“There you go,” he says. “The bathroom’s right there if you need it.” He points to a skinny door by a big empty space where a couch might feasibly belong. “Clean towels are in the plastic drawers under the sink, but there’s no hot water, so don’t bother waiting on it.”
“Ever?”
“I can usually get it between six and ten A.M.”
I laugh, tripping over his coffee table. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep my clothes on.” Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “I just meant—um. I can wait to shower, and … stuff. Until I get home.”
“Okay.”
I curtsy like an idiot, clearly still not certain if I’m on the set of Downton Abbey. “Thank you for your h-hospitality.”
Ugh. My childhood stutter always comes back when I’m tipsy and nervous.
I flee to the bathroom to change, wash my face, and finger-brush my teeth. Alex goes in after I exit. I snuggle under the cloudy layers of his comforter, sighing in contentment, feet wiggling happily as I breathe in the scent of his spare pillow.
The door opens. “You look cozy.”
I twist to find him in a T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, staring down at me with an unreadable expression. I’ve never seen this much of his arms exposed before. His muscles are gently sculpted, like a man who cares about his fitness but doesn’t care about it the most. Again, the outline of that tattoo is visible, but it’s too dark to decipher.
“I am,” I say. “Thanks for this.”
“Of course.”
His footsteps cross the room to the door, and then the apartment goes black. I hear the turn of a lock, then more footsteps back toward the bed. The mattress groans as Alex’s body sinks onto its other side.
He shuffles around, getting comfortable, and I stay absolutely still.
“Good night, Casey. Thanks for getting drunk with me.”
The heat from his body is radiating off him, lulling me into a calm, dreamy slumber. “Good night, Alex,” I say, and then yawn. “Thanks for kissing me.”
My eyes snap back open. Good Lord, why is my rational decision-making on vacation?
“You—You’re welcome,” Alex rumbles. I tilt my head toward the sound of his voice. His figure is starting to emerge beside me in the dark. “But also, I’m welcome. Wait. What?”
Wait, what?
I turn fully onto my side, tuck my hands beneath my cheeks. Alex mirrors me. His eyes shine, but they look kind of glazed, too. As we lie here in the silence, watching each other, I take stock of all the things we’ve unearthed today.
Alex’s relationship with his father. My relationship with my ex. His aunt. My parents. Miriam. Freddy. Sasha, and Brijesh. We offered up all these pieces of ourselves to each other, like the bindings of a truce.
This is it.
Now or never.
My perfect moment to push the envelope a little further.
If Tracy Garcia could see me now, I think queasily.
Beneath the comforter I shift, jittery with the conscious weight of what I’m about to do. One of my feet comes to rest against Alex’s ankle by accident. He doesn’t move away, and neither do I. He just dips his eyes down, then back up.
“Alex?” I ask.
“Yeah?” His voice is a ghost of what it can be.
“What’s the deal with your father and Dougie Dawson?”
His mouth pulls into a taut line, and I instantly regret bringing it up out of the blue, or at all, if it’s something that puts that sad of a look on his face.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Don’t tell me. Say you still think it’s hilarious I would even ask.
“No, it’s fine,” Alex whispers. “It’s not some huge secret.”
“It’s not?” The question comes out embarrassingly hopeful, and the relief I feel is instantaneous.
He takes a deep breath. “Dougie has a son my age who went to Choate, too. Ellis. He’s cool. One night after a party, we wound up smoking a joint together. That’s how I know some of Dougie and Robert’s history.”
I say nothing, but it’s pretty telling that Alex doesn’t even know the truth from his own dad; he heard it through the grapevine.
“Dougie and Robert were in the same class at Harvard,” Alex starts. “Before my dad’s wife married him, she dated Dougie all through college. Their senior year, Dad basically stole Linda from Dougie. So, that’s how it started.”
“How it started?” I repeat.
“It gets worse. Did you ever see The Social Network?”
I nod.
“Picture what happened between Zuckerberg and all the people he screwed over, but with a start-up that flopped and lost hundreds of thousands of the founders’ own money. Dougie was supposedly the biggest investor, too. He’s Eduardo Saverin, and my dad is Zuckerberg in this scenario. But whenever the failure gets brought up—in press, and even more so in private—each of them makes a point to blame the other.”
“Damn,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Alex says. “After they both finished grad school, Dougie made it his life’s mission to have Robert disregarded from every job he wanted in New York. He eventually got one at LC and worked his way up the ranks, but it took him a lot longer because of Dougie.”
“They both sound so ruthless,” I say.
“Were, and still are,” Alex says. “Two men intent on each other’s destruction.”
“Is that why Dougie became our CEO?” I ask. “To steal Robert’s legacy?”
What would my mom have thought about that? Legacy was so important to her. In her eyes, there is probably no greater sin than overwriting someone’s name once they’re gone.
Alex turns onto his back, puts an arm over his forehead. “Maybe. I think part of it had to do with Ellis and me,” he admits. “When we were old enough to apply for Harvard ourselves, my dad started to care about my schoolwork and extracurriculars. He even came to my college counseling sessions.” Alex says all this in the same clinical tone he used earlier, as if it’s boring, monotonous stuff. Like he’s trying to keep some unnamed emotion at bay.
“And when I got in … I was thrilled, of course. But I also felt like I’d finally pulled myself over the top of a cliff I’d been climbing for four years. Like it was a reward I fucking deserved. When I got the acceptance email, I forwarded it to my dad, and he replied with two words: ‘atta boy.’ Which is, objectively, the most affection he’s ever shown me,” Alex says, laughing dryly. “Ellis Dawson didn’t get in, didn’t even go to college at all. He lives in LA now and does photography. But I think Dougie viewed my acceptance and his son’s rejection as some sort of loss. It revived his hatred of my dad years later, and that’s why he gunned for CEO when he heard Robert was stepping down.” Alex sighs. “I mean, that’s my theory, anyway. But who really knows.”
I hate that Alex was collateral damage in two grown men’s power plays. Even worse, I hate that he knows it.
He looks tired. Not in the physical sense, which—yeah, that too. But he looks like he’s finally dropped the face he wears for the world. Right here, in this bed with me.
“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can think to say.
Alex shrugs, sinking closer to me. “Their rivalry has never really affected my daily life, to be honest.”
“No, Alex. I mean, yes, I’m sorry about all that, but I’m sorry about … about me. How short I was with you. I mean, for weeks, I was just, like, the worst.”