"And if you're feeling lonely, you should tell me
before this ends up as another memory."
- "Are You Bored Yet?," Wallows (2018)
Lillian
"So what are we doing?" Alejandro's playful voice comes through my phone as I balance it on my shoulder, making me smile. "Exacting vigilante justice on people who litter? Ooh—or breaking the whales out of SeaWorld?"
"Mm-mm," I murmur in response, playing along even though I know he's just mocking me. "Too long of a drive—we'll go bust them out on summer break. Now hurry up before someone gives me a ticket."
"Don't get your panties in a twist; I'm almost downstairs."
I roll my eyes instinctively at his words, finally putting the top down on my dad's convertible Porsche. It's a beautiful late-morning without a cloud in the blue sky, and I internally congratulate myself on my decision to drive it. It took days for me to convince Dad, but, after enough begging, puppy-dog eyes, and "please daddys," he agreed to drop it off for me on his way to San Jose with Mom. Flashy convertibles aren't exactly my style, but going on a date with Alejandro Molina in anything else feels...wrong.
I found out that we got an A on our test last Wednesday, and I was so distracted by my...chat with Jordan that I nearly forgot about my end of the deal. Although both of us technically earned the grade, Alejandro did most of the heavy lifting during the test—both doing his own work and correcting mine the whole time. If he was willing to do all that for me, a Saturday together is the absolute least I could do.
I already told myself that I won't think about Jordan or his ultimatum today. I already know that I'm a traitorous floozy who likes Alejandro more than I should, after all—I don't need him to tell me that. I still find myself making excuses to be in Alejandro's presence even though the test has passed, but he never seems bothered by the fact that we spend at least a quarter of every day together.
"Qué hermosa [how beautiful]," he says over the phone, and only then do I realize that he's out of the dorm building and walking toward the car. "Your mom's or your dad's?"
"My dad's. Does it matter?"
I shoot up out of the driver's seat, opening the door and racing around the car to eagerly greet him.
"Well, if I was him, I'd—what the fuck?"
He freezes a few feet away, looking down at me with an expression of half-horror-half-confusion as he hangs up the phone. I'm genuinely alarmed...until I remember what I'm wearing, that is.
"Oh. Do you like it?" I hold my arms up and turn a quick circle for him. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery—you said that yourself."
He opens his mouth, but only a slight scoff comes out.
I guess "imitation" isn't the best word to use for my ensemble—"replication" would be more accurate. Earlier this week, I got Miguel to tell me exactly what Alejandro planned to wear today and copied it to every last detail.
According to his well-documented and very popular Instagram, he spends a majority of his summers lazing around on the beaches of southern Italy. His style reflects that: balmy and well suited to the California climate while maintaining the elements of his travels. It's also my most expensive Halloween costume by a long shot—my dad called me after I went shopping just to make sure no one stole my credit card.
Most people use Halloween weekend to dress up as an animal, monster, or fictional character, but this is certainly the best choice of costume for our date. There's no one Alejandro Molina loves more than himself, after all.
Besides, the look on his face easily makes the hundreds of dollars I dropped on this outfit worth it. Despite the differences in our skin, faces, and overall build, he and I look virtually identical. An ironed navy blue button up with the top buttons undone, tailored black chinos, layered gold necklaces and rings, spotless Air Force Ones to make walking easier, and Tom Ford shades pushed back on dark, curly hair—I'm completely mirroring him.
"Well...that settles it," he finally chuckles, lifting his shades to run a hand through his black waves.
"Settles what?" I look up at him, eyes following his every move as he finally closes the gap between us.
"You are cuter than me."
He pats the top of my head twice in a gesture of affection that's both warm and condescending in equal measure. I'm not sure what the calculating part of my brain thinks about it, but that familiar burning in my cheeks lets me know my knee-jerk reaction all too well.
I pivot instantly, hiding my face for a few moments to cool down as I grab the door handle and open it for him. He just stands there when I do, blank with confusion, and I gesture to the Porsche's leather interior.
"Um—" He blinks. "I can get my own door, you know."
"I know," I echo, lifting my eyebrows like he does. "But you don't have to. Welcome to the 21st century, right?"
Alejandro sneers, obviously not liking his words used against him, before swallowing his masculinity and getting in. Pleased, I do a little skip back to the driver's side and settle into my own seat.
"So are you ever gonna tell me where we're going?" he asks, and I look over at him as I buckle my seatbelt.
"Do you like rollercoasters?"
