Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’d never heard the phrase ‘country club’ until Dean asked you to go.

You hardly knew the city, or the state, or this part of the country—you made the move with your parents just two months ago for the cost of living, much more affordable square footage than in Los Angeles—and he was nice to you. Sure, it was usually the vapid kind of nice that ended with too much laughter at the end of non-jokes, and yeah, he tried kissing you in the worst possible moments. But so far, you’d managed to avoid having your first kiss with him in your new school’s halls and at Adler’s Grocery.

It’s not like you were avoiding it, really—and it certainly wasn’t because you were scared. It wouldn’t have been your first kiss. It just wasn’t the first kiss you wanted with him. Or maybe you didn’t want a first kiss with him at all. Did you really have to kiss every person you dated?

He was cute, you knew it the moment you saw him—tall with broad shoulders, dark eyes and a wide smile. And he thought you were cute. And he had approached you to ask you out, and it was the first time you had talked to anyone your age since your first day at school. So you said yes. And whenever you went out, you had some laughs and talked about important things, sometimes. Often, he couldn’t make up his mind whether he thought your dyed hair was sexy or dangerous. You thought it was just a fun weekend decision, not your personality. You didn’t really blame him, though; it’s not like you spoke much about yourself to fill the blanks. And despite him knowing only your name and what class you had before lunch, he kept asking for your time, and this time, he told you to wear your nicest dress.

So you did—and even though being around Dean just made you miss your friends back home, you spent the better part of the afternoon showering with perfumes and shaving your forearms and straightening your hair. You teased your bangs, just like the covergirl of YM, and brushed a lock from your face, featherlight. There was nothing wrong with trying out a style just for one night, just to see what it’d feel like. It would be back to normal after a single shower anyways.

You felt elegant walking from the parking lot. Your dress was pulled from a box in the corner of your room, still packed away from last year’s homecoming, and you weren’t sure if your jewelry was in fashion since your mom was still acclimating to waspish tastes. Still, Dean kept his hand around your waist as you two approached the door, propping you in his arm just as he had Summer Cranston the morning before he saw you. He whispered in your ear how pretty your hair looked, finer than gold, than all the sweeping blonde bouffants that passed.

“Ferrars and guest,” he announced to the doorman. “I’m his son.”

He stepped forward and hugged you close. You let yourself smile, a silent thank-you for inviting you to this unfamiliar palace decorated in ivory candles and Charles Jourdan heels. Just as quickly, your smile disappeared when the doorman stepped between the doors.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ferrars.”

“Oh, something the matter?”

The doorman looked between you under thick silver brows, his jowls sagging with a deep sigh.

“I apologize, but membership is exclusive.”

“But—he’s got family membership. I’ve got my ID i-if you wanna see,” Dean stammered. He was still trying to smile, but you could tell he didn’t understand yet. You weren’t sure if it was your embarrassment or his that made your stomach sour.

“Dean… we should go.”

“No, really, I’ve got it right here—”

“Mr. Ferrars,” the doorman repeated. He didn’t bother to look at you anymore, except to demonstrate a pointed glance. “It extends to guests, as well.”

Dean let his hands fall against his sides. You stared at the tiled ground, counting the moments until he would finally get the hint. Your legs trembled against the cold night air.

“Are you serious? She’s with me.”

“This club has certain standards to uphold. I’m sure you understand.”

“I mean, can’t you just—”

“Mr. Ferrars, I will have to ask you to—”

“I’ve got twenty bucks in my pocket—”

“I’m going home," you blurted, turning sharply on your heel—and slammed into a navy jacket and silk-striped tie. Leathered derbies squeaked in the grass, scrambling for balance. You turned to walk off, but his eyes held you, too blue not to notice. Young guy in a suit, soft hazel hair, bred for a place like this. His lips parted with a half-formed thought. Probably some judgment about you and your gumption to show up to a place like this, given his company—sharp jaw and champagne hair in babypink chiffon, like a Barbara that insisted upon her nickname. God, you were so sick of Ohio.

“Wait! C’mon, don’t just run off!” Dean shouted.

You gathered your skirt and followed the sidewalk, swallowing hard to push down the knot in your throat. Your parents would be disappointed. They liked Dean. They liked that he didn’t look like your other boyfriends back home. They were hoping you’d meet a guy like him in Ohio, especially your mom. She only let you borrow her jewelry because you said it was for a country club. Did she know what would happen to you at the door? She looked so happy when you told her. Maybe she hoped things would be different. For you, at least, if not anyone else with a complexion darker than raw milk.

You overheard her sometimes wishing for it in quiet conversations with your father. It’d be easier to get rich in Los Angeles where you could make a name for yourself and earn your keep, but she insisted there were good schools in small towns, and that the white boys of old money at these schools couldn’t resist the charms of a girl that stood out from the rest.

But it wasn’t enough. Despite your parents’ compensation for their ethnicity by voting for Nixon and reading the National Review, none of it trickled down to you. You stood out too much, like a ghost. Maybe you were a little cold to begin with on your first day. But no one ever tried talking to you. It’s like they didn’t know how.

“Hey, c’mon, wait up!”

Simple Dean. He tried. He was trying now, blubbering with ruddied cheeks about poor customer service and not knowing who his dad works for, tightening his tie like it was the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. It was hard to stay mad when he kept spouting apologies, even when you stayed silent, and though you had just choked down your tears, your eyes stung again at the thought that he might actually care.

Conversation died without your participation, but he never seemed to mind how quiet you were. You walked with him into the grounds, skirting past verdant ferns and the hanging leaves of willow trees. The edge of a lake shimmered silver in the waxing moonlight. You looked down at your reflection, trying to mimic your earlier smile.

“It’s… the hair, right? They’d never let me in when it’s dyed like this.”

You laughed weakly, but you weren’t convinced by your own joke. Dean kicked a stray rock.

“Um… They didn’t let you in ‘cause you’re…”

“…I know, Dean.”

He raked his fingers through his crew cut, the smooth lines of his forehead wrinkling with a depth of concern you didn’t know he was capable of.

“I dunno, I thought it’d be fine. I thought, maybe when they’d see you, y’know…”

“Oh. Is that why you told me to wear my best dress?”

You stared down at the water, your reflection splitting in the ripples. He scooped your hands into his.

“I thought when they saw how pretty you are, maybe…”

You turned; he was leaning in for a kiss. Shame still burned your cheeks, but at least you were alone this time, without the prying eyes of classmates and mothers buying groceries for dinner. And despite your humiliation, he really did want you to have a good night. You closed your eyes and let him kiss you, feeling his lips press softly against yours. It was almost comforting, the way his hands wrapped around your shoulders, how his lips warmed your jaw. Slowly, his mouth moved down your neck, across the bare skin of your chest.

