“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”
I squeeze his hand in mine. “I trust you.”
He squeezes my hand back. “Thank you.” His mouth twists to the side. He looks away. “For saying that.”
I lean in, wrapping my arms around him. It is, I’m realizing, the first time I’ve hugged Alex. I’ve thrown myself into his arms before, initiated a hug. But I did that for me. I’ve never done it because I knewheneeded it. Until now.
Alex sinks into my hug, and, unprepared for that, I fall sideways, bringing him down with me on a loudthump.
“Ouch,” he says into the floor.
“Alex!” He rolls toward me onto his side. I reach for his face, searching it for a bruise. “What hurts?” I ask. “Your nose?”
He shrugs. “It’s taken harder knocks before.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t braced for all your muscly manliness. You are not light.”
“That hug felt so good,” he says, “I kind of forgot about holding up my own body.”
I smile, my hands cradling his face, curved along his jaw. “I like that you forgot. Because that means you think I’m someone you can count on to catch you. Which I will,” I add. “Next time. Because I’ll be prepared.”
Alex smiles, and I feel his cheeks lift beneath my palms. “I’ll try not to go timber on you too often.”
Silence settles between us, and the air thickens—charged, humming.
I pull my hands away and sit up. Slowly, Alex sits up, too.
Diving into the Twizzlers again, I take in the room. “You know what this place needs?” I ask.
“A kitchen that isn’t frozen in 1963?”
I chuck a Twizzler at his head. “Yes, but not what I was thinking. It needs more empty wine bottles.”
Alex scrapes a hand through his hair. “Thing is, when I drink, I want a cigarette. And I’ve downed a bottle of wine, so… Ireallywant a cigarette.”
“I want a gas station hot dog in the worst way,” I admit. “But we’re sticking to our resolutions. Which means no more drinking. We’ll do something else fun and escapist.”
Alex glances around my apartment.
I glance around, too.
“Okay,” I tell him, “I don’t have much to do here. Yet. I need to buy some board games, a deck of cards. A TV. Just haven’t gotten there.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “Let’s see what we can come up with.” He pulls out his phone and starts typing.
I shove another Twizzler in my mouth and lean in, peering over the top of his phone. “Whatcha doing?”
“Googling,” he says. “?‘What to do for fun when you’re divorced.’?”
“And with a friend,” I tell him. “Add that.”
“And. With. A. Friend,” he says, thumbs moving across the screen. He hits enter. A frown tugs down his face. “What the fuck, Google.”
“What?”
“Get ondatingapps?” he hollers at the screen. “That’s your number one recommendation?”
He chucks his phone away, I think intending it for the nearby director’s chair. Instead, it threads the gap between the back and seat, which means his phone soarsthroughthe director’s chair, across the room. Miraculously, it lands on Argos’s dog bed.