After we aced the test, I spent the entire week wondering what to do with him. He's done almost everything—a fancy dinner or trip to the beach would just feel...generic. Below him. But I'm also terrified of boring him, and that doesn't seem like a hard thing to do. So I picked something that has to do with his favorite holiday on the day before Halloween—something I'm almost sure he missed in his vast array of experiences.
"Never been on one. You think I could convince Jordan or my mom to get on an uncovered car speeding down some metal tracks?" He scoffs as I start the car, staring straight ahead. "By the time I could have gone by myself, with all of the options I had for vacations, amusement parks just never...crossed my mind, I guess."
"Well, then I guess we're about to find out."
I pull out of our parallel park, driving through campus before finally hitting the road. I roll up the windows and routinely panic as we merge onto the highway, while Alejandro folds his arms on the sill, rises up a little, and sticks his head out like a puppy.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, heart rising into my throat and threatening to choke me. I've spent most of my life hating his guts, but I want so desperately for this day to go well—for him to like me.
He returns to the inside of the car just as I think this, smoothing his somehow perfectly wind-blown hair in the mirror.
"Can I make a request?"
"A request?" I repeat over the Notorious B.I.G. he queued, my tone his answer, but he groans in protest.
"Oh, come on!"
"You made me plan this whole day by myself. You can't just start throwing out ideas on the way."
"Please?" he says, obviously not listening to a word I'm saying.
"Fine...I know you're gonna wear me down, anyway." I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, weary. "What?"
It's silent save for the sound of the road around us and the music on the radio.
"Can we go to Denny's?"
He tips his head at me, grinning like a little kid, and my stomach twists a bit. I certainly remember the reason behind his request, but, like always, I still give in.
"Well...why not?"
We make the rest of the hour-long trip in relative quiet until we pass San Francisco and exit to Six Flags Discovery Kingdom. My parents and I live on the notched back of the California coast, equidistant from Los Angeles and San Francisco, but my brother and I always chose this park over any other in the state. Even before we moved to California, we'd always make a trip here when we visited my mom's side of the family.
I do kind of consider this place "mine," and a few months ago I would have disparaged the idea of sharing it with Alejandro Molina, of all people. But things are different now, although I don't know how or why. Amusement parks aren't nearly as fun by yourself, after all.
We arrive just after open and spend nearly the whole day in the park. When the sun is high, we ride amongst children in smaller attractions before working our way up to the bigger rollercoasters. We eat veggie burgers and overpriced churros and shop for matching t-shirts in the gift shop. I hear Alejandro's real laugh for the first time rather than his usual suppressed chuckle: it's loud and borderline maniacal, but, because it's him, melodious.
He tells me to just call him Alex.
I can't put my finger on it, but he's been...different recently.
Rather than the terrifying intelligence and insatiable sexuality that he's been broadcasting since he's been here, he's almost normal—like a real person instead of a seductive, all-knowing deity. We've been having conversations that aren't just filled with calculus or constant flirting; he actually tells me things about himself without immediately changing the topic to something he's more confident in.
He has a rocky past with drugs and alcohol—something I knew already but didn't expect him to reveal so early. He knows that he and his mom are the black sheep of the Molinas, but, as long as his inheritance comes rolling in, he (supposedly) doesn't care. He's been so effortlessly perfect for his entire life that he lives in fear of the day when things won't be so easy anymore. And, between these revelations and many others, he almost makes sense to me now.
Almost.
For years, I prided myself on not believing the hype—on seeing who he "really" was beneath his calm demeanor and bewitching smile. In my eyes, everyone who liked him was an idiot who fell for his charms, who failed to see the empty, wicked shell behind that shiny veneer.
But he's not empty underneath that facade. He has an impish sense of humor, a sweet tooth, disturbingly extensive knowledge of astrophysics, and enough insecurities to fill the Pacific Ocean. He's certainly not who he pretends to be—I was right about that. But it turns out it's actually a good thing.
Now that I'm finally starting to doubt what I've been told, I've opened up a whole can of worms that I can't shut. I was wrong, and I'm finally willing to admit that. But I can already see myself drifting—and Jordan can see it, too. What happens between us if I hit the event horizon of Alejan—Alex's—black hole, just as I've seen so many girls do before? Will I lose my oldest friend and first love just because I accidentally stumbled into the point of no return?
No. No Jordan today.
"It's finally getting dark," Alex murmurs, lifting his head at the purple sky.
"Yeah..." I watch fog begin to pour into the walkways as green lights tint the darkness. "If you want to go, we've already been here all day, so—"
"No, I'm fine." He glances down at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You want to leave, don't you?"