You gasped softly as a breeze passed over your skin, filtering through the open, and very public, air. You stepped away, but he followed.

“Ah… a-alright, that’s enough…”

“Aw, c’mon. Please.”

His hands slid down your shoulders, grabbing your waist. You pressed a hand against his shoulder but he found his way back into your hair, against your ear.

“Oh, Dean—not here—”

“I can’t help myself,” he breathed. He palmed down your back, fingers bunching at your dress, digging into your thighs. His lips dragged against your shrinking neck. “I’ve never seen a girl like you before. Or been this close. I wanna try, just once.”

Your chest shuddered against his tongue. You couldn’t move for one slow, awful moment. But when you could, you shoved him. Hard.

He stumbled away and you wanted to scream, but you couldn’t. Really, there would be no point; you were completely alone. He shook his head and straightened his tie. You turned and ran.

He wasn’t following. Eventually, you slowed, kicking off your heels into your hand. You hated the prissy way they clicked against the pavement. You looked down the path behind you; to the country club. The sound of a violin and piano came from the door, and the perfect, even-tempered laughter of the white ‘upper class’. It was going to be a long walk back home.

You felt disgusting by the time you reached the gates. Was the driveway really this long coming in? Your makeup was crumbling, you could feel it when you wiped away your tears, and your feet were pulsing with exhaustion.

You knew this would happen. You knew every time there was a silence you didn’t care to fill. You knew every time you leaned out of the way of a kiss. You knew every time you caught someone staring at Dean seated at the edge of your desk, playing with a lock of your hair. You knew he didn’t like you, not really—he hardly knew you. But it was so lonely. Even the willows were planted in pairs. Through the glass windows lit gold, you could see the faint outlines of bodies twirling to music. You tossed your heels onto the ground and knelt to rebuckle their straps, wondering how much farther you’d have to walk to the nearest payphone.

Something bumped into you and knocked you to the ground. You cursed, whimpered—the pavement had scraped your hands and an unlucky knee. A man gasped, tall and looming, but oddly soft in his affect, like a wilting sunflower.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” His voice was airy, and he was gentle when he lifted you to your feet. “I was so worked up, I wasn’t even paying attention!”

“It’s fine,” but it wasn’t. Your voice cracked, wet, and his dark eyes softened. The deep wrinkle in his brow disappeared.

“Are you… alright? Were you… coming to the Carlton, here?”

“I… yes…” They came again before you could stop them, the tears. It made your mouth quiver how sincerely sorry he looked for you, and you muffled soft gasps behind your aching hand. “I-I didn’t know what this place was, s-so they turned me away at the door, and… and when they did, the guy I came with started… treating me differently, too…”

He passed his hand down his long face, staring with hard eyes off at the building. He was dressed in an old cotton flannel and a cobalt sports jacket—you wondered why he was here in the first place, what had him so worked up.

“Are you walking home?” he asked, stern. He spoke just like one of those sitcom-dads, equal parts angry and concerned.

“Yeah…” You wiped at your face with your wrist. Probably no makeup left after tonight. “I thought if I asked to use their phone, they’d just tell me to leave again.”

He grunted, an earnest attempt at frustration but meek at best, and stuck his fists on his hips.

“Why, I can’t stand—I… I think I ought’a take you home, just after I pick up my son. I came here because—this is exactly why I don’t want my son in a place like this!”

He started marching without you, but you followed close behind. You didn’t even know his name, nor he yours, but suddenly he was handing you his car keys and describing its color, make, and model. When you could see the doorman again, you turned for the parking lot, peeking through the lobby windows. He stuck out like a rainbow fish among minnows, too big and blue for his own good, shiny against worsted wool suits.

Quickly, you found his car and unlocked the doors, taking only a moment to note the torn scraps of blueprints and a muddied baseball glove shoved under the front seat. In the back, the tree beside you cast you in shade; you wished it could make you disappear.

It wasn’t long before you could hear his voice again, louder now, and you saw he was pointing at the car. The shorter guy beside him—his son, you supposed—tried turning back in, but his father wouldn’t let him, opting for a firm shoulder on the hand to guide him away.

“…make her wait any longer…”

“…not my fault that…”

“…and don’t even think about talking to her right now. The last thing you should be doing is anything with a girl.”

“As if I can, dad! You embarrassed me in front of Kimberly Blanton. That’s the only girl I wanna be doing… a-anything with… and now all I can do is remember her laughing at me!”

The car doors opened, then slammed closed. You told yourself you wouldn’t stare, but you couldn’t help it—leathered derbies planted themselves beside you. You looked up and saw the kid from earlier.

He looked pissed, like he was chewing on imaginary gum. Briefly, he looked your way, preemptively tilting his chin up in a sloppy how-are-ya.

His eyes lingered, widening. You leaned back into the shadows, unable to fully look his way, and after a moment too long, he remembered himself. His throat cleared and he turned, brooding out the window, crumpling down until his embarrassment was compressed into a tight, hot ball.

“Alrighty! We’ll drop you off first, of course. Where to?”

He was being so nice and cheerful; you felt bad for your hesitation, and the uncomfortable silence it produced. Eventually, you choked out your street name, and soon, you were back on the road.

The dad drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, humming a Tom Petty song. The son’s leg started jiggling. He looked like the kind of guy that’d get mad over a girl like that. Handsome in a suit, all-American style, with long, soft eyelashes that drew you in. Alluring, disarming, with a kind dad who owned a nice car and tried to do right by his principles and the son he loved. Of course he’d find some girl to be mad about. There wasn’t much else he could want for.

“You–you know what? I won’t stand for this, dad! You gotta respect that I’m my own person!”

“Please, can we not talk about this right now? We can pretend to be a normal family for a ten minute drive, don’t you think?”

“You really humiliated me, dad.” You almost felt bad for the way he crooned, how big his puppydog eyes became. “How could’ya do that?”

“I–I know, I’m sorry. Can we please talk about it when—”

“I mean, he comes barging into the club—”

Oh no. He was talking to you. You stiffened in your seat, keeping your eyes out the window, feeling too small in the car. You could hear his dad groaning through a sigh.

“—and makes a scene in front of everyone there, including Kimberly Blanton. She drives a yellow convertible! It–it’s not about principles, it’s about the principle of my dad humiliating me. I mean, wouldn’t you be embarrassed if your parents did that to you?”

After a long moment’s silence, you turned, looking him in the eye.

