Bothered by how understanding he’s being, I continue. “Murakami fans are some of the most pretentious men I’ve ever met. Men who see real women as nothing but plot devices—”
“Have I done something to you?” he asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.
Well, of course he is. A strange girl just came up to him and started bashing his taste in books for no discernible reason.
I sigh.
“No, you haven’t done anything.”Yet.
“So you’re attacking my taste in literature just for the hell of it?”
“I’m sorry—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Because I gotta say, I’m kind of into it.”
I can’t help the laugh that I bark out at that. The sound of it makes him grin, and I find myself searching his eyes for… something. His words remind me of our conversation the night I died, his reaction to my insults.You always did know just what to say to get me going. The realization hits: Alex Aquino, whether eighteen or thirty-two, has a thing for being insulted. A possible shame kink? Intriguing.
“I’m Alex,” he says, reaching out with his right hand. I stare at it a moment before I take it. When I do, I remember the last time we touched, right before—well, rightbefore.
I push the thought aside, and another time his hands were on me comes to mind.
He always did have such great hands.
“Joey,” I say, my voice a bit shaky. “It’s short for Josephina, but I prefer Joey.”
“Josephina. That’s a pretty name,” he says, and lets go of my hand. “Well,Josephina, you wanna tell me what you’re doing walking around campus in your pajamas and no shoes? Did you see a guy out here reading Murakami and think,I must rid the world of one more?”
“No.” I laugh. “I’m actually… a vicious sleepwalker. Just—cannot be contained.”
“Right. Got it,” he says, nodding quite seriously. “In that case, you wanna tell me what you were doing sleeping at—” He checks his phone. “Nearly five in the afternoon?”
“It is notfive. It’s—” I check my own phone. “Four twenty-two.”
“I saidnearly.”
“In thirty-eight minutes. In what world is thatnearlyanything?”
“So I’m dramatic. My question stands,” he says with a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and suddenly I’m laughing too.
God, was he always this adorable?
7
I need to go.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it as I stand up from the picnic table. I remember I’m in my lobster pajamas, of all things. And I’m not wearing shoes. Or a bra. I cross my arms, then wonder if doing so only makes my state of undress more apparent. I uncross them, but when I catch Alex’s gaze glancing down to where I’m suretoo muchis showing, I cross them again.
I want to scream.
Did I really think it didn’t matter what I wore the first time I met Alex?
“You just got here.” He frowns, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows.
“Right. I did. And now I’m going to go.”
I make it only a few steps before he calls out, “When can I see you again?”
I turn around. Confusion is written all over his face.
