My eyelashes flutter, batting up a storm while I process.
Mostly, I’m processing that Alex said his mother was. Just like I say that my mother was.
“For a while, we lived in Seoul. Just her and me. She died when I was eleven, and that’s when my dad moved me back here, to a boarding school in Connecticut,” Alex goes on, his voice clinical, like he’s reciting a speech he’s been practicing. “We’ve never been close, but that’s his fault, not mine. He gives me lots of money that I never once asked for, and absolutely nothing else. Not time. Not answers.” He blinks. “Just money.”
I have so many questions. First of all, how much money are we talking here? Asking for a friend. What does Alex remember about Seoul, from the first time he lived there with his mother? What’s it like to have memories of her that aren’t hazy, six-year-old snatches? Are those memories part of the reason he went back to Seoul when he graduated from Harvard? What was boarding school like?
But the first question that bubbles up on my tongue is “Does your dad have other children?”
Alex shakes his head. “His wife wasn’t able to get pregnant, and as far as I know they never looked into adoption. I’m his only child.”
I feel like a window that’s been frosted over for weeks is finally melting, the flaky ice dripping away to leave behind a clear pane. Alex Harrison is on the other side of it, with a chipped heart and a handful of memories that I might be able to match.
“You were owed an explanation,” he says.
“I was?”
He nods, then lifts himself off the wall. Capturing my attention with razor-sharp focus he adds, “But only you, Casey. Please.”
So, basically: don’t tell anyone.
He didn’t broach the subject of Dougie Dawson, only told me about his father in direct relation to him, so I have a perfectly clear conscience when I say, “I’ll keep it to myself.”
And I will.
He waits to see my reaction, brow furrowed with nerves, but at the same time his shoulders relax like a weight’s been lifted from them.
It dawns on me, right then: the only time we’ve ever touched was when he shook my hand in the cooking studio the day we met.
I mean, it makes perfect sense for two coworkers not to touch a lot, but I want to … hug him?
Yeah, that must be it. A nice, comforting, professional hug. But obviously, there’s no such thing. So, instead—
“Want to get drunk?”
CHAPTER TEN
We wind up at Sleight of Hand, a trendy bar near Washington Square Park.
“You ever been here?” Alex asks as he holds open the door for me.
Suavely, I walk through and say, “Yeah, once or twice,” even though I haven’t. I’ve heard of it, though; this place is popular enough to always have a line down the block after dark. I was surprised Alex suggested it but intrigued enough by his taste in drinking establishments not to ask questions.
Inside, the walls are adorned with playing cards—diamonds, spades, hearts, and clubs, clustered together to form the bar’s name against shiny black paint. Crushed-velvet booths in deep burgundy line the walls and freestanding gold benches are scattered around white tabletops. It’s seven o’clock on a Friday; the sun has nearly set, and the place is packed.
Alex follows me inside and heads straight for the bar. He waves two fingers at the guy behind it as we slide into the only two unoccupied bar stools. At first, I assume Alex is waving to get the bartender’s attention, but when he notices us, his lips pull up on one side. “You really can’t get enough of me, can you?”
The bartender has blond slicked-back hair, like Leonardo DiCaprio in almost every movie (I’m not convinced it isn’t intentional), and a big face covered by a neatly trimmed beard. Wordlessly, he whips out a thick-bottomed crystal glass and starts pouring bitters and simple syrup into it.
“What if I wanted something else?” Alex grumbles.
“You didn’t.” Dupe Leo grabs the Angel’s Envy from the shelf behind him and tops up the makings of an old-fashioned.
“Freddy, this is Casey,” Alex says.
The bartender looks at Alex, then turns his gaze on me. “Oh, you—I thought you just walked in at the same time. Sorry.” He reaches out a sticky, orange-scented hand for me to shake. I push my palm against his, and Freddy’s eyes dance.
“I do have other friends besides you, Frederick,” Alex says.
“You really don’t.”
I look at Alex. “We’re friends?”
I meant that as a genuine question—Are we? Friends?—but Freddy laughs like I’m the funniest thing since Andy Samberg. “What would you like to drink, Casey?”
I lean forward on my elbows, considering my options. “Ummmm,” I mumble, stalling. God, I’m so indecisive. Why can’t I have a “drink” like Alex apparently has a “drink”? And seriously, Angel’s Envy? In this economy?
“Should I make something up?” Freddy suggests.
“Can you make it nut-allergen-friendly and less than eleven dollars?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“Go for it.”
The hum of voices coupled with Shwayze music fill the silence between us as Freddy whips up my drink. He pulls apart a grapefruit, and the spray of citrus tickles my nose. I wrap my hands around my elbows and take a deep breath, relaxing into the bar stool. Beside me, ice clinks in Alex’s glass while he shakes it.
It’s starting to settle in—how novel this is. The two of us together outside of work hours, and on my suggestion, at that.
I really, really need to apologize to Alex.
I really, really need to find the right words.
“This a date?” Freddy asks, as if he can sense my inner turmoil. “Did you finally download Hinge, Alex?”
He spits onto the counter. “Fuck’s sake, dude—”
“We’re coworkers!” I squeak, blushing.
“Oh, thank God.” Freddy shakes his head. “Alex, I was going to throw hands if you brought a date to this bar so you could force me to third wheel.”
Completely against every rational thought telling me not to, I am dying to sneak off to the bathroom and redownload Hinge to see if he’s … found me.
Yes, I have a profile. Yes, I download, use, and delete the app (in that order) every couple of months. It has led to bad sex, good sex, chlamydia (now expelled from my body), an adorable picnic in Central Park with a guy who was sweet but told me at the end of the date he was only practicing so he could ask out his childhood crush when he moved home next month, and a guy I went on three dates with before realizing he was my Subway Nemesis’s roommate.
When it comes to dating in New York, my policy has always been: I’m not looking, and I’m not not looking. Miriam once phrased it as window-shopping. Try before you buy. It’s what I wished I had done in college, but when a handsome older student basically picks you out of a lineup and makes you feel chosen, you don’t ever pause to consider you never really chose him back.