“Isohave you pegged.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“And? What do you think of me?”
I scoff, scandalized. “You can’t just ask me that.”
“Why not? If this were my second run at life, I’d want to know the score as soon as possible.”
Look at him, finally getting into my game. Okay, I’ll bite.
“Fine. If you must know…”
I’m torn about what to say. I know what Ishouldsay. How Ishouldfeel. I know the man this boy grows into. I can see glimpses of him in his attitude, his confidence. His relentless pursuit of me. Only with young Alex, I almost find it charming. This isn’t the irritating arrogance of theman I stormed away from the night I died. It’s something innocent. Uncorrupted.
Or maybe that’s just what I’d like to think.
As I take him in, considering my words, I can’t get myself to say something mean. Because no matter what he grows into, Iknowhe’s different. There’s a sincerity to him that time erased.
I mourn the loss of this earnest boy. And regardless of what becomes of him, I refuse to have a hand in his growing jaded.
Unable to believe the words coming out of my mouth, I admit, “I think I might actually like you.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“I like you too, Joey Vasquez. A lot. Nomaybeabout it.”
The tension is so thick, you could cut it with a knife. He stares into my eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. It’s strange to hear my nickname coming from him—I’m so used to him calling me Josephina.
A waiter arrives to ruin the moment—playing a starring role as the metaphorical knife, I suppose. He places two surf-and-turf plates in front of us, tells us to enjoy our meal, then walks away. Alex grimaces at his plate, stabs the lobster with his fork, and dutifully cuts off a bite.
“I can’t believe I’m about to eat something’stail.”
“Moment of truth,” I say as he lifts his fork.
He brings it to his mouth.
“Wait,” I cry. “You have to dip it in butter.”
“But I want to taste the lobster,” he says, staring down at the piece on his fork dubiously.
“It’s only good with butter.”
“If it’s only good with butter, then it’s not really—”
“Just eat it the way it’s meant to be eaten,” I command, exasperated.
Alex shrugs, dips it in the butter, puts it in his mouth, and chews.
“So?”
“Mmm. Butter,” he says around his food.
“It’s good, right?”
He makes a big show of swallowing it and says, “If you like butter.”
