Chapter Fourteen
With a wondering look, Alex looked towards the phone as it rang. No one was supposed to be calling her. Kevin had already called to ask about progress on the Croft book, and she had lied through her teeth, saying that she was putting the information together when the truth was that she hadn't even looked at it. His wife, also her lawyer, wasn't supposed to be calling anytime soon. Only one other person knew when where to get the number to contact her and that was...
"No, please no," she begged quietly as she moved slowly towards the phone. The Caller Identification didn't say anything other than the fact that the call was coming from out of state. Maybe it was Kevin again, she thought, crossing her fingers as she picked up the phone and held it to her ear. "Hello?" she asked softly, almost afraid of what she was going to hear.
There was a slight pause before the other person answered. "Alexandra. What a surprise."
God, it WAS her. That was all she needed. Kevin was pushing the book on her, Brooklyn was pushing her newly discovered secret, Chris was as confusing and conflicting as always, and then the Dragon Lady had to call. Mother Dearest. The one person that could make a family death seem like a walk in the park compared to a conversation with her. Not only that, but she had been promised that her mother wasn't going to get this number. "Ma. Talk about a surprise. How the hell did you find out where I was?"
"That's none of your business. I've been worried sick about you. The least you could have done was call your own mother to let her know that you were flying to another state. How long have you been there?"
She shrugged and looked at her nails. Maybe it was time that she actually put some polish on them. "A month, I guess. Maybe a month and a half. I'm not really paying attention."
The rough voice bounced back at her almost instantly. "I thought that you said you were coming home for Thanksgiving dinner, but I should have known better."
"Sorry. Didn't feel like leaving, and I most certainly didn't want to put up with your bullshit for an entire weekend," she added, feeling her old attitude overtaking her. If one thing could put her on edge, it was her mother. She was basically the model for her attitude. "What is this all about, Ma? Look, I'm away on vacation. I didn't tell you where I was going, because I knew that you were going to call and hassle me. I didn't come home for Thanksgiving, because I knew that you would hassle me...hell, you never even invited me to begin with. But are you seeing a pattern with what I'm trying to say here?"
"I don't hassle you, as you put it. I'm just looking out for my only daughter. You should be happy about that. A lot of mothers don't care about their kids. At least I try to keep up on what you're doing." Oh, Alex never before wanted to be one of those forgotten kids so much. It would have made her life a lot better. "The least you can do is thank me for what I go through for you."
Her eyes rolled as she sunk back down into the couch, putting her feet on the coffee table to stretch out a little. "Oh, I really appreciate it, Ma. I appreciate it so much that when I get off the phone with you, I usually scream out a few offensive words and throw something breakable against a wall. That SHOULD give you a clue as to what I think about these wonderful calls, and their effect on me." Quickly, she started to look around the room for something that would be good for throwing and destroying.
The played up confusion was next. The only problem was that her mom played it up so much that she could TELL that it was fake. "What are you trying to tell me, Alexandra?"
"Ma, please. Call me Alex. Even if it kills you, which maybe wouldn't be such a bad thing." Luckily, she had mumbled the second part so low and to herself that she wouldn't be able to pick up on it. "What did you want to tell me?"
A moment of silence ensued between them, but it wasn't comfortable. It was like each of them were trying to find words that they knew would piss the other person off. That's just the way they were, the way that they had always been around each other. A sad existence in the household, maybe, but the only way that they knew how to live. "I read in the paper that you're writing that man's biography."
She nodded, chewing on her lips, before she realized that her mother didn't know what she was doing. Maybe, if they had been closer in the past, she would have been able to tell, like millions of other mothers had, but this was different. THEY were different. "Yes, Tim Croft's story. Every one calls it an autobiography, but it's not on his entire life, so I have a little trouble trying to remember it like that."
"He tells you, you write it, it's a biography." Alex rolled her eyes and bit her tongue, literally, as hard as she could, to keep from saying anything that would just get her in more hot water with the person that gave birth to her, and gave her life. "It's about time that you listened to me."