His gaze focused and his boyish frown faltered. He stared for too long, probably at the puffiness in your eyes, and you felt your voice crackle when you spoke.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He blinked and furrowed his brow, slowly turning back to the window. When he thought you weren’t looking anymore, his eyes flicked back, down to your knee. You pulled at the hem of your skirt. His mouth twisted with some quiet thought that came and went.

The rest of the ride passed quickly; you weren’t able to drive yet, but you got the sense that his dad was resting his foot a little too liberally on the gas pedal. You directed him to your apartment complex, and when he parked, you were more than eager to hop back out of the car. Despite the unexpected tension of the night, you felt grateful you didn’t have to walk the whole way alone.

“You don’t live too far from us,” the dad called out through his open window. “What school do ya go to?”

You told him and he chuckled, shaking his head, smile strained.

“Oh, what a coincidence! My son goes there too. I would suggest you make friends with him, but uh, I don’t think you’d be invited to his club.”

You laughed before you could help it, even though he winced like he already regretted it.

“I’m sorry about my son.”

“Dad—”

“Will you be alright from here? Do you have alcohol and bandages at home?”

“Yes, I do. I’ll be alright. Thank you for everything.”

You could see the elbows of the son’s jacket go taut, his arms tight across his chest. After a short wave, you started up the stairs, the click of your heels echoing off the white brick walls. The faint sound of whining followed you before he could roll up his window.

“Why’d you have to go and say that?”

“I’m sorry, that was… That wasn’t very adult of me. But—really, this is why I don’t want you at these kinds of places. They hurt people! People that don’t deserve it.”

The window rolled closed and they pulled away. When you made it down the hall and into the apartment, you called out to no response. Your parents must have gone out to dinner, assuming you’d be out for the night. In your room, you ripped at the zipper of your dress and threw it in the corner, tossing yourself over your bed.

You didn’t know why you couldn’t stop crying tonight. It wasn't like this was the first time a guy had gotten too eager with you. Maybe because, despite how awful he turned out to be, you had lost your only friend at school, and now you had to start all over. With nothing. Again. Despite how pathetic it sounded, you wished you could run into that man again. He seemed so kind. So sincere. You’d heard all about Midwestern politeness before you moved here. People told you it’d be so easy to make friends. But they didn’t know what it’d be like at this school. And it was never easy, even in Los Angeles. What little friends you had were probably out right now; that’s what their parents always said when you tried calling.

Eventually, you slid from your bed and shuffled towards the bathroom, turning on the hot water. With a gentle hand, you lathered against your scrapes, letting the soap lick at your wounds. Tomorrow was a new day. You hoped it’d prove to be a good thing.

Chapter Text

The heat wave was slowly killing him, drying him out and drowning him at the same time. It was already fall—wasn’t the Midwest supposed to have all four seasons? He learned in elementary school science that the wind carried from the Great Lakes was what created the oppressive humidity that soaked him down to his underthings. Or maybe it was the fact that he had a date soon with an older woman.

Stephanie Brooks. The name sounded sweet even in his head. Long-limbed and beautiful, like a blonde praying mantis perched over her typewriter. Alex didn’t even realize women liked talking about the economy, let alone studied it for a career. His mom was an exception—she was a mom first before a woman, and even then, her feminine sensibilities muddied her judgment on income tax brackets and social welfare spending. Stephanie had her doubts about Friedman too, but yesterday, not to give himself too much credit, he might’ve swayed her to reason. It only made sense she called him to attend Friedman’s lecture.

He had just one bag of groceries left to deliver, then he could spend the rest of his night deliberating on what combination of red, white, and navy best brought out his eyes. He sent Jennifer on her way early, forfeiting her tips since she had volunteered him for car washing duty yesterday afternoon. He hoped this customer wasn’t as stingy as his first one; she was a knockout, but being gorgeous didn’t save you from being a broke college student, apparently.

The door was open—probably to air things out. He tapped his foot against the doorframe and leaned in, scanning the kitchen for an open surface. He paused, looking over the towels, stray dishes, art hanging on the walls. It looked like the family had taken a vacation overseas and brought back a department store with them. He blew a stray drop of sweat that dangled from the curve of his lip.

“Heyo, grocery delivery here!”

“Oh—”

Something rattled. He glanced on instinct, spotting a large potted plant shivering in the hall. Through the fronds, he saw skin—the bare curve of a thigh beneath linen shorts, and a stomach—but it was hidden again beneath a shirt. The fabric was spotted and dark, used to wipe away sweat. And he saw eyes. Your eyes, wide and staring through stray blades of grass. The grocery bag crinkled under his tightening fingers. He wasn’t sure whether he spotted you or you him.

“It’s… it’s you!” His voice strained to stay light, humorous, but it came out more like a whimper.

You nodded, blinking, shrinking behind the plant. He turned to the door, then turned back, the paper bag painfully noisy in his arms.

“I don’t—I don’t mean to intrude. I just, I have your groceries, um—”

“…Right—sorry!”

You disappeared. Alex shrugged his shoulder against his cheek, hurriedly wiping at the sweat dripping off his hair, and a moment later, you reappeared. Bright in slippers and silk, with a sash tying your robe close around your waist. Your hair looked different than he remembered—bigger, more alive.

“Hold on,” you murmured, clearing a stack of unopened envelopes from the kitchen table. You seemed smaller without heels. But you had already seemed small that night, squeezing yourself into the corner of his dad’s car, wilting away from the doorman. “You can set it here.”

“Gotcha.” 

He shuffled towards the table, and you shuffled away. When he set down the bag, he smiled out of reflex, slapping his hands and rubbing them together. He stopped, shoved them into his pockets, wondered what compelled him to act like a grubby fly.

“R-right… your tip.”

You buried your face into a coat rack and he grimaced at himself, bobbing back and forth on his heels while you dug through different pockets. Eventually, you pulled out a wallet; your fingertips leafed through.

Something rolled down your cheek. His breath caught and he leaned forward, but then you wiped it away with the back of your hand and onto your shirt. Just sweat, not tears. Normal, nothing wrong, like you weren’t the nameless, nearly faceless girl with flaking mascara and a bloody knee.

“S-so… w-we both go to Harding High, right?” He tugged at the knot of his tie. “That’s pretty surprising. I mean, I haven’t seen you around. Which is weird, because I’d remember if I saw you,” he coughed, “since there aren’t a lotta—”

You looked over your shoulder; your fingers stilled. He threw up his hands in errant jerks and shook his head, praying the heat wave would just go away.

