When we’re through with dinner, he presses an unsolicited kiss to my temple.
“Why did you want me to come tonight?” I ask on the subway up to Lexington and Eighty-First. My fingers fiddle with the hem of my cheap skirt, already unraveling. “Also, should we do some sort of feature in Bite the Hand about the Christmas impact on fast fashion?”
Alex looks down at my fingers picking at loose threads. “I wanted you to come because I miss you,” he says, and my stupid heart acts like it just inhaled a Red Bull vodka spiked with an espresso shot. “I am both terrible at saying no to things and selfish, so this is my solution.” He smiles at me apologetically. “And about holiday-driven fast fashion—I like it. You should pitch that to Gus.”
I snort. “You should pitch it to Gus.”
Alex shifts, facing me with his body. His thumb traces the shell of my ear. “You’re doing it again,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“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 makes everybody feel 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 unpack that later 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 from Levain. 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 a SANTA’S HELPER T-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 be conversations, 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 and thank 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 sports rivalries, 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.
“Casey, this is Armand.”
“Casey, this is Savannah.”
My head is swimming.
Alex is wearing that first-day smile, the one that melts hearts and disarms even the most curmudgeonly. He listens, makes people feel heard. This is the opposite of Alex’s fatal flaw. It’s his best, shining trait, and honestly, it’s addictive to watch.
“Casey, this is Sonja.”
Sonja.
My brain short-circuits.
The girl Alex dated for three weeks when he was twenty-one!
She’s tiny, with curly black hair and doe eyes that give her the look of someone who should be protected at all costs, and even though I’m positive she’s shorter than me, right now she’s wearing gargantuan heels that make my pointy work flats feel like training wheels.
“Hello.” Her tone is smooth. When she leans in for a hug, heady perfume overwhelms me. I scrunch up my nose, trying to avoid a sneeze.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, then—because the two drinks I’ve already downed were heavy on the booze—add, “How do you two know each other?”
Sonja turns her gaze on Alex with a knowing glint in her eye. Lips forming into a pursed smirk, she says, “We got close over winter break junior year. Alex kept me company in New Haven while my family was abroad. I even got to meet his dad! We ran into him during Christmas Day brunch at the club.”
Green, corporeal envy slithers through me. She met his father at “the club”—the day after his birthday, which he and Sonja spent together—and I was shoved in Alex’s weird brewery closet when his dad came calling.
He smiles tightly and rubs his thumb over my waist. He hasn’t let go of me a single time since we walked in the door. Like we’re tethered. “Yes. Good times. Anyway—”
“Casey,” Sonja interrupts. “Your mug is empty. Come get another drink with me?”
She doesn’t wait for my answer, just grabs my free hand and pulls me away from Alex, whose grip tightens before it disengages. I trail her to the kitchen counter （where there is legitimately a hired bartender in a Santa costume making drinks）。 We place our orders, and then Sonja asks me, “Are you really with him?”
“Um.” I hope no one else is listening. “We haven’t put labels on anything.”
“Right.” Sonja nods, like I’ve reassured something for her. “I mean, he’s hot as fuck, and a great kisser”—I am dying inside—“but like, so different once you get to know him, right?”
It takes me a minute to process that she’s genuinely asking. Not purposely riling me up, not being mean-spirited at all. After studying her face, looking for some hint of jealousy or a clue she’s trying to one-up me, but finding no inkling of either, I conclude Sonja is simply trying to get to the bottom of something.