door to let him in. I’m trying very hard not to cry.
The door falls shut behind him, and as he gets a good look at me, Alex says, “Oh, shit.”
Which is when I burst into tears.
“Hey,” he says softly. Alex takes a step closer, his toes bumping into mine. “Can I hug you?”
I answer him by throwing myself into his chest. His arms wrap around me, and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he rests his cheek against my head. His hand traces circles on my back. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”
“Thanks for coming,” I choke out. “I’m sorry for the fairly unintelligible SOS text.”
“The text was fairly unintelligible,” he admits. “But I got the gist.”
“I tried to work with autocorrect, but autocorrect didnotwork with me.”
“Autocorrect can get fucked,” he says. “Or, as autocorrect would suggest, ‘get ducked.’ Which is why autocorrect can get fucked.”
“Thank you. What good is a spell-check function when it can’t fix my inebriated ramblings?” I sigh against him. “I haven’t had any wine today, actually. I’m just so sad, I’m incoherent.”
A sob bubbles out of me.
Alex squeezes me against him. “Shh, it’s okay. Come on, let’s get up to your place.”
I nod against his shoulder. But I don’t move.
Alex peers down at me. “Do you need a piggyback?”
I laugh hoarsely. “You couldn’t carry me.”
“First of all, that’s insulting; I’m a very strong manly man. Second of all”—he shrugs off his backpack and slides it up his arms so it’s on his front, turns, grips me by the thighs, and hoistsme onto his back, making a yelp jump out of me—“challenge accepted.”
“Okay,” I concede as he walks us up the stairs. “You are a strong manly man.”
“Thank you,” he says. “You may now praise my superior physical fitness.”