“It’s not weird or anything, I mean, it’s not a big deal. I don’t—I don’t see c-color, or, anything like… that…”

What the hell was happening to him? He swallowed hard, face trembling in an attempt to reset this awful moment, and you were trying not to roll your eyes. You held out two dollar bills, a two-hundred percent increase from what he expected.

“Bye.”

You didn’t even sound mad when you said it. Actually, your voice sounded kinda sweet. Kinda sad. He forced himself forward till he was at the door, but his hand grabbed the frame, keeping him back.

“What… what classes do you have this semester? Why haven’t I run into you yet?”

You looked surprised. He didn’t know why.

“…Don’t worry about it. We don’t have to be friends.”

“Huh? But…”

“Don’t worry about what your dad said.”

You smiled. It was tight around the edges, pained, like he really was the one that spotted you in sweat-stained pajamas and natural hair and a thin-walled apartment and last season’s homecoming dress just for a Thursday night at a country club. You grabbed the doorhandle; he stepped back on instinct, out of the frame, and you closed the door gently.

He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to move. His fist lifted to knock, but really, what the hell would he have to say to you anyways? Soon, he was heading for the stairs, folding and unfolding the bills between his fingers. When he started his car, his broken AC spited him with a blast of hot air. He groaned and wiped at his face. Did he really have to go and say color?

By the time he got home, he felt waterlogged, heavy just walking to the couch. He looked down at the bills, crumpled now, and tossed them onto Jennifer’s lap. She set down her book and frowned.

“Alex, I don’t trust this. Are you expecting me to pay back with interest?”

“No, Jennifer, just keep it. I don’t want it.”

“Alex,” Elyse gasped, standing hurriedly from her chair. “Are you running a fever? That’s not like you at all—oh, you’re sweating like a pig!”

“Mom, I’m fine—”

“Maybe he’s finally hitting puberty,” Mallory chimed in, smirking from the stairwell. “You better clean up. Your date’s in twenty minutes, and it’s not at the gym.”

“My… my d—t-twenty mi—I gotta go!”

He suddenly felt thirty pounds lighter, bounding up the stairs, cursing himself for letting him forget the highlight of his day—his whole adolescence, possibly! He wondered if Stephanie liked corduroy. He wondered if Friedman liked corduroy.

You opened the carton. Each egg was individually cushioned by a neat square of paper towel. You grabbed the olives and popped open the lid, seal already broken, and saw they were pitted. You didn’t smell soap, but you did find the soap wrapped in a plastic bag at the bottom.

“Oh, how nice,” your mother hummed, looking over the table on her way in from the door. “See what I told you? Ohio isn’t that bad.”

You crumpled the bag and tossed it in the trash, wondering what she’d have to say if she were here for the delivery.

Chapter Text

The next time you saw him, you were safe in long cotton pants and a woolen sweater. It hardly mattered, though; he didn’t even look at you.

He was pretending to look at a receipt, which no delivery boy had brought before, and he only half-glanced your way when you confirmed your address. You leaned against the counter and crossed your arms, watching him meander towards your kitchen table. When he set the bag down, he hesitated—just long enough to shift awkwardly, self-consciously, and in an attempt to look controlled and purposeful, he started pulling out your groceries.

Maybe he wasn’t looking at you because you stared at him in the hall last Friday. But no, that couldn’t be it—he didn’t even notice you there.

You had looked away, back into your locker to shuffle around your notebooks, fascinated and repulsed by the conversation he was making. Talking to some guy about this new woman he was seeing, emphasis on woman. Long legs, blonde hair, sexy laugh, a mind for economics. Did he mention she was taking a college course? He met her at work—yes, on a grocery run, and yes, she gave him a tip.

You smiled despite yourself. Your eavesdropping felt a little intrusive, almost too classically teenage-boy. He said they went on a date last night, some lecture by Friedman himself, and she invited him in for wine.

He kept a cool tone of voice, even when the guy next to him, some whoever-the-fuck, lost his mind. It lifted just slightly with raspy, boyish charm, just disarming enough to make you believe he knew he landed on the moon, beyond the stars. The guy next to him asked what he’d do about Monica Dillon. Alex said she was a nice girl, but really, what could you even do with a girl like that, with no experience? But of course, he’d still take her out to a Sunday afternoon lunch. He wouldn’t leave a sweet girl like that in the lurch.

He shoved his hands into his slack pockets, drawing his shoulders back and cocking his hip. He smirked at something and rolled his eyes, tipping his head away from his friend, towards you. You hid your face behind the locker door again, but as the conversation faded around the corner and  moved towards his plans to buy a couple of melons for Stephanie tonight, you became sure he hadn’t noticed you.

“Oh, gee, Alex…”

“Do you still have a crush on that Keaton kid?”

Two girls closed their lockers at the same time, one staring fondly down the hall. The other rolled her eyes and started walking, keeping the first close behind by her elbow.

“He’s sooo cute, Katie.”

“Cute like a dog. A beagle or something, one of those small yapping ones.”

“Stop it. I don’t mind at all. I think it’s kinda nice, actually—he’s gotta stand tall to make himself stand out, y’know? Guys don’t have to try as hard if they’re naturally big and strong.”

“Posing like Al Pacino doesn’t make him big or strong.”

“He’s just got this attitude about him. And he’s so smart, I can’t believe he’s still in high school and not off to some Ivy League.”

“Oh, I think I see a janitor. Hey, come quick! There’s a big puddle of drool here you gotta clean! I think she left some of her brains on the floor, too.”

“Shut up. Can you blame me? I’m not the only one who stares.”

The hall became too silent; you realized you were the only person here besides those two, and you weren’t sure why you were sticking around. Their voices dropped to a hush, not quite quiet enough to hide the echoes of their whispers.

“What, was she staring at him?”

“Yeah. I guess even girls like her are into guys like Alex?”

“Huh. You’d think she’d be into other guys like her.”

Heat pricked at your cheeks. You grabbed one last notebook, which one didn’t matter, and stuffed it into your bag. The zipper jammed, probably divine punishment for eavesdropping.

“Do you think he’d go for it? His parents are total hippies, right?”

“They’d probably encourage it. They’re pretty weird, I bet they’d try anything once.”

“Oh my gosh, Katie, stop! Hahaha.”

“I’m just saying. I heard she slept with Dean, and he’s a total sleazebag. I bet it wouldn’t be hard, even for Alex.”

You shut your locker door, harder than you meant, and walked towards your next class, away from them. You didn’t know what you hated more—the silence that followed, or the whispers that began again once you were too far to understand.

“Oookay, uh, that’s everything!”