Her brow furrowed as she scratched her knee through her thick gray pants. "Excuse me, but I don't believe that I followed any of the horrible advice that you've ever given me through all my life, so what the hell do you think you're talking about."
A frustrated sigh sounded from the telephone, and she made a face, knowing what that sound meant. "The fact that you FINALLY listened to me about not writing that trash that you call fiction. It took awhile for you to come to your senses," she continued, her tone sounding more and more haughty with every syllable. "but I knew that you would eventually."
"First off, Ma, you read nothing but fiction, and the fiction that you read is the stuff that should be tossed into fireplaces around the world to be burned for warmth. Siberia would be quite happy about that idea, but that's beside the point. The point is that I haven't stopped writing the Demers books. I'm just doing this on the side, and I'm not going to deny that it's making me a lot of money." Sell out, her mind chanted, making her grit her teeth in frustration. She was nothing but a sell out.
Her mother stuttered for a moment, before bursting out with what she was having so much trouble saying. "You're not saying that you're still writing all that gore and destruction? That's...disgusting."
Her eyes rolled slowly, making it look almost painful. "We've had this discussion before, and I really don't want to have it again. It was as one-sided as our talks ever are, because you can never attempt to see anything from my point of view, which, you know, is always right. But yes, if you're wondering, I am continuing to write the Demers books. This might be the last one, though. I'm not sure."
Alex was about to say something more when a sharp knock interrupted her, and she half listened to her mother rambling on about something as she got off the couch reluctantly and headed towards the front door. Making the obligatory noises that meant she was pretending to listen, she opened the door and motioned for Chris to come in, warning him to be quiet so that her mom wouldn't catch on and question her. "Ma, I really don't care anymore. You've pushed me past that. Are you happy now?" she asked in a dull voice, gesturing for her surprise guest to help himself to whatever he wanted in the kitchen as she sunk back into the couch. "I think you're the one that's trying to cause a mental breakdown, not me," she growled finally.
Chris came back into the room and tossed her a bottle of water, grinning at her mouthed thanks before he sat down across from her, opening his own bottle. Her mother's voice snapped her back to attention, bringing her out of daydreams and thoughts. "Writing that can't be healthy for you, Alexandra. Have you ever thought of...seeking professional help?"
"A psychiatrist?" she practically squeaked out. "Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence about my mental well-being, Mother. I can't believe you said that. At least I'm not the one that thinks that Fabio is going to pop off of the cover of a trashy romance novel and sweep me off my feet. I don't think that all those people on soap operas end up waking up, hair, clothes, and make up perfect. No, that's you, Mother, and if anyone needs professional help, it would be you, because those thoughts are just screaming for it."
"Well, I'm just suggesting it. Maybe you should go out on a date or two, Alexandra. That might help the problem, too. You're not a virgin still, are you?"
She could feel a blush start on her face as her eyes widened. Chris looked at her curiously, as he sipped his water. "Ma, I'm twenty seven years old. I think it's safe to say that I'm not a virgin, and the last time we talked, I accidentally mentioned prom night, remember?" she asked in a cold tone, her eyes flicking towards the man sitting across from her as he clamped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh or spit out the mouthful of water he had. "As for dating someone...try and find someone that's actually worth my time. Because I haven't found ANYONE ANYWHERE that I'm even remotely interested in." Looking innocent, Chris pointed to himself, making Alex shoot him the finger with a quick smile.
"Are you a lesbian?"
"NO, I'm not a lesbian either, Ma. My God, just because...ugh. What's next, ask if I'm on drugs? I know that this is what normal mothers are supposed to ask, but believe me, you're so far from normal, it isn't even funny. So why don't you just go wallow in your pathetic daydreams about soap stars and romance novel heroes and leave me the hell alone for once."
Chris widened his eyes and shook his head as he leaned back, listening intently to the one sided conversation. At least, the one side that he could hear, though Alex was giving him a pretty good idea of what her mother was saying, as well. "Don't act like an ungrateful spoiled brat. I'm your mother, Alexandra. You shouldn't talk like that to me."