"What? No. I'm just...checking on...you."
I cross my arms, and, for once, he doesn't call me on my hesitance. When it comes to Halloween, I prefer the cute stuff—painting pumpkins with my parents, handing out candy to Trick-or-Treaters with my parents, and baking ghost cookies...with my parents.
God, I'm really not used to knowing people my age.
I certainly didn't expect Alex to still be engaged after five hours here—much less ready to brave the scary part of the night. Haunted houses and costumed actors screaming at us from the shadows aren't exactly my kind of night. But, no matter what my brother and parents might say, I'm not a chicken. I'm not.
"Boo!"
A shrill scream tears itself out of my mouth, and I'm on my butt before I even realize that Alex was the first to get me. A shit-eating grin crawls up his face when he looks down at me, sticking his hands in his pockets and bending a little at the waist.
"So you are a scaredy-cat," he purrs, smile widening. "You know, you could've just told me."
"I am not a—" I stop, thinking better of fighting it as I stumble to my feet. "If I did, would it have stopped you from doing that?"
"No," he admits with a chuckle, feet moving again. "But I would've given you points for honesty."
I adjust my shades, taking them off of my head and clipping them to my shirt as I stay in place. A million retorts float around my head, but none of them come out as cool as I want them to.
"You...suck."
"Ooh, scathing." He stops again, glancing back at me. "You might look like me, but you need to work on acting the part. You ready?"
My feet still stay rooted in place, not sure what they're waiting for, and he sighs with a slight toss of his eyes. Another small smile is the last thing I see before he turns around again and slowly extends his open hand back to me.
I stare at it for a moment, a little stunned. He has gorgeous hands, just like Jordan. I know it's a strange thing to notice, but they're big and strong-looking while still being well-manicured and clean—great boy hands. Then again, these are guys who have never held a tool or done their own laundry in their life.
He opens and closes his fingers twice in a nonverbal "come on," and, to my own shock, I obey. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've ever touched him, and that's for a reason. Every time my skin brushes his, it's like I'm being electrocuted—like Jordan's imprint on my brain is telling me I shouldn't. But it doesn't zap this time.
When his hand envelops mine, neither of us say anything as if it's something we do naturally. His rings are cool against my skin, but warmth quickly seeps into my fingers, and then my palm, and then my wrist, not stopping until I virtually feel it in my toes.
Don't look up at him. You know to avoid his eyes. Don't do it, Lil; don't you dare.
Well...just one glance can't hurt. He's probably not even looking—
Contact.
Damn it!
I divert my eyes instantly, but it's already too late—and my heart lurches so violently in my chest that I silently gag. He doesn't say anything, just running his thumb over the back of my palm. Stroke, stroke, stroke. It's so rhythmic and comforting that I feel even sicker, my stomach fluttering maddeningly as tears prick up in the corners of my eyes.
This isn't right. This can't be right.
There's always an explanation for everything. Something that can decode this...this fluke. Is it dopamine, or oxytocin, or norepinephrine—what's my stupid animal brain pumping out to make me feel like this? And how the hell do I stop it?
What did I get myself into?
A zombie pirate appears from the shadows and snarls at us, but I don't even notice until Alex puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me away. Suddenly, Fright Fest is the least of my worries—I've created a reality that's scarier than anything they have here.
Forget approaching the event horizon of Alex's supermassive black hole. There's already no way back.
~ 💖 ~
"French toast, eggs, and hash browns for you...pancakes, eggs, and bacon for you, and..." Our waitress pauses after handing Alex and I our food, turning to pick up two chocolate milkshakes in glasses that we didn't order. "The kitchen made these by mistake, and there was no use letting them go to waste, so..."
She sets them on our table, eyes on Alex, and I suddenly understand. He just smiles at her, the one that makes girls and guys alike run into light poles and trip over nothing on the concrete, and she immediately bumps into a table upon walking away.
"She's nice."
His expression lifts with the satisfaction of a pleased cat, the light above our booth bathing him in warm yellow.
"That's only because you used your Jedi mind tricks on her." I stick my tongue out in disapproval, picking up the syrup for my french toast. "With skills like that? I'm pretty sure you're an incubus."
"Oh, I wish," he murmurs, not shaken by my subtle jab. "Having sex and stealing souls for a living? I already do that for free."
I manage an irritated groan at him as I chew, a little irked that I can't read him. While he obviously wants to be known for more than just his face and his body, using them to his advantage doesn't bother him at all. It's just an example of why he's so hard to wrap my head around—he's a walking contradiction of arrogance and insecurity.