He—Alex—drummed along the kitchen counter and clapped his hands, forcing a smile to feel natural. He started heading for the door, but before you could help yourself, you hurried to the coat rack.

“Uh, your tip! Don’t forget.”

He stopped and looked back at you, as if seeing you for the first time in the room. He puffed out a breath and rubbed at his temple.

“…Gee, I almost forgot the tip. I’m really not myself today.”

You smiled in anticipation, but he didn’t laugh; you realized he wasn’t joking. Quickly, you grabbed your mother’s wallet and fumbled through. Why did you move so slow around him? It was like your limbs turned into jelly.

You weren’t sure why he was particularly reserved today, or why you cared. Maybe it was because it was Sunday, just a few days after his date, and he was supposed to be carrying his usual peppy swagger. Maybe it was because he saw you that night at the country club and his memory was proof you didn’t sleep with Dean, even if he never told anyone, even if he didn’t care. Maybe it was because he seemed smaller now, tense in his own body, just like how you felt after the country club. Your fingers ran over the edges of the bills, slowing as you built up your nerve.

“…Are you oka—“

“A-about the other night,” he blurted. His lip trembled with hesitation, as if he regretted tripping over your words, but his eyes were bright with resolve. “I should’a said it that night, or last time I saw you, but… I’m sorry.”

You pursed your lips together, then sputtered laughing. He blinked.

“You’re… what?” 

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Soowrry?”

He rubbed at his jaw, smirking through his fingers.

“That—how do you say it?”

“Sorry.”

He cocked his head to the side, thumbing the embroidery on his apron, over the ‘A’ in Adler.

“H-heh… You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What gave you that impression?”

He looked up at you; despite the shyness keeping your arms hugged to your body, it warmed you to see him smile. You pulled your hand from your mother’s wallet and he waved his hand away.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.”

“Are you sure? I really appreciate not having to pit my own olives.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he laughed, wavering between ego and self-deprecation. “If you really feel bad about it, just give me a big tip next time. I’ll even peel your bananas if ya want.”

He waved again, with more finality, and stepped through the door. You looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor, at the groceries laid out in neat, efficient arrangement. Each box and veggie  were set in parallel rows. With a deep breath, you ran to the door, poking your head down the hall.

“Alex?”

He stopped, his left shoe resting on the first stair down. He looked back at you, tipping up his chin.

“…P. Keaton. How’d you know my name?”

“We go to the same school, remember?” You flashed a smile. “I appreciate it. The apology.”

“Yeah. No problem.” He rolled his shoulder and smoothed his apron. “You probably said it in the car, but… What’s your name again?”

You weren’t offended in the slightest—relieved, in fact. There was a lot about that night you hoped he forgot, too. You said your name quietly, not quite wanting to let go of it. He nodded slowly, deliberating.

“Huh. It’s different.”

You must have made a face, because his eyes widened, his voice pitching up just slightly with nerves.

“—Not, I mean, not like that. I just mean, it’s pretty. Very pretty.”

“…Thank you.”

He smiled again, awkward still, but with a soft warmth glowing in his cheeks. You took a sharp breath and grabbed the door handle.

“Well… goodbye.”

“Oh. Wait!”

He stepped back up, towards you.

“You, uhh… You never told me. What classes do you have this semester? Maybe I can walk you to some.”

“Walk me?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him shift on the balls of his feet, his dark blond lashes brushing at his cheeks.

“What would we talk about?”

“Uhh… I dunno,” he chuckled, “whatever you want, I guess.”

“I… I don’t think so. I’m not sure there’s much to talk about between us.”

He stared in silence longer than you expected—maybe thinking of the country club, maybe his father, or maybe that older woman that left him looking small and raw. But you couldn’t tolerate it anymore, this tenuous idea that there could be any connection between you and this preppy Columbus-native, so you returned his wave, short and sweet, before closing the door.

After putting away tonight’s dinner, you sat back on the couch, staring down at your homework. Calculus wasn’t all that bad. As long as you knew the rules, you could solve any problem. There was no hidden logic or trick to math; it was predictable, unaffected, cold. So unlike the principles to socialization, to making friends. It could’ve been you, or Ohio, or fate. You heard Marcus Booker was invited to a ‘Keaton party’ last week. It didn’t matter, anyways; it wasn’t the first time you felt alone. Some things never changed.

Your mother walked in the door, and after greeting you, you heard the ugly squeak of styrofoam and a gasp.

“Oh, the eggs—practically half of them are broken! Ah, but they soaked into the paper towels.”

You supposed even economic buffs couldn’t be good at everything.

Chapter Text

He’d been slacking too much on his schoolwork. Too much time spent working dead-end gigs, too much stress at home about whether they’d ever see Uncle Arthur again, too many thoughts about girls —women, like the one who gave him a taste of manhood—and what it would be like to feel it again. No, he couldn’t forget about Princeton or Bush’s press conference at four or IBM, up two points this morning. He couldn’t forget about the things that mattered.

So he focused his thoughts into becoming editor of the paper, and when the first breaking-news story came across his desk, he gunned for it. Even through his grief and confusion at Mallory’s name being a part of that list of students caught cheating on their exam, he noted idly that many names remained off the list, yours included.

Of course, it backfired—appalling to him at first, but foreseeable after some deliberation and words of wisdom from his parents. He hated to admit it, but sometimes they weren’t wrong.

And even though he was revoked from his position as editor, and the new story had been published today, he felt a deep thrill of pride when he saw you reading his publication. A day old, probably given out by some of the protestors in the hall vehemently opposing censorship of free speech. You were reading it over lunch, ignoring the hum of the cafeteria, and you were doing this cute thing with your mouth, wiping it after every bite.

He was shocked to see you. Fully clothed and looking… somewhat normal. The way you dressed was a little loose and casual—he heard you hailed from the western land of high taxes and bleeding-heart liberalism—but then again, you’d look good in a paper bag. Better you wear lite street fashion than linen shorts.

But you were real outside these moments of chance. You could look relaxed, happy even, smirking with hidden thoughts down at his article. You really were a student at his school. He wondered how he went this long without ever knowing you were there.

“Alex, I read your story yesterday. You are so brave.”

Regina Dunnings, soft and round in all the best places, seated herself across from him. Alex tried not to choke on his sandwich, suddenly confronted with the years of memories yearning for her in middle-school health class, tormented at night by the way she applied her lip gloss.

“G-Gina! Oh! B-brave, I dunno if I… I’m just one guy trying to keep Kant’s ideas alive, you know?”

She giggled, and it made him sit taller, but he couldn’t quite tell if she had understood.

