Alex peers up at me, smiling faintly. “Did you grow up with dogs? That why you got Argos?”
“Yeah. I badgered my parents for a dog for years, and they finally caved when I was in seventh grade—a golden retriever named Bailey. She was my cuddle buddy. I wasn’ttechnicallyallowed to have her on my bed, but she ended up there every night. I took such good care of her. Groomed her, walked her every day. It was, according to my mother, the first time I showed her ‘the capacity for consistent responsibility.’?”
Alex makes a face like he just smelled something stinky. “I don’t think I like the sound of your mom”
I laugh a little. “She was worn out. And grumpy.”
“Who could ever be grumpy with you?” Alex asks. He leans in, cupping my face. I think maybe Alex’s caution around not drinking much so as not to crave cigarettes has left him with a slightly lower tolerance than me. His thumbs stroke up and down mycheeks. “You’re so beautiful. And kind. And patient. And funny. Who wouldn’t want to love the shit out of you?”
I bite my lip, fighting a smile as I set my hands over his. “I think this is the whiskey sour goggles talking.”
“Goggles don’t talk, Ted.” Alex hiccups. “Theysee.”
“You’re right.” I draw his hands down from my face, because I can’t take the torture. He’s drunk, and I’m tipsy. He’s saying sweet things to me, and I’ve wanted to kiss him for months and nothing’s made that want fade.
Alex keeps his hands tangled with mine, setting them on my lap. He leans in. “What were we talking about? Before I told you how pretty you were?”
“Sad-kitty versus sad-puppy face,” I remind him. “We got on the subject of your demon childhood cat, as evidence that cats grow up to be domesticated furball psychopaths.”
“Yes!” He leans in, eyes wide. “So that’s my answer. Why it’s sad-puppyface is because kitties grow up to be cats who are sinister as fuck. Dogs are just big puppies. They stay dumb and cute, and that never changes. So sad-puppy face, which tugs on your heartstrings, has to evoke pure innocence. Not demonic, needle-clawed animals who steal your toast.”
“To be fair,” I say, “I have met some really sweet cats in my day.”
“Where?” Alex says, like this is ludicrous. “Where, Ted!”
“The shelter,” I explain. “When I was a teenager. I was bored and lonely a lot on the weekends. So I volunteered at the animal shelter. Played with the dogs and cats to help them stay socialized and as happy as possible. It’s a tragic, self-fulfilling prophecy. Shelter animals have this bad rap as mean, unlovable creatures, but they’re not. They just get grumpy because they’re stuck in acage, and then no one wants them when they seem grumpy, but they never asked to be put in that cage. It’s terrible—”
“Ted!” Alex wails. “This isnotsparking my joy!”
“Sorry!” Now it’s my turn to cup his face. “Alex, look at me.”
He opens his eyes. They’re wet, like he was actually about to cry. “What?” he whispers.
I slowly cross my eyes, dragging my right eye toward my nose. Then I cluck my tongue when I’ve gone as far as I can, sending my left eye pinging away, like an eight just struck by the cueball.
A laugh wheezes out of Alex as he drops forward, his forehead bumping into mine. “I love you,” he whispers.
I blink, stunned. And then I immediately talk myself down. He means friend love, of course. Alex is as affectionate with his words as he is with his touch.
“I love you, too,” I whisper. “You’re the bestest friend.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he slowly pulls away, meeting my eyes. “Better than Lauren?”
“Lauren’s not here,” I hedge.
He leans back in. “But if shewas.”
I bite my lip, torn. “It’s different. We’redifferentkinds of best friends.”
“Hmm.” Alex narrows his eyes and reaches for my phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sending myself Lauren’s contact info.”
“Oh, hey now—”
“Shh,” he says magnanimously. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”