All You Never Wanted (12 page)

“This is like a dream I never dreamed about,” Xander murmurs, and Alex knows exactly what he means. He means that he never secretly pined and lusted for her. Probably never thought about her at all—except maybe to register that she was quiet and standoffish and getting too thin, or whatever crossed Xander’s mind when she crossed his path.

She senses that he is as bewildered by her actions—their actions—as she is.

When he unhooks her stretch-fit bra, she feels modest and overexposed. Shy about her ribs. About how her 32A is now a 32-nothing. But Xander doesn’t treat her as if she’s made of glass or sick or broken. His mouth explores her mouth, her neck and collarbone, her nipples and ribs, every exposed inch of her. As if
there is plenty enough. She realizes that she’s thought about something like this, some kind of freedom from her own exhausting focus on herself, for months. She’d had a few stray thoughts, sure, but she hadn’t counted on release with Xander.

Now it seems impossible that it would have been with anyone else.

“You remind me of pancakes.” She twines her arms around his neck, shyly, and yet she wants him so close. She might starve if she doesn’t have more of him. “Like butter melting on a stack of warm Sunday pancakes.”

Yes, that’s Xander’s Signature Scent for sure.

“My secret’s out,” he whispers in her ear—truly, she is on overload by everything he is doing to her ear. Her neck.
More more
, she thinks, startling herself. “Every morning, I scrub down in pancake batter. Guess what? I know your secret, too.”

She is immediately tense. “You do not.”

“Mmm. But I do.”
He doesn’t of course he doesn’t know that
. As Xander rolls all the way over her. He doesn’t want to talk secrets. He wants to
be
secrets. Still, she feels plunged into sudden darkness, this dread idea that
Xander knows her worst thing
and she has to pursue it.

“Tell me, then. What do you know about me?” Does she sound shrill? Crazy? Xander has no idea about that disgusting thing she did! Unless word has spread since January? Because everyone at
Haute
has been telling the pathetic, notorious tale of her? Alex’s heart stutters, her hairline and underarms prickle … It was only a matter of time before someone who knew someone told someone who’d told Xander—

“What’s my secret?” she whispers sharply. “Tell me! Tell it to my face!”

“It’s no big deal.” Xander arcs up, shoulders squared, to look down at her. His expression is faintly bewildered. “Just that your mom’s remarried to some hedge fund grandpa who’s got more money than God.”

“Oh. Right.” Relief on full tap. Her eyes fill with tears. She blinks them away. “But that’s not a secret. Everybody knows that.” It’s too jarring. She feels a gust of cold like the spell of a curse. The intrusion of
Haute
plus the mention of her mom and Arthur have broken their secret campers’ spell.

She coughs, bumps her hip slightly, the signal for Xander to get off—he obliges, though once he’s lying next to her, she pitches her leg over him. They’re both in shorts and his thigh is fuzzy and warm under hers. Xander’s body seems to wrap hers just right. Each way he turns and shifts, she adjusts to the space he creates. He can do the same. They kiss and touch and breathe each other. They allow the spell to enthrall them. The silence is hypnotic, so she is surprised when Xander breaks it.

“Oh. So, the other day I was reading this article on
Psychology Now
.” Xander speaks rather awkwardly. “They have some sharp bloggers. And I kinda got into this article about …”

“About what?” She’s on alert. Whatever he’s talking about, it sounds planned.

“Just about why girls stop eating. Like how it’s this fear-based disorder that’s basically not about food so much as control of your body. And how there’s this obsessive component to regulating—”

“Whoa whoa whoa. Are you
kidding
me?” Alex kicks herself
out of the sleeping bag and drills her spine up against the wall in one harsh motion, upsetting Xander’s balance—he almost falls off the bed as he thrashes around to right himself.

“Hey! What’s
that
about?”

“Did you honestly think it would be cool to talk to me about this? Were you actually performing some creepy body
inspection
of me earlier or—”

“Alex, c’mon—that’s not how it was at all, how could you—”

“Because if you’ve got the idea that I’m hurting—damaging myself—on purpose, you’re—”

“Jeez, dial it down, Alex. I was talking about Marisol. Today is about Marisol. She’s here, by the way. Did you see her? Out in the backyard? Her mom dropped her off.” Xander is sliding to sit back against the headboard, his forearms crossed at his chest. He’d kept all his clothes on—and now, as she rehooks her loosed bra and grabs for her crumpled T-shirt, Alex sort of wishes he’d taken off his shirt, too.

Of course she’s upset with what Xander’s said. Obviously!

But it can’t stop her from mentally picturing him without a shirt.

Except Xander has slipped inside his friendly-diplomat Empty Hands personality. “I tutor Marisol in geometry and she talks about you nonstop. She idolizes you. Don’t you see that? She thinks you’re just about as close to perfect as humans get.”

“That’s a pretty uninformed idea of me.”

“Not at all. In some people’s eyes, you’ve got so much of everything. Marisol sees your confidence, she knows that you’re heading to college—not to mention that car of yours … it’s only
natural. A little kid always thinks,
Wow, if I could just be more like her, then I’d get everything that I—
”

“Okay, okay.” Confidence. What a joke. “So this is your attempt to blame me and guilt me?”

“For what?”

“You know what. I’ve been sick. I’ve lost weight. On one hand, you’re saying that Marisol idolizes me. But what you’re really trying to tell me is that it’s my responsibility to stop her from copying me. That I’m a role model. Therefore, I must act like a role model. Right?”

She expects Xander to protest. Instead, he narrows his eyes. “What do you have?”

“What do you mean?” She’s confused.

“You just said you’ve been sick. Sick how? What’ve you got?”

Alex has absolutely no game as a liar, especially when she’s put on the spot. Which is now. “It doesn’t matter. It’s private.”

“Not eating is mostly about self-regulation, right?”

“Please spare me your
Psychology Now
blogger quotes.” She gives him her best bored voice. After all, she’s still Alexandra Parrott, Queen of the Scene. Even if she’s not really showing up on the Scene.

Xander’s gone quiet. Did she hurt his feelings? Should she apologize? This brand-new intimacy with Xander confuses her. It’s not just that it changed all the rules. It threw all the rules out the window. What’s the protocol after you’ve hooked up with a near stranger and followed it up with a near argument?

“I’m having a party at my house tonight,” she says. Stupidly, maybe. But she’s dying to change the subject. “You should come.”

“As your date?”

“As my guest, more like.”

He’s watching her. “Why not as more than your guest?”

“That’s not … that might be strange for Joshua. My, um …”

“Boyfriend?” There’s an acrylic hardening in Xander’s diamond eyes.

“C’mon. You knew I had a boyfriend.”

“Right, but. Maybe I figured, from the way you’ve been hanging out with me today, that you were status-changed on that.”

“Not really, not … I don’t know.”

Silence. “Well, anyway, I can’t.” Xander’s tone is short. “I’m leaving tonight.”

She can feel an instant brain freeze. “Where are you going?”

“Australia. For eight weeks.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Why would I joke about that? You ever hear of Student Advocacy Global Initiative? I’m an outdoor leadership guide this summer. Taking thirty kids through Sydney, Perth, and the Great Barrier Reef.”

“You never said anything about this before.”

“Maybe not to you.” And as if he needs to prove it to her right that minute, Xander vaults from the bed to his dresser. Yanks open a drawer and begins tossing items into an athletic bag that’s lying on the floor. “Everything else today I’ll file under ‘Random.’ But I still want you to touch base with Marisol. If that works for you.”

Twisting, knifing dread inside her. This is all going wrong.
Run​run​run
.

“It’s not like one afternoon with Marisol fixes her,” she tells
him. “I don’t have superpowers.” Suddenly it feels very weird that she’s sitting here talking to Xander Heilprin from his bed. She scoots off it, leaping to the safer distance of his doorframe. “Are you really going to Australia?”

“Flight’s at ten tonight. Been planned since March. Listen, about Marisol. I see what’s going on with her. Penelope, too. Eyes are on her. But Marisol’d pay attention to you. Just putting yourself out there for her would be cool. Any path you take.”

“What?” Her voice is sharp. “Help me out, Xander. What’s my path to Marisol?”

“Okay. Like maybe you two can talk about how …” Xander is sifting through his sock drawer. His back is to her.

“I’m listening. About how …?”

He turns. His eyes on her claim all the weight of what he is about to say. “About how both of you, at these incredible moments of potential in your lives, have decided to hurt yourselves to such an extreme.”

