“I listen to those on two times the normal talking speed,” Alex says. “It’s almost gibberish, but you get done in half the time.”
These are the types of things that petrify me about Alex. Does he think of me as something to skim? To be finished with in half the time?
But then he grabs my hand, kisses it, and says hoarsely, “I’m nervous, Simba.” And it’s so damn cute.
“Alex, you’ve never made a bad first impression in your life.”
“If you’ll recall,” Alex says, “Ihavemadeonebad first impression in my life.”
“Well, at least I thought you were good-looking.”
“It was all common ground from there,” he says, winking.
At baggage claim, Jerry and Dadreallyput it on. I’m genuinely impressed with how quick they are on their feet. They’re all “Hey, Alex, we’re so excited to have you come stay!” and “We’ve been looking forward to meeting you!” and Alex is all, “I’m so thankful to be here!” and “It’s great to meet you both! Casey’s told me all about you!”
I just stand there exhaling.
Dad and Jerry grill Alex on the way home. By the time we get there, it’s well past sunset, the dark street glowing with Christmas lights scattered across the landscaping, wreaths on the doors, icicle strands hanging off the roofs, fake reindeer beaming in the front yards. The weather is muggy but cool, the temperature a near ten-degree increase from New York, but it still feels like a classic December evening for the South.
Dad leads Alex with our luggage to my childhood bedroom (thankGodthey remodeled it last year) while Jerry and I sneakily put an extra place setting on the dinner table. Cider warming in a crockpot perfumes the room with cinnamon, orange, cloves. I ladle two mugs out before chasing Alex down. Dad has him in the guitar room, trying to run interference but coming across as a show-off.
“And this is the guitar Casey was playing when she got her first period—”
“Dad!”
“Hey, kiddo.”
Alex turns to me, stifling a laugh. Seeing himhere—in my childhood home—sends me all the way back to the beginning. What would August Casey have thought about this scene? Me, offering a mug of rum-spiked cider to Alex, letting our fingers graze, letting my focus linger while he blows away steam? She couldn’t have fathomed it. But I’ve colored in the lines of Alex’s edges over the past four months. Sometimes, he seems more real to me, more solid, than anything else I’ve ever touched.
The four of us sit down to Jerry’s home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner (we never did have any turkey in New York), and Alex asks, “Do I get to hear you play one of those guitars?”
I grimace, dishing out mashed potatoes. “Probably not—”
“But your chances increase in direct relation to how much cider she consumes,” Dad advises.
Alex gets up to pour me another drink, not missing a beat. “How did you two meet?” he asks.
Helpfully, I tell him, “They met at my mom’s funeral.”
“Casey.”Dad’s tone comes out scolding, the same he used when I was a kid. Jerry balks, dropping his silverware loudly onto his plate. From the crockpot Alex looks at me, his eyes dancing, trying to figure out if this is a twisted joke or not.
“What?” I say. “It’s true!”
“Okay, yes, that istechnicallytrue,” Jerry allows, directing his words at Alex in guilty apology. “I did the flowers for Sadie’s funeral. But we didn’t run into each other again fortwo years,and then afteranotheryear, we officially got together.”
Dad glares at me, his eyes vengeful. “Alex. What are your intentions with my daughter?”
“Um,” Alex mumbles, sitting back down, setting the refilled mug beside my plate.
“Don’t answer that,” I tell him.
“Actually, I think weallneed more alcohol,” Jerry says, risingfrom the table. “Maybe a cocktail? Alex, Marty has this great story he’s got to tell you about a Serbian child named Croissant. The child is, of course, illegitimate.”
“Same,” Alex says, biting back a smile.
This makes Jerry blush, which in turn makes me burst out laughing. “Tell him, Dad.”
Dad tells the absurd story, and Jerry makes old-fashioneds, and over the next forty-five minutes, I get supplied with enough alcohol to play one songonlyfor Alex.