“Smart, too. I was kinda surprised to see Keaton on the list, but it makes sense it was your sister, not you.”

“Oh, well…” He smoothed over the cotton of his sweater vest. “Mallory has her own way of being smart. If I ever got lost at the makeup counter in a JCPenney, I’m sure she could help me out.”

She laughed again, setting her hand on his wrist. He swallowed hard. She smelled like vanilla.

“Maybe you could help me out, too? I was sick last week, so I’m trying to catch up in math, but I think I need a tutor.”

“Oh, really…”

It wasn’t a joke, but he started laughing anyways, his nerves bubbling up into squeaks. He glanced away, a moment of reprieve to gather his bearings—and saw you staring.

Your eyes were low, looking down at Regina’s hand. When they lifted, he felt something ache at his chest, a spoke of shame—but you looked away. The corners of your mouth quirked down, eyes scanning aimlessly over the paper.

“If you don’t have time tonight, I understand.”

“N-no, I don’t—I mean, I do—but—”

He looked your way again, but you were already standing to leave. No one else even turned to look at you go. Did you always eat alone?

“Sucks there’s nobody in this school she can talk to,” Regina sighed. Alex finally turned back, feeling the spoke of pain prick at his stomach.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Huh? I dunno,” she hummed, inspecting a frayed curl in her hair. “She’s always by herself now that Dean dumped her.”

“He dumped her?”

So that’s why you were crying that night. It made sense—despite the treatment from the doorman, you looked more… angry  than sad, resolute in the way you stared Alex down after nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Yeah. I guess they did it, and she got too clingy, so he broke up with her. I think it’s sad, those girls that can only be friends with their boyfriend. It’s like they don’t know how to talk to people they’re not dating. I’m surprised they dated at all, considering.”

The bell rang, signaling for the crowd to disperse. She stood from her seat with a flip of her hair, brushing her hand over his. His fingers twitched, recoiling.

“You’ve got history next, right? Walk me to English? It’s on the way.”

He didn’t want to move, but she was staring, and it was Regina Dunnings. Someone smacked him on the back—his friend with a smile and a thumbs-up, jogging Alex back to his senses. Eventually, he stood from his seat and grabbed his bag, numb to her touch as she slipped her arm through his. He glanced above the swarm of heads leaving the cafeteria, but you were long gone.

Chapter Text

You were dropped off early at therapy. Your father needed the car for the evening, something about dinner with the boss, an earnest shot at drinking and schmoozing his way into getting the lead on a new project. It was a little uncomfortable whenever you happened to be stuck in a waiting room with another person, but this one was different. You sat down beside her in the only other available chair and tried not to stare, but there was something about her that looked too familiar.

She looked up, startling you. Despite the way she sat in her chair, with booted legs bouncing and a finger knotting anxiously into her dark hair, she wasn’t afraid to give you a warning glare.

“Sor–sorry,” you stammered, hugging the strap of your bag tight to your chest. “I just… don’t usually see someone my age here.”

“Oh.”

Her frown twisted, eyes softened. The clock dragged with each second ticking by. An hour and a half still until your appointment. The smell of lavender did nothing to soothe either of you; you tried not watching too closely as she picked at her cuticles. Still, the more you looked, the harder it was to look away. There was something about her you couldn’t place—maybe it was the shade of blue in her eyes, or the way her jaw flexed in place, like she was chewing gum.

“I thought only freaks went to therapy,” she mumbled.

“Don’t count me out yet.”

The corner of her mouth hooked and the silence returned. It felt a little more comfortable in the room, save for the jiggle in her ankle.

“I didn’t even wanna come. My parents told me I had to go. They were big hippies in the sixties, so they’re really into this kinda stuff.” She rolled her eyes, but you thought that sounded rather nice.

“Oh… Mine are the opposite. I was surprised they told me to go, since they can be kinda…” You cleared your throat. “But it’s not too bad. It can be nice to tell someone anything you want and they’re not allowed to judge you.”

“Isn’t judging people their whole job?”

You laughed.

“I mean, sort of. She gives advice sometimes. But I never feel like I’m being judged.”

“I wish I didn’t have to pay someone to give a damn and not judge me.”

“Well… I don’t judge you. And I give a damn.”

She smiled, brushing back the wisps of bangs from her forehead.

“So, why’re you here? I mean, you don’t have to tell me or anything if you don’t wanna.”

You shrugged a shoulder, letting your eyes trail down to your lap.

“Well… Today, I was gonna talk about my, uh… ex? We never made it official or anything, but last time I saw him, he got a little too… handsy. And he hasn’t tried talking to me since.”

She snorted. All at once, it was like her anxiety evaporated in a puff of smoke, leaving a long-limbed teenage girl who collapsed at the thought of a stupid boy in lust.

“Ugh, they’re all the same. That happened to me a month ago with this guy, Eric. We ended up in a wrestling match at the point.”

“Oh… my god. That sounds terrifying.”

“Nah, it was over quick. I think it was more embarrassing for him since he still had to drive me home after.”

She laughed stiffly, looking away from your expression of concern. You didn’t want to push, so you spent the next half-hour asking about Eric, and all the other boys that seemed to come in and out of her life, and gave a few stories of your own. By the time she was called in for her session, and you for yours, your therapist noted that you seemed happier than usual. You told her about the kind man that drove you home from your awful date and the last girl that she saw, how not everyone in Columbus totally sucked. Your therapist asked if you felt like you were starting to get comfortable in your new home. You admitted that comfort felt like a far-off idea still, but you didn’t feel totally alien.

The following Monday, you were shocked to see a familiar face approaching you across the steps of your school—brighter now, with red cheeks and a frost-bitten nose that glowed pink in the autumn dusk.

“Hey, it’s you! I didn’t know you went to Harding!”

You weren’t expecting it, but this girl—Mallory, she told you soon after—started making it a point to come and see you. Before and after school, in the halls between third and fourth period, sometimes at lunch. Different girls milled in and out of her orbit, and though you had accepted a silent agreement to let Mallory be the hinge that connected you by proximity and nothing else, they surprised you by asking you questions. What was California like, and were the guys really cuter there? (Bigger, yes.) Was it hard to dye your hair? Didn’t teachers ever give you a hard time about it? (Yes and yes.) Was Dean really as bad a kisser as everyone said? (A resounding yes.)

A week passed; as the leaves began turning and the morning walk to school chilled, you felt your schooldays warming, like a fleece scarf that wrapped around your shoulders every time Mallory weaved through the hallway traffic to skip at your side. You weren’t much for conversation, but you figured she liked having a friend that knew she was in therapy, even if she never talked about it in public. You had settled comfortably on the idea that you could offer her something just from your presence at school, even if it was nothing profound—so it surprised you when she invited you over after class on Friday.