The conversation shifts, to my relief, and Alex is halfway through one of his signature monologues when I decide to rest my eyes. It's a few hours from midnight, my mind is running on fumes, and, even though I'm a routine hiker, my body is bone-tired. In fact, the only thing keeping me going is the pure terror and excitement that Alex pumps into my veins.
"Are you sure you're gonna survive the drive back?" he asks after my millionth yawn. "No way you're getting to Pismo Beach without falling asleep at the wheel."
"I have to. I told my dad I'd be back by tonight—there's nowhere for me to park the Porsche at school, anyway." I blink a few times, stirring around in my eggs. "He won't go to sleep until his baby's back home."
"You or the car?"
"Yes."
Alex's lips quirk at my answer as he glances at his mug.
"If you're so tired, then why haven't you had any coffee? Now that I think about it, you never do."
"I can only drink coffee when my dad makes it," I confess, too tired to care about how juvenile or co-dependent it may sound. "I'm not sure what he does to it specifically, but...it's gross and bitter any other way."
I expect him to poke at yet another appearance of the "daddy's little girl" act that he finds so entertaining, but he just shrugs.
"It's cute how close you are to your parents. I practically share a brain with my mom, but I would've killed to have that with my dad."
I stiffen at his words, remembering that he's never even met his father—Jordan told me that himself. He'd called him a "lucky bastard" in the same breath, obviously preferring an absent father to an abusive one, but both have their obvious drawbacks.
Alex flags down the waitress and orders another coffee along with a small milk, and she stops in the middle of her original task to head straight to the kitchen. When she returns, he ignores my fervent "you don't have to do thats" and sets to work preparing the coffee.
"I've probably spent a fourth of my life backstage at fashion shows. I speak coffee fluently."
I just yield—I always do when I'm up against him. And, when I'm staring out of the dark window, he starts another conversation.
"Legendary date, maní. Honestly." He doesn't look up at me as he speaks, pouring sugar into the mug. "Taking me to an amusement park and dressing up as me for Halloween? You surprised me twice in the same day—that's not easy to do."
"I imagine so," I say, looking at him again instead of studying his reflection in the window. "You've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything...I just wanted today to be worth your time. Worth you."
I don't realize the implication of what I said until red creeps up his magnificent cheekbones and into his temples. He scratches his forehead, hand conveniently covering his upper face, before he responds.
"Well...I hope I was good company."
"Of course you were. You always are." I pick up my fork and knife again, cutting into my last three triangles of French toast. "It definitely wasn't my first, but...as much as I hate to say it...it was the best."
He finally uncovers his face, revealing a devilish smirk.
"Yeah...I get that a lot."
I don't catch his drift, still cutting away, until my knife finally stops dead.
"Seriously? Right in front of the food?"
"Okay, sorry." The smile shrinks, but it doesn't disappear as he pours milk and several creamers into the mug. "So it wasn't your first date?"
"As hard as it may be for you to believe, it wasn't. I've been on plenty of dates—just not with plenty of people. There was just...one person that I couldn't scare off."
"Interesting. So what I'm hearing is that...they were scarier than you?"
I inhale through parted lips, a second away from refuting his point, before I realize that he's right.
"Um...yeah, actually."
In the end, I guess that really is the bottom line. There are very few people in the world who scare me, and even fewer who do at my age. There's just two, in actuality: Jordan and Alex. Is my vexing attraction to both of them a product of correlation or causation with that fact?
As much as it pains me, I will take a page out of the book of Jared Dawson—the most terrifying person I've ever met by a long shot. Whether fear breeds respect or vice versa, there's no denying that the two are inseparable. The same things that stop me from crossing either of the twins—their intelligence, their charisma, their confidence—are the same aspects of them that I admire.
I guess my Bennett genes have made me incapable of hitching my proverbial wagon to someone that I don't respect.
Or maybe I'm just a masochist.
"I'm assuming your relationship was...serious?" Alex says quietly, voice accentuated by the clinking of his spoon in my coffee, and I nod.
"As the plague."
A beat of silence falls, in which his eyebrows tighten ever so slightly.
"Were you in love with...hiiiim?" He stretches out the last word as a question, and I roll my eyes before confirming.
"Him."
He exhales heavily as if he was holding his breath the whole time, and I take a moment before answering. I don't want to lie to him, but I also can't tell him the truth. Not completely, at least. Not yet.
"I was. So much so that I lost myself in it for years."
"Years?" he repeats, both the smile and color fading from his face. "And...now?"
