I know what he’s saying.
Don’t walk in my front door. Don’t be obvious.
But come here.
My hands shake. I shove them into the pockets of my jeans.
I walk three houses down and cut through a lawn toward the alley, which is lined with trees.
And therefore hard to see from the homes on either side.
Good call, Mr. Belrose.
Alex.
Mr. Belrose.
I pause at the gate. It’s white and wooden and badly in need of a paint job.
I hear it in my head like someone is saying it, like someone is actually telling me.
This is it.
This is the line.
Right here.
And if I cross it, I become an entirely different Riley Stone. An entirely different girl. I will not be the good girl, the girl who loves bookstores, the girl who kisses boys because she has to because she’s in a play, or the girl who is perfect because that’s who she is and what she does.
I will have a secret.
I will have done something wrong.
Really wrong.
For one second, my body feels heavy, and I want to turn around and run. I want to sprint down the alley, as fast as I can, and cut back toward the street where Belrose can’t see me and just leave.
But then I press my hands against the wooden gate and it swings open, revealing the backyard, choked with trees and an empty chicken coop and there he is. He is wearing khaki shorts even though it’s too cold for them and his hands are jammed into the pocket of his hoodie.
And he’s smiling.
Big.
At me.
Just at me.
It’s not his teacher smile. It’s the Alex smile.
“Wanna sit?” he asks, motioning at an Adirondack chair on his back porch.
“Um, yeah.” I settle into the chair, sitting my purse down on the wooden planks. He sits too, opposite me, and we look at each other and look away and then look at each other and his eyes are so goddamn green and what am I doing?
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He disappears into his house and comes back a moment later with two sarsaparillas.
“Do you like root beer?” He twists off the top for me, so obviously he doesn’t expect me to say no.
It’s not my favorite, but I take one anyway. “Sure.” It’s frosty and cold. I wonder if he has ice cream. We could make root beer floats.
No. That’s immature. I’m an adult. I am grown-up. I am almost in college, and Mr. Belrose—Alex—is taking me seriously.
He could have offered me a real beer and I would have said, “Sure,” and then I could have made a toast or something, but there isn’t a lot you can say about root beer. Which is something you give a kid.
But a real beer—that would have meant something. If he would have given me a real beer, like an equal, I would have taken it, and I would have smiled at him, and that gesture would have said everything, just there, and I would have lifted my beer and said, “To you, Alex,” and he would have said, “No, to you,” and I would have known he was glad that I was on the same level as he was, and it would have been everything the party with Neta and Kolbie wasn’t. He would have been showing me he trusted me, and maybe I would have brought up something about L’Amant, and I could have told him how I really did understand the themes of repression and how we need to act on our desires.
We sit in silence for a few seconds.
He takes a sip of his sarsaparilla.
“So.”
“Uh, do you want to talk about how great my essay is or something?” My joke feels weak and flat as soon as I say it, and I wish I could take the words back.
He laughs. “That seems like a safe topic.”
I feel a smile working its way to my lips, and I don’t know if it’s because I am happy or because I’m nervous or because my stomach feels like something is alive inside of it. “We don’t have to be safe.”
His eyes catch mine. “No?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not exactly the good girl that everyone thinks I am.” I take a drink of my root beer, and a little bit dribbles on my chin. I wipe it off quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“I’ve known that for a long time.” He looks away from me, into his backyard. “You’re more than just a good student. You’re better than that.”
I cock my head at him. “Better?” What does that mean?
“I think that just sort of reduces you to a few grades and some scholarships. And people are scared of that sort of perfection, aren’t they? They have to quantify you somehow to make you safer. So you’re a certain sort of girl to them, and then everything is just—easier.”
He looks at me and presses his lips together. “I don’t know yet. But if it’s okay with you, I’d kind of like a chance to figure it out.”
I feel a little warm. “I think I’d like that too.”
I look up at the sky. The sun is starting to go down, and I can hear crickets starting up their insistent nighttime song. It’s getting a little chilly, and goose bumps begin to prick up on my arms. “What sort of man are you, then?”
He shifts in his chair. “Would it weird you out if I said I didn’t know yet?”
I set my drink down. “Not really. I think sometimes people spend their whole lives just trying to figure out who they are. And I don’t know what the big deal is about having to define yourself immediately or even at all. Who says that you should have to discover exactly who you are by the time you graduate from college? I don’t think anyone knows by that point.”
Belrose leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’re smart, you know that? And not like everyone has been telling you your whole life, either. But really smart. You see people.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile tightly in an attempt to veil how pleased the compliment really makes me. “Thanks.”
And I realize that this . . . this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Not Jell-O shots in damp Dixie cups. Not some guy who smells like cheap beer and sweat.
This.
I wanted Alex Belrose.
And not in a childish-crush way. Not in the stupid way that everyone kisses in the high school hallways and fights about prom dates and makes out in their parents’ basements.
I really wanted him. Truly. So much I can barely stand it. So much it hurts in my chest.
“I’d like to see more of you,” Belrose—Alex says. He reaches for me, but then pulls his hand back, like he’s unsure how I’ll respond. Slowly, I reach out, and I brush my fingers against his. He catches my hand and holds it.
“I’d be okay with that.”
“Maybe you could come over and . . . um . . . we could read. Or something. And we could catch up?”
I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”
He smiles, and I stand up, and he stands too. He pulls my scarf out of his pocket and loops it around my shoulders, using it to pull me close to him, so our chests are almost touching and I can feel the heat of him near me.
My pulse quickens. I feel his breath on my face.
“I like you, Riley Stone.”
“I like you too . . . Alex.”
“I like when you call me that.” He tugs me a little closer with my scarf. “Can I see you again soon?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Do you promise?” he asks.
“I promise.”
He releases the scarf. “Good girl.”