Thirty minutes later, I was wrapped in a plaid flannel blanket and fuzzy socks when Alex gifted me theentireskin-care line fromhis cousins’ company—which means he conspired with both his family and mine to have it rush shipped from LA, then squirreled away until Christmas Day.
In return, I gave him a shiny new home brew setup from a local brewery in Nashville, which I showed him on a piece of paper that also explained it would be shipped to his apartment in Manhattan. He said it was perfect, but in my opinion, not quite.
I wanted to get him something amazing for Christmas. On my last day in the city, I even tried to make it happen; I went to the Archives department and asked if they had anything written by Charlotte Yoon. Because I just had this feeling—her being a writer, the connection to Little Cooper through Robert—that maybe she was down there, more of her words waiting for Alex to read. But the archivist came up empty.
Now, after three interviews the day after Christmas, nursing an eggnog hangover, I’m on the couch decompressing. The last interviewer was the type to ask a short question that demands a long answer, never interjecting or redirecting the conversation. I talked so much, my mouth started to hurt, and since it was the third interview of the day, I am mentally wiped at this point. Alex is working a half day, set up in the dining room doing his least favorite task—manning the help desk inbox for BTH tech support. Jerry is at the flower shop, and Dad is out Christmas sale shopping, so the whole place is perfectly quiet.
Alex peeks his head into the living room, eyes flitting over me sprawled on the couch. I roll my head toward him, smiling tiredly.
“Good?” he asks. “A thumbs-up or thumbs-down will suffice.”
I give him a thumbs-up. He disappears without another word, and that’s when I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m all the way in love with him. Because he so perfectly understands me.
I don’t remember anything about my fourth interview other than the fact that I love Alex Harrison, I’m tired of saying words, and I need to ask Dad to please upgrade the Wi-Fi.
I’m done by noon, which is the close of business in London. Alex comes into our room and pulls me into bed, hugging me horizontally. Our legs are tangled under the covers. The heat from a floor vent is pumping into the room, cloaking the air in a hazy, metallic warmth that has my eyelids drooping. The way he’s holding me, kissing my temple, both of us silent because there’s too much to say, has my mind reeling, recalibrating everything I thought I knew.
Here’s the truth: my feelings for Alex werenevercasual. Not even when I hated him did I do it casually. I’m as emotionally invested in him as I am with this dream job. In my head, the importance ofitand the importance ofhimare on exactly equal footing.
I love him so much that part of me doesn’t want this job. I love him so much that I’mgladthe BTH launch got denied. Maybe he’ll be forced to stay in New York longer. Maybe we both will, together. A pit of despair wells up inside me, my chest tight with something sweet and lovely that wants to morph into anger. Because I have never loved like this, and it is entirely Alex’s fault.
I think I might never forgive him.
By New Year’s Eve, Miriam’s back in town, and Alex and I meet up with her, Sasha, and Miguel, who are fresh off a flight from Chicago and staying in a swanky hotel downtown. Miriam and I give the tourists the highlights of the city, cruising around in her family’s minivan. We stop at theI BELIEVE IN NASHVILLEsign, Music Row, a hot chicken restaurant, even Bobbie’s Dairy Dip.
“Casey,”Miriam says. “We are so close to that sketchy Mexican restaurant we used to drink margaritas at in high school. Should we gobackthere?”
“As much as I love this reminiscing for you,” Sasha says from the back seat, “could we get margaritas somewhere… I don’t know, cooler?”
“Spoilsport,” Miriam grumbles.
“I want the Nashville experience!”
“Thatwould have been—”
“I want the tacky tourist experience!”
“Mir,” I interject. “Just head downtown. Let’s beat the traffic and get this girl on a mechanical bull before sundown.”
It’s a disaster, if a hilarious one. The bull always wins. I tried to warn her.
At 11:59, under a space heater on the rooftop of a Broadway honky-tonk we paid a whopping $180 to access, the countdown ofTen! Nine! Eight!ringing out with the power of a thousand drunken voices, Alex takes my face in his hands, and I know he’s in love with me when we get tofive.
He’s so gorgeous right now, the neon lights of the bar across the street painting him an inky blue. He looks almost like fiction. Like he can’t be real. But he’s also looking atmelike that. Like I can’t be real, either.
When we get tofour,he says it, his eyes on mine, and in them, I see a million colors inside of one. “I love you.” I can’t hear his voice, but I’ve already memorized the shape of his lips.
Onthree,I say, “I love you, too,” positive he can’t hear me, either.
We kiss ontwo,letting those extra few seconds go fuck themselves.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“What do you want to do this morning?” I whisper. “On your last day in Nashville.”
“The Parthenon,” Alex whispers back.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at each other over two mugs of coffee and one stale blueberry muffin. There’s no cause for whispering, yet here we are. Because sometimes, after you admit you’re in love, everything besides that admission needs to get a little quieter.