Slamming her head against the back of the couch, she groaned loudly. "I could understand not talking back to you or talking like this when I was living with you and I was really young. This is different, though. You can't send me to my room for saying things like that, and you most certainly can't punish me. I'm an adult, Ma. Deal with it. Now, if you'll excuse me, someone is here and I can't exactly sit here and listen to your horrible accusations and pleadings while he sits there and wonders where I am." Shaking her head, she silently warned him again not to say one word.
"Oh, a man is there? Let me guess, he's married and you can only get together when his wife is away. Well, isn't that nice."
Letting out a frustrated scream, she closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to go to bed and pull the covers up over her head, but unfortunately, Chris was there, and storming out of the room when she had to talk to him didn't work out quite that well. "He's not married, Ma. In fact, he's just the guy down the road that likes to come and annoy me all the time." Despite the cold way she was saying the words, she sent him a sarcastic look, almost smiling when he grinned. "Can't you get over this fascination about how a man can make everything better in your life? God, you should have had a son instead of a daughter. Look, I'm hanging up. You can bitch to your phone all you want, but I don't want to hear it. Good bye."
She hit the end button on the phone and threw it to the other side of the couch, covering her face with her hands. "Sorry you had to hear that," she said quietly, before running her hands through her hair to push it back from her face. "I'm sorry that I had to hear that," she added with a groan.
"I guess it's safe to say that you weren't kidding when you said that you weren't really close with your mother." Chris paused and watched her for a minute. "Are you okay?"
Her head shook slowly before she raised her head to look at him. "No, and now that you remind me, I have something to say to you, too." His eyebrows raised slightly, wondering what kind of scalding comment she was going to push on him this time. "Oh, it's not as bad as you think it'll be, but since Ma decided to fire me up a little, I might as well keep going on this."
Completely comfortable, he leaned back in his chair and brought his ankle to rest against his other knee. "When and how did you find out?"
Her mouth dropped open. "How in the hell did you know what I was going to ask you?"
He shrugged. "It had to come eventually, and I had a feeling, but I wasn't too sure. Since you know, you might as well just come out and say it. I'm part of a vocal group. Big deal."
Alex sighed and sunk into the cushions with a frown. "And I wanted to bring it out in the open so badly. You've been lying to me for a long time. All that talk about how you, Brooke, and Josh met because you were all musicians. I mean, it wasn't that far off, and it was very possible, but I could tell that you were lying. I've noticed a lot of irregularities with what I've been told or heard."
"Oh, no, we didn't lie about the fact that we can all play instruments. Brooke really does play the violin and the guitar, and she can play the fiddle. JC is a genius around a piano, and I do play the guitar, just not as well as she can. That was all the truth. We really didn't meet by playing any instruments, though."
Her arms crossed under her breasts as she slouched a little more, sending him a look that plainly told him that she wasn't as dumb as she may have looked or acted. "No shit. Josh and Brooke...or should I say, JC and Brooklyn met because they recorded a song together for her album, and you met her through him. It's no big secret. I mean, I've known for a long time who you are, Chris, it just took me a little while to figure out the rest." She picked up something beside her and tossed it at him, watching as he picked it up from where it had landed in his lap. The issue of Seventeen with JC and Brooklyn on the cover. "That told me everything that I needed to know."
Nodding slowly, he put the magazine down on the table. "Now the real question is...why do you have an issue of Seventeen? You certainly look too old for that, or haven't you graduated to Cosmo yet?" he asked, keeping his tone light so that she wouldn't be offended or take it the wrong way. He HAD been waiting for this confrontation, he just didn't know that it was going to come so soon.
"I don't read either of them, but...I...have a copy of it for research purposes. For a manuscript."
A smile started to spread on his face. "You might as well confess, too, Alex. I know that you're not an editor. For one, editor's don't do all that much research. They have assistants to do it for them. Believe me, there's been many books written on us, and I remember the process of how they were put together. And there have been inconsistencies in what you've been saying, as well. I pick up on a hell of a lot more than people give me credit for. So what do you REALLY do?"
Looking away for a moment, she sighed. "Okay, so