"I don't love him, not like that. Not anymore." I'm not sure if I believe my own words, but they feel good to say. "I know better than that now."
He closes his eyes for a moment, face twitching with the slightest hint of pain, before his amber gaze rests on me again.
"Good for you, maní." He pushes the coffee mug across the bright, laminate wood of the table, hands lingering on top of mine when I move to take it. "There's plenty more love for you out there. Just wait."
We make eye contact in a silent moment of mutual understanding, and I look away as I take a reluctant sip. I expect the sharp, bitter taste that overpowers my coffee whenever I make it myself, but, to my delight, I don't get it at all.
"Have you...ever been in love?" I ask against my better judgement. "No offense, but—I just can't imagine you crawling after someone on your hands and knees like I did."
He levels his fiery gaze at me, keeping his expression maddeningly unreadable.
"I'm Alejandro Molina—I don't participate in things as banal as love."
My coffee catches in my throat at his words, and I have to cover my mouth to keep myself from spitting it up onto the table. Of course he's chock-full of surprises, but that's one thing I genuinely didn't expect out of him.
"R-really?"
"No, Sherlock. I'm kidding." He rolls his eyes at my gullibility, impossibly white teeth appearing as the corners of his lips raise. "You make it sound so demeaning, though. I might not be a master of it or anything, but I don't think love is a weakness."
I'm so crossed up from his fake-out that my mind spins for a moment, and he's talking again before I finally realize.
The son of a bitch just dodged my question.
"Do you honestly think that?" He asks one of his own, hand going to the gold serpent pendant hanging around his neck. That's a detail I missed. "I know that you're a realist and everything, but did your last relationship go so badly that you associate love with...crawling on your hands and knees?"
I shoot him a clear "you didn't answer my question" look, but he just bats it away with his eyelashes and watches me expectantly.
"Love kind of...scares me. Of course it's a wonderful thing, but it made me a different person—someone I didn't like."
It takes everything I have not to wince. Even though I'm still alive in the flesh, I killed that girl on the floor of my bathroom two years ago. And, despite Jordan's valor, he didn't save the Lillian he thought he did. Maybe my life would be easier if that wasn't true.
"I—" I cast my gaze down, studying the wood grain of the table since I can't look Alex in the eyes. "I don't...I don't know. Of course I haven't written off love. But I guess I'm still learning how to be myself without it. And I'm afraid of losing who I am in someone else."
"Will you ever be open to trying again?"
Alex's words make my eyes buck slightly, but I should've seen them coming. I shouldn't be so strapped for an answer to such a simple question—one I've already been thinking about for years. Still, my words fail me, and I struggle to even convey my indecision.
"I don't—I can't—I mean..." I squeeze my eyes shut, abandoning my line of thought and just starting over. "I know that I can't hide forever. But I don't know when...or how...I just—"
"It's okay to not know, maní; I'm sorry I asked you that." Alex's voice comes in, saving me from my spiral. "You're more than deserving of having the right kind of love again whenever you want it. So keep your head up—especially when you're dressed as me."
He reaches across the table, gently lifting my chin with one of his knuckles. When I finally look up at him again, he picks up his nearly empty coffee mug and gestures to my half-full one.
"Salud. [Cheers.] To not knowing, but...having time to figure it out."
The feeling he gives me isn't nauseating or panic-inducing this time. It's warm, fuzzy—a feeling of comfort that settles in my chest and kisses away my self-loathing. I wish I could bottle it, but I guess living in the moment will have to do.
"Salud."
Our cheap mugs come together with a hollow clink, instantly banishing the darkness from our perfect day.
For some reason, I think about my conversation with Jordan Wednesday night: how he all but told me that any kind of relationship between us will cease if I keep it up with Alex.
I've come way too far to still love Jordan Dawson, and I'm almost sure that I don't any more. But I still care about him: two years of distance and therapy weren't able to change that. He was just sixteen when I last saw him; who knows who he grew into without me there to spectate? I know that I shouldn't care about the Jordan from my past, but could I safely reconcile with the person he is now?
He made it clear that, if I cross the line with Alex, there will be no reconciliation between us. There won't be anything at all, in fact. And, even though I shouldn't, I still miss him miserably. I've known him for my entire life—I don't know if there's a universe where I'd be able to see him on a regular basis and never speak, never joke around or banter. I'm not sure if I'm willing to risk the relationship we already have for the relationship I could have with Alex—a relationship that might go up in flames and leave me with nothing at all.
I kick out those worries with another sip of my coffee, silently dedicating it once more.
To not knowing. But having time to figure it out.