“I ran out of space in my closet, so I gotta clear some things out. Wanna see if anything fits?”

Her room was huge. A rug that must have cost hundreds was laid over the dark hardwood floor; a loveseat sat tucked in a window alcove that looked over the neighborhood of two-story duplexes. White lace hung in curtains over her vanity and under a battalion of eyeshadows and lipsticks. You touched delicately at a shelf of porcelain dogs with angel wings sculpted into their backs and tried not to stare at the unicorn head mounted on her wall.

“Okay, I wasn’t sure how I felt about this skirt, or this sweater. I tried wearing this dress a couple times but I don’t think it matches my skin tone. Oh, try this one on—and this! I think this would look so cute with your hair.”

You huffed under a pile of clothes thrusted at your breast, and one-by-one, you began cycling through her leftovers. You were shocked by how clean these clothes looked, completely without wrinkles or stray threads. Some of them still had the tag on. You wondered what her parents did for work to let her daughter practically burn through entire catalogues of clothing, unloved and unused.

“You don’t like them?”

You glanced over. She was smiling, but her eyes looked sad. You felt bad suddenly, forcing yourself to smile, waving away your bitterness. She wasn’t burning through them—at the very least, she was trying to rehome them, and you knew you should be grateful she picked you to be their new caretakers.

“I do, I do. You have good taste. These aren’t really the kinds of things I’d wear normally, but my mom keeps telling me to try and fit in, so… it works out, I guess.”

You tried laughing but she rolled her eyes, pulling another dress from her closet.

“No way, fitting in is overrated. My friends think it’s cool that you have real vintage clothes from LA. Ohio is so boring.”

“Oh… they do?”

Your smile relaxed, sitting naturally on your face. She tossed you the hanger and you turned it around in your hand.

“Try that one on. My parents don’t like me wearing it since it’s kinda tight, but I bet it’d look fantastic on you.”

“Tight, huh…”

She wasn’t lying. The hem sat just above your knees, but the fabric hugged at your hips, pressing down on your chest. You tried reaching around for the zipper, but you thought the shoulder seams would pop.

“Oh, I dunno if this one is gonna fit.”

“Here.”

Mallory stood beside you, tugging at the zipper. She got it up to the clasp of your bra, but when she let go to readjust, you felt it slip back down past your panties.

“Jeez, it is tight! Maybe if we—”

“Hey bozo, did you take my calculator again?”

Your breath caught. Before you could react, the bedroom door opened, and—yes, it was him, Alex P. Keaton, barging into the room. Mallory whipped her head around just as Alex paused, one foot in front of the other, his hand clutching tight at the doorknob. His eyes froze over the bare skin of your back. You felt goosebumps run down the skin of your shoulders.

“Alex! Oh my gosh, get out!”

“M-Mallory, what the hell—!?”

Alex looked frantically between you, a rush of red blooming in his cheeks, as he stumbled away from the swinging door. She slammed it closed with an open palm, her eyes wide in apology. You pressed your knees together, hot under the spotlight, and flinched when the door started pounding.

“D… dammit, Mallory, why is she here!?”

“What are you talking about?” she yelled back, slapping the door back.

“Of all the girls in school you could bring, why her!?”

She paused, blinking at the door. You felt your voice disappear into the back of your throat. As she swung the door back open, you realized why she had seemed so familiar to you. They both had the same bright-eyed, tight-mouthed expression, staring at each other with mirrored shock through the doorframe. He winced and turned away, like he couldn’t even bear you in his peripheral.

“Do you know her?” she pressed.

“Wh–know–n-no, I don’t know her,” he blustered.

“What the hell do you mean by that, then?”

“I-I mean, you got Steph, Jeanie, Franny, a-and there’s Dina and—”

“Alex.” Mallory’s voice got louder and you felt impossibly small. “What do you mean, I could bring anyone but her?”

He stiffened, scoffed. His eyes darted to you and you hugged your dress tight to your collar; your back was turned from him, but you still felt bare. He shook his head, lip trembling, hands waving.

“That–that’s not what I meant at all, just—go away!!”

“This is my room!”

He fled. Mallory let the door swing shut, flopping onto her bed with a groan. You sat on the edge, pressing the fabric close to your pounding heart.

“I am so sorry about my brother.”

“I-it’s fine, don’t worry about it…”

“He’s so—ugh! I mean, I know he’s a Republican—he’s really into Reagan and stuff, and I don’t really get it, but he was never like this before he went to that stupid country club. I thought our dad was being kinda nosy, but… Ugh, I’m so embarrassed he’d do that to one of my friends.”

You felt your breathing start to calm, soothed by that sweet-sounding word, friend. You wished you could stay to enjoy it, but you still felt too alien in this house. None of your friends’ parents back home could afford a second floor. They rarely even had TVs. Quickly, you shed your dress, grabbing the clothes you came in with.

“Uh, don’t worry about it… really. B-but, I should probably start heading back soon. Um, my parents and all.”

“Awww nooo, but you just got here!”

Mallory pouted as you buttoned your jeans and wrestled your shirt on, facing the wall. You were afraid if she could see your expression, she might see a look of recognition. You hadn’t expected him here of all places. It was bad enough passing him in the halls, seeing him talking up some new perfume-laden girl every couple of days. It was too much—you shouldn’t care, you should hardly notice him at all, but suddenly it felt like you needed to be as far away as possible.

“Mallory, maybe it’s best I don’t come around anymore.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“I’m sorry, I just… I know you’re trying, and you’re so nice, b-but we hardly know each other, and I know your friends aren’t that comfy around me, and… I-I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick, okay?”

You hurried from the room across the hall, eager for a splash of cold water to shock you back to normal. But when you opened the door—

“Oh! Jesus!”

You slammed the door shut. Oh no.

“Actually! Mallory, I’m just gonna head out!”

“What? But—”

“Look, I–I gotta go! I’ll see you around, okay?”

Before you could wait for her reply, you were bouncing down the stairs, two at a time. You thought he’d run away to his room. He wasn’t on the toilet, but his pants were—and he was—you didn’t see anything, except for his hand, and his furrowed brow, and—oh god.

“Alex, what the hell just happened!?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing at all! Go away, Mallory!”

“This is your fault! If you’d just treated her like a normal person…!”

You grabbed the banister and swung around, almost home free—and gasped as you slammed into a body.

“Oh!”

“Oops!”

