Page 28 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

He removes his hand from the buckle when it clicks into place, and my heart skips a beat. Moving his fingers up to my jawline, he drags his tongue across the tip of my nose simultaneously.

I-I don’t even know what to think about it. I think my mouth hangs slightly open, and he looks down at it, then in my eyes, but remains silent.

After that, he turns away, fastening his own seatbelt, and then starts the black sedan.

“So, what kind of car are we getting?” He does that a lot. Uses “we” to reference to us. It’s so fucking surprising and sounds way more intimate than I think he even realizes it does.

“Probably the same thing I had. A Honda Civic.” He laughs at me.

“That’s a no.” I turn to look at him as we pull out onto the main mountain road.

“Why not?” I ask incredulously.

“Let me ask this: why a Honda Civic?”

“They’re reliable, easy to park, and compact.”

“And so is a Porsche 911,” he says with another laugh. “Meet me in the middle, Angel.”

“Ugh, you have to stop calling me these pet names. Does Alex know you do that?” He shrugs.

“Even if he did, he wouldn’t care.” Just a little hit to the heart.Ouch.

“Oh, stop. I want a coffee,” I say as we hit the main strip of Spearhead. His mouth turns, not quite in a frown, and the little lines between his eyebrows form.

“How about in town?”

“No, I want to drink it on the drive.” I put my foot down.

His left eye twitches, and he concedes, slowing down to pull into the last open spot in front of “The Grounds.”

“What do you want?” I ask as I unbuckle, expecting him to wait in the car, but he’s unbuckling too.

“Can’t let you go in there alone,” he sighs. And I roll my eyes with a laugh.

“Am I not allowed to go places alone here? And why?”

“Shut up, Em,” he says, tugging on a piece of my long hair when I go to open the door. He glares at me, pushing my hand aside, then comes around to get the door for me.

I like him calling me Em.

The inside of the shop and cafe smells like cinnamon and yeasty bread, and I love it. The floors are checkered linoleum, and premade gift baskets with red bows are littered throughout the space. They even have a table dedicated to a small, live Christmas tree with stars hanging on it. Names scribbled on them.

Shame gnaws at me. Walking over to the tree while Blanks stands in line, I look at the names, ages, and wishlists and pluck the remaining non-claimed stars that are left.

When I get back in line, Blanks sees the stack and slides them from my hand to his.

“I guess I know what we’re doing after the dealership,”he says, verging on annoyance.

“You don’t need to come with me.” I go to take the stars back, but he lurches his hand away from me.

“And yet, I will.” I give him an eye roll while smiling internally.

We order our coffees, Blanks pays, and as we’re walking towards the door to leave, I say, “Look at that! No incidents occurred. No need to accompany me.”

But when I turn back around, I nearly run right into a pregnant woman. Luckily, Blanks saves the coffee, taking it from my hands.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I say to the woman, who looks at Blanks and then back at me with wide eyes. I examine her, checking I didn’t spill any coffee, and when I see none, I give a slight smile, ready to move aside and be on my way.