His touches reignite something I could’ve sworn was supposed to be dimmer now, less mystical. But it isn’t. If anything, every press of his lips to mine leaves me just slightly more addicted to the sensation than the last.
Eventually, he lifts me off him and presses one more kiss to my jaw. I stumble back, lashes batting so ferociously they could induce a small tornado. When my eyes refocus, Alex is watching me with his hands loosely fisted at his hips, biting the inside of his cheek. His boxers are decorated with corgis in Christmas sweaters, and yet he still manages to look like sex got dressed up for a night of revelry.
“Goodbye.” His voice is so scratchy, I want to ask if he needs a cough drop.
I jerk out two nods like a marionette. “Goodbye,” I repeat.
The door shuts between us, and at eight thirty on a Tuesday evening, I do my first ever hangover-free walk of shame.
CHAPTER TWENTY
A week passes in a haze of pumpkin spice lattes, Oktoberfest beers, and a pumpkin-carving contest that leaves me with a bandaged thumb. I find out over the stretch of it that Alex has an absurdly busy social calendar, made even more so thanks to （a） his three-year absence from the US and （b） his personality getting him an automatic yes whenever people are curating guest lists. It’s disgusting and obnoxious, and honestly, extroverts should be studied in a lab.
The weekend after our hookup, he flies to California, where a friend from college is launching a start-up and hosting an extravagant party to celebrate. （But of course.） The Tuesday after that, he attends a notable alumni dinner at the Harvard Club in midtown （Dougie apparently declined the invitation, but only after inquiring who’d be in attendance）。 Alex tells me he’s positive he’s never done anything notable besides existing as the whispered-about bastard child of fabled businessman Robert Harrison—neither hidden away and kept secret nor bandied about like Robert’s pride and joy. Alex is just sort of there, always has been, and people know who he is, but nobody talks about it much to his face.
The day after the Harvard dinner, Alex recaps it for me in a slew of texts we exchange between meetings.
Casey: I have to agree I can’t fathom a single notable thing about you
Alex: In between blood rituals, we went around the circle and bragged about our most notable contribution to high society. The best I could come up with was “ability to infuriate”
Casey: and how are the pagan gods of ivy league education
Alex: up to their usual. Ruminations on northeastern weather, Stanford smack talk, organizing a protest against student loan forgiveness
Casey: that last one sounds like something you wouldn’t know a thing about
Alex: point taken. Do you have loans?
Casey: yes, but v manageable. Dad was in tight spot for a while after mom’s uninsured cancer treatments, but I got a couple of scholarships, plus I was a waitress for like seven years
Alex: thanks, now I’m sweating in front of gus while he drones on about SEO
Casey: a waitress kink?
Alex: it’s news to me too.
I smile at my phone screen as I wait in line at Pret to order my sandwich.
Casey: tonight’s the book event, right?
Alex: Right.
From what I’ve gathered about Harvard grads, they all like to have something going on—a new business venture, a book debut, a humanitarian fundraiser for a nonprofit they’re chairing. They always invite each other, too. Alex says it’s veiled in camaraderie, but he thinks it’s mostly a flex.
His social calendar doesn’t surprise me, considering I’ve long been aware he’s the type of person that’s good to have in any room. But it also means we haven’t gotten another chance to see each other outside of work, and neither of us has been brave enough to fire off a late-night booty call. Meanwhile, Alex’s texts are getting more quietly randy—vaguely disguised behind his growing concern over the chocolate cosmos or a casual mention that he’s craving Diet Coke. He’s even starting to explain his obligations as though they’re sandwiched between unspoken apologies. And almost by accident, the less we see each other, the more we talk.
Casey: did you always want to go to Harvard, or was it more of an assumption with your father that you just would?
Alex: both. my dad offered to pay for Harvard the same way he offers to pay for everything. Pretty much announcing it as a done deal. I liked the idea of having that thing in common with him. But it was ignorant of me to think it would change anything
I place my order at the register and sit at a table, completely absorbed.
Casey: What exactly did you want to change?
Alex: His desire to be included in my life. I know how desperate that sounds but it’s just the reality of how I felt. I wanted him to be there, and to think I was a good son. I wanted him to sometimes choose my feelings over Linda’s.
Casey: How often do you see him?
Alex: once every few years, by necessity or fate. I ran into him and Linda one Christmas in new haven, when I was visiting my girlfriend at the time. He came to both of my graduations. We email sometimes, but I know more about him from the internet than his own mouth
Casey: that blows. He’s never tried to get to know you?
Alex: nope. As a kid, I held on to this idea of him as a real father for a lot longer than I should have, reaching out all the time when he clearly didn’t want to be contacted. It was honestly embarrassing on my part. I got the picture eventually.
Sometimes, Alex’s honesty is so disarming, it scares me. He doesn’t have walls anymore. He wants me to know him. I’m not sure what to do with that, because even though my emotions play out on my face whether I want them to or not, I do my best to keep everything inside.
My fingers are moving of their own accord in the Instagram search bar, typing Alex’s username, hitting his tagged photos, scrolling to the one that started all this. @harvardalumni: A photo of Alex in his graduation gown, his smile genuine. Robert is smiling, too, his arm thrown over his son’s shoulder.
How much of the distance he puts between himself and Alex is dictated by Linda, and how much of it comes from Robert alone? It feels wrong to blame her for anything, but it’s easier than thinking Robert truly doesn’t care. I can’t imagine Alex would have sought his dad’s attention and approval so desperately over the course of his life unless Robert was giving him reasons to. I heard one reason myself, just the other day: I’m proud of you, son.
I twirl my finger around my braid. Briefly, I consider my next text. I type it and hit SEND before I can chicken out on the invitation.
Casey: Are you doing anything Friday night?
Alex: Yes
I groan louder than I mean to, and a guy standing near me gives me the side-eye.
Seriously, what could Alex possibly have to do now? Another video game marathon with Freddy? Skype call with his cousins? I need downtime like I need rain to fall, or the egg sandwich from Thai Diner, or a solo day trip to the Rockaways with an audiobook and a D8 gummy: as a matter of absolute necessity.
I can’t imagine if the two of us were in a real relationship. It would never work out. Between his schedule and my aversion to strangers, we’d set off a fire alarm.
I wait Alex out, watching his type bubbles appear again.
Alex: I’ve got this birthday party for a girl I know. It’s themed. I have to wear a costume.