A woman backed away from you, her car keys jangling in her hand. Through the fog of your panic, you realized where Alex got his blue eyes. Hers were rimmed with black eyeliner, mascara coating long eyelashes that blinked curiously at you.

“I’m sorry, hun! Didn’t mean to bump into you there.”

“N-no, I’m sorry,” you stammered, hands itching for the door just a few steps away. “Um, hi. I’m–I’m a friend of Mallory’s.”

“A friend of Mallory’s! Welcome! My husband should be in soon, so you can meet—”

“I can’t, I’m so sorry, I’m–I gotta go, actually—”

But before you could evacuate, the door beside you opened. Her husband blinked down at you, his long face breaking into a grin.

“Oh, it’s you!”

Like father, like son. You shook your head, trying to make sense of the chaos you found yourself in, more shocking to you than any quaint suburban household should’ve been. Before you realized, you were smiling back—if Mallory’s brother was Alex, then that meant they shared a dad. A wonderful dad with an apparently diverse range of parenting styles.

“She’s a friend of Mallory’s,” the woman explained, and he laughed.

“A friend of Mallory’s? Well, isn’t that funny?” He passed by with a quick pat to your shoulder, and you felt more joy trembling in your smile than you wanted to show. “It’s good to have you here.”

“Y-yes… wow.”

His wife looked between you two, shuffling around some papers in her arms—blueprints.

“Huh! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy to meet one of her friends.”

“This one’s different!” He crossed into the living room, dropping the evening paper onto the coffee table. “She knows Alex, too.”

“I met her earlier,” a little girl called out—Jennifer. She hopped down the stairs in purple overalls. “Before Mallory kicked me outta her room for older girl time.”

The woman, their mom, shook her head.

“Am I the only one who hasn’t met her?”

You laughed quietly; her smile warmed. You heard a noise—a groan, and looked to see Alex at the top of the stairs, spinning on his heel and clutching at his temple.

“You guys…!”

“Alex, we were just saying hi to your friend,” his mom called out, petting Jennifer’s hair. He smacked his hand against the moulding.

“What’re you… Just… argh…!”

“Is something wrong, son?” His dad raised a brow, and if you didn’t know better, you would say he was just speaking with concern for his son’s anxiety. Though, you had never really seen him relaxed. Alex looked hard at his dad, rolled his eyes, winced at himself.

“M… Mallory’s friend was just leaving,” he muttered. In the excitement of meeting his family, you had almost forgotten the bathroom. You cleared your throat, trying not to remember the image of Alex with his pants pulled down to his knees, but another voice cut past.

“You don’t get to tell my friends when they go.” Mallory shouldered past Alex—not hard, just enough to try and knock some balance back into him—and held her arm out to you. “Here, you almost left without your bag.”

“Oh… thank you.”

You shrugged it on and turned, ready to leave behind this perfect picturesque flash of suburban life, but Mallory was already locking the front door.

“No, c’mon—don’t go yet. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

“Aw, Mallory, would’ya just—!”

You released a desperate sigh, almost in tandem with Alex's, but Mallory looked too sad and hopeful for you to run away. Was she asking you to stay out of pity? You shouldn’t have blurted out what you said earlier—but you knew, from her conversations with you and with them, that she really cared about her friends. And apparently, she considered you one of them. A normal person, even.

“…Okay.”

“I think that’s a great idea!” Their dad gave a peck on his wife’s forehead. “I’ll make an extra side.”

“Ooh, wonderful. I think I pulled a little too much chicken out of the freezer this morning.”

“Mom, you can’t possibly tolerate this!” Alex sprinted down the stairs, hugging tight to the railing as he passed you. “Y-you gotta stand up for yourself, y’know! Don’t just let your husband tell you when to slave over the stove for someone! What would Gloria Steinem say about this, huh!?”

“Alex,” his father started, but you sputtered laughing before you could help yourself. You felt like you were boiling over in the absurdity of it. The mood shifted; you didn’t know exactly how, but everyone seemed a little bit lighter, everyone except Alex who stayed standing, hands splayed, begging up to his mother or the universe for some sympathy.

“Jennifer, honey.” Their mom cocked her head on the way to the kitchen. “Can you help me set the table?”

“But it’s Mallory’s turn,” Jennifer complained, “and I already told Skippy that I’d help him work on his downswing.”

“Yeah, but I brought a guest,” Mallory replied. “I can’t just let her be by herself, can I?”

“She won’t be alone,” Jennifer pouted, “she’ll be with Alex.”

There was a brief, painful silence. Alex rubbed hard at the back of his neck and you wondered if it would be rude to unlock someone else’s front door. Their mom sighed, patting Mallory’s back.

“C’mon, Mallory. It won’t take you too long.”

“But—ugh, just go to your room or something,” Mallory warned, glaring at Alex. He flushed, his voice squeaking with incredulity.

“I, pfft—I am not letting my kid sister tell me to go to my room. I am staying put right here,” he announced, and even as he was pointing at the rug, he looked like he regretted it.

“Good dog.” His mother smirked and patted him on the head, and soon, the Keatons all dispersed through various doors. Mallory showed you an apologetic frown as she was shuffled into the kitchen, but you smiled warmly back, appreciative of her concern. All too suddenly, you were alone with him, and you felt your smile fade in the oppressive quiet of the room.

He shifted on his feet and you fiddled with the strap of your bag. He paced around the room, concerning himself with the blankets draped over the couch, the keystone in the fireplace, anything but you. You glanced down and noticed his fly was still undone. You turned away and cleared your throat, shuffling the baggy legs of your pants.

“I don’t… normally wear stuff like that.”

His hand froze over the dials of their silent radio. He glanced back at you, then away, his voice hesitant.

“Oh, yeah… M-me either. But it wouldn’t look half as good on me.”

You wanted to laugh, but you felt yourself quieted, soothed under the heat that bloomed in your skin.

“Well… it didn’t actually fit. I guess that sort of thing is in fashion around here. I saw your girlfriend wearing something like it the other day.”

He dropped the book in his hand and scrambled to pick it up.

“Girlfriend? O-oh, you mean Monica? She’s not, I mean—well, we’re not—I mean we talk, but we’re not… d-dating, or… I’m not seeing anyone, really, so… s-so… O-okay, I stayed put, so, going back to my room now!”

He was gone faster than you could reply, maybe to go read his book, or maybe zip up his pants. Or unbutton them. You waited a few moments, letting the newfound peace settle in the room, before crossing to the phone. Your parents would be happy you had a social life again, if you could call it that. When they answered and you started explaining, you realized you were smiling against the receiver. Maybe you could take that dress off Mallory’s hands; you might be able to fit one day.