“Acting like you’re not an inspiration for people.”
That’s the first moment I ever think it:I love you.But it’s splintered apart by the very next thought, crowding in to destroy the first:Everybody loves him, you idiot, because he makeseverybodyfeel like this.
Regardless, I want to hold his words in my pocket, take them out when I’m feeling lonely or sad or boring.
Two minutes later, we step into the bitter December cold, and nervous anticipation takes root in my gut as Alex navigates us inside an apartment complex.
It has a doorman.
It has an elevator operator.
Motherfucker.
At the door to the apartment, Alex rests his hands on the varnished golden knob. “Don’t leave my side, okay?” His tone is earnest.
“That’s my line,” I say.
Alex opens the door a crack. His throaty voice is underscored by a thrash of Christmas music within. “I think, by now, you and I are off script.”
Well. I’ll have to unpackthatlater between bouts of overthinking and eggnog.
The apartment is designed with chic furniture, ambient lighting, and an aesthetically muted color palette. It has things like Pampas grass sticking out of a floor vase and honest-to-goodness wall art. A white Christmas tree stands by the window. There is a counter full of drinks boasting top-shelf liquor and a tray of cookies fromLevain. The room is littered with people in their holiday best, all of whom turn to face us when we walk in the door thanks to the jingle bells someone hung on the handle.
“Oh Mylanta!” shouts a man in a red-and-white-striped jumpsuit. He smiles at us, mouth agape. “The rumors are true!”
“What rumors?” Alex asks.
“Didn’t you read your own YouTube video comments?” says a woman wearing aSANTA’S HELPERT-shirt. (Personally, no, I do not read the comments. I have a modicum of self-preservation, thank you very much.) The petite woman strolls forward. “Honestly, guys,” she says, gesturing between us. “The whole internet picked up on this.”
“Hmm.” Alex leans in to hug her. “Oops.”
I am slightly more concerned about this revelation than Alex seems to be—particularly because if HR discovers whatever’s going on between us, there will beconversations,and also because some random girl just clearly took our photo—but I sweep it under the rug so I can survive the next few minutes.
“Casey.” Alex pulls me up beside him. “This is Erica, our host.”
This introduction is followed by hugs andthank you for having mes and questions about what she can she get me to drink.
“Um, the Ho Ho Hot Toddy?” I say, reading off the list Erica has hung by the bar.
“I definitely want the Naughty or Spice,” Alex says.
Erica scurries off, and then the introductions begin anew.
“Casey, this is Josh. We studied abroad together in Spain.”
My eyes narrow at Alex. “I thought you studied in London?”
Patiently he says, “That was for a summer program. Spain was during my sophomore year.”
“Of course it was,” I reply with just a touch of sarcasm. Alex smirks.
I am then introduced to Josh’s girlfriend, who is from Birmingham. She’s very easy to talk to, says she loves southern sportsrivalries, and asks how on earth I ever made Tennessee orange fashionable.
“I didn’t,” I reply, laughing, as Erica slips my drink into my hands and then vanishes again. “Did you go to Alabama or Auburn?”
“Dartmouth,” she answers.
My cheeks turn as red as my skirt.
