Page 47 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

I still think he never deserved half the awful things that have happened to him, either.

He told me Constantine misses me, which I think might have been code for:I miss you.But he didn’t say that, which is fine. I wouldn’t have said it back, even though I would be thinking it. I know what it means to love Alexander Palomino now, and I don’t think I’ll have the courage to ride that ride anytime soon.

Be his friend? Sure. Root him on, support him? Absolutely. Date him? Can’t. Unless I feel like hurting myself again, I can’t. And he isn’t exactly asking me, either. He told me he loved me too, but I have a feeling he meant like a friend.

I love you like a friend, Em.I can practically hear his deep voice saying it aloud, ruining me. Because his ‘I love you’ is certainly not: I’minlove with you, desperately. It isn’t: wear my ring, carry my babies,you’re fucking mine. Which is what I want. It’s all I have ever wanted, to be claimed. Alex has already staked that claim on someone else.

To be clear, I’m not sure I want Alex to love me like that. I love him, but being with him might kill me. His presence, his demons, it can be all-consuming. I worry itwouldconsume us. Well, at least me. He would take up so much space that, eventually, I would be snuffed out. And I have my own demons. I’m still broken, too. It hasn’t escaped my notice that he never asked about my past or my story. He asks me things in conversation, but it’s just about the here and now.

Crap, I shouldn’t have invited him. The knot in my stomach is already forming, the pangs of regret ringing.

But life is short. Next month, I’ll be 27, nearly a third of my life already gone. Maybe more. I can’t spend the next sixty years sitting inside alone.

Table 19

Yeah, I’ll pick you up in an hour and fifteen. That work?

Emma

Yep, see you then.

Out front.

I grab the bright red sweatshirt and my crossbody bag and head downstairs, expecting to find an old Jeep parked out front.

No, no, no.My nipples harden at the sight in front of me. Alexander Palomino on a motorcycle is like the steamy porno of my dreams. I’ve always imagined that I’m the type of girl who could have made it as an old lady. Also, Jax Teller has been the star of way too many wet dreams. Well, Alex has, too.

“When didthishappen?” He’s just full of surprises lately.

He outstretches an arm, holding a helmet out for me. “Christmas present from Blanks.”Blanks. I swallow hard, biting down on my lip so I won’t ask about him.

While I adjust and buckle the chin strap, it slips out anyway. “HowisBlanks?”I don’t want to know. I really don’t.

“Fine. Last I heard, he’s dating another model.” Right. Of course, he is. He would always be datingsomemodel.

I force out a laugh and say, “Good for him,” plastering on one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever mustered.

Luckily, I don’t have to hold it for long because I’m climbing on the back of the motorcycle, my legs hugging his hips, mychest against his hard back, and with my body pressed against his, it’s impossible to think of anything but him.

“Wrap your arms around me, Em.” I do, and it feels comfortable. Natural. My hands slide against his dark hoodie, taking hold. He’s wearing a black hoodie and dark jeans, and somehow, he’s perfect just like this.

Even though it’s October, the valley hasn’t cooled down yet. The heat hangs in the air tonight, but on the motorcycle, with the wind whipping around us, I get a chill and hug Alex a little tighter. Maybe it’s for warmth. Maybe it’s because I miss having someone to touch.

“You good?” He places a large hand on my thigh at a stop light. I nod against his back and fist my hands in his sweatshirt a little tighter. It’s dangerous, getting this contact high off him.

At the next stoplight, I adjust how I’m sitting, moving my hips against his backside, and a hand comes back to hold me. His hands holding me are a weakness. I knew it the first time he touched me. In the back of a black sedan on the way to our wedding.

I want to beg him not to do it and, in the same breath, beg him to never stop. In the end, I say nothing. But each time we stop, the hand comes back to hold me. To give my knee a squeeze, to rub my calf. I don’t think he has any idea what he’s doing to me. More than likely, he’s just as touch-deprived as I am.

The sexual tension eases as we get closer to the stadium, and I start watching the debauchery unfold on fraternity row. I thought it was only like this in the movies, but as it turns out, the movies don’t hold a flame to real life.

I’ve driven past the strip of what looks like old motels turned into fraternities and sororities nearly every day this semester, but they never looked like this before.

People are drinking on roofs. Kegs bob, floating around in pools. Every house has a DJ and some sort of extravagant balloon installation. College hasn’t been like this for me. At all. For one, I’malmostalways the oldest person in my classes. Not in community college, but at State, I’m like a pariah. The weird girl who works in the library and is too old to hang out with.

I don’t think 27 is old in general, but when my classmates aren’t even legally old enough to drink, the gap feels vast.

We wait in a long, slow-moving line to turn into the main field for parking, but it’s not boring. Not in the least. I watch as the sea of red seeps into the field from every direction. College students, but also families. Older people and people somewhere in between, too. I love that all these people have a reason to belong here. To come together. It’s not something I’ve seen before.