Xander has changed the game so fast and hard that Alex feels instantly out of air. Her defenses charge her. “What an arrogant statement. You don’t even know me.”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right. I don’t know you at all.” Xander flips another pair of socks sidelong into the bag, then crosses the room to contain her around the hips. Decisive, the very same way she’d first moved to him outside. Except that his hold is in motion. It travels upward until he circles his hands around her waist, his middle fingers meeting at her spine. “But that’s what you’re saying to the world, Alex. Even if you don’t want to.”

“Stop it.”

Xander’s hands tighten around her middle. As much as he’d given her earlier, making her feel so lush and extra, now he’s taking something away. Showcasing where she is diminished. As he loosens his grip, she stumbles backward. He moves to steady her and she thwacks him off.

“You’re being a jerk.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right again, obviously. But I care about you, Alex. Even before what happened with us today, you’ve been on my mind. You know you have. And I care about Marisol, too.” His words are so sincere that she relents.

“Thanks, I guess. But I still don’t see what you want.”

“Marisol isn’t looking for infinite wisdom, Alex. She needs your honesty. She needs to understand that you’re human. Do you feel like that’s something you could do?”

She has a lot of answers for this. Answers like weapons.

She doesn’t use any of them.

Texting, texting. When I got in the car, I checked in with my phone and saw I had five more VIPs (juniors, not seniors, but still) asking if this thing was on. My fingers flew out answers.

Liquid gold was gurgling in my blood. This was the party of the year! Was this the party of the year? Please please please let this be the party of the year and please let me get more credit for it than Alex amen.

Last thing before I left Ten Pin was to ask my favor from Joshua. Who said he could do it—pick up three pony kegs from D’Angelo’s Super Liquor Mart in Hartford. His older brother’s ID was bulletproof.

“You sure?” I needed him to be. I had no other options. “You’ve got those Carvel cakes to think about, too. I could handle them if you want.”

“Me not dumb. Me got truck. Me multitask.” He beat his chest. And then, as he took the keg money, his fingers slipped to fasten light on my elbow. Just a squeeze, and I couldn’t tell, I just couldn’t, from that gesture, what he meant.

Nothing, or possibly everything.

Or maybe I should not even be thinking about it at all.

An easier dilemma: What to wear? In Arthur’s priceless vintage Mercedes with the wind like a splash of summer in my face, I wanted my next errand to be all fun, all me. Topshop? Eh. I quit that job two years ago. And it was a little hard to get excited about fifty percent off anything when I was dipping into Arthur’s bottomless credit line. I’d gone back a few times for the nostalgia factor, but I couldn’t find the authentic excitement. And while the clothes were just as sweet, the prices seemed so cheap I mistrusted them.

Also, I’d rather show off the Benz than hit the mall. Even if that meant detouring into Old Greenwich and dealing with its pricey if unfocused boutiques. For the serious Greenwich shopper, the thrill was the hunt.

I took the long way. Parking on the corner for the most gaspy, shiny view of Benzy. Then I strolled the sidewalk, which I never failed to appreciate. Something about the super-quaintness. The outdoor café awnings and paned glass windows. And so what if the stores themselves were kind of a yawn, trending to moms who wanted their whole entire lives decorated in toile and wicker? Old Greenwich was pure theater. You went there to be seen. Maybe to grab an iced latte and an artsy sandwich involving goat cheese and figs. To bask in the feeling that the whole world is more adorable than it actually is.

And sometimes, like right now, you hit retail jackpot.

Amazing.

The Welch & Co. window model stopped me cold. She stood centered, alone in the glass. She was a plainer-Jane mannequin than Topshop Gia, but still selling it in that sassy tilt of her head
and turn of her molded foot. What caught me, though, was that she was wearing a clone of Mom’s first wedding dress. A homemade crochet-lace mini, thigh-high, with a Victorian neck and gauzy mutton sleeves.

I needed that dress. Oh, yes I did. Gottagotta havehavehave. In my head, I was already buttoned and twirling inside it. With tonight’s party clicked to the bathroom’s purple “Garden” light. My eyes like violet saucers and Joshua’s hand nesting my elbow. His face wide-open and ready to catch every joke comment confession I made.