The worst part about getting a ride home with Alejandro Torres isn't that he drives like a Fast & Furious extra.
It's that my mom insisted on it.
"You're going in the same direction," she said. "Why waste fuel?"
Translation: Why not suffer for forty minutes trapped in a car with your childhood nemesis turned hot adult problem, it's not that big of a deal, right?. Like why?
I drag my backpack across the parking lot, already tired of the car ride and possible conversation that could play out in the car, I walked on dragging my bag like a sack of bricks, muttering curses under my breath as Alex leans casually against the driver's side, sunglasses on, as if it's some stupid photoshoot for Vogue and not my personal hell.
"You look thrilled," he says as I open the passenger door.
"I am," I say flatly. "Ecstatic. Practically vibrating."
"Careful," he grins, "you're starting to sound like you like me."
"I'd rather be hit by a truck, going 300 miles per hour, and be buried beneath a 2 truck pileup, and miraculously struck by lightning in a span of 3 minutes."
"Well, be care
The moment we're on the road, I buckle in, glare out the window, and try to pretend I'm not hyper-aware of how good he smells. Or how his forearm flexes against the wheel. Or how this was somehow not the worst part of my day.
He turns the music on low — some old-school R&B track that feels too smooth for how choppy I feel inside.
"You always this dramatic?" he asks after a beat.
"You always this... everywhere?"
"I live in your house, Nick. Hard to avoid."
"You know you can solve that, by just, not living their right?."
He laughs under his breath, and for some reason, that makes it worse. Because I don't know if he's laughing at me or because he's figured out I don't really hate him as much as I act like I do. And I do hate him. Mostly. Kind of.
We fall into a tense silence, until he says casually, "Lucas used to talk about you, you know."
I blink. "What?"
"Back in high school. Said you were annoying but smart. Like a mosquito that got A's."
I snort. "Classic Lucas."
"He also said you were kind of a badass. But like... a quiet one. The kind that pretends not to care but always shows up."
I go still. That's not something Lucas would say out loud. Not to me. Not even in a letter.
I look at Alex. "You're making that up."
He shakes his head, still watching the road. "I'm not."
I hate how much I want to believe it.
We pull into the driveway. I reach for the door handle way too fast, but Alex isn't done.
"By the way," he says, shifting the gear smoothly into park. "You've got paint on your ear."
I touch my ear instantly, embarrassed. "What—? Where?"
He leans over a little. Close. Closer.
There's a speck of something just under my lobe, and he brushes it off gently with his thumb. Slow. Like he knows exactly what he's doing.
"There," he says softly.
I freeze. His hand drops. He's already out of the car before I can find my breath.
Later That Night
I'm sketching. Or trying to. My pencil's doing loops and lines but they're not turning into anything real.
Because my brain keeps rerunning that moment in the car. That Lucas thing. The paint thing. The smile.
My fingers tighten on the pencil, if you listen closely, a creaking sound comes from it.
There's a knock at the door.
I yank it open, annoyed, ready to tell whoever it is that I am in a state of mind—and of course it's Alex.
Holding my sketchbook.
"You left this downstairs," he says, offering it out like it's fragile.
I hesitate. "Thanks, I guess."
He starts to turn, then pauses. "By the way—your stuff? You're really good."
I blink. "What?"
"The sketches. You've got something. Like... a gift, I guess. Style."
I stare at him, stunned.
He nods once, turns, walks away like he didn't just flip my whole mood upside down.
I close the door slowly and stare down at the sketchbook in my hands.
Nope. Not a crush. Just disoriented. Probably tired. Maybe dehydrated. Maybe all three.
Definitely not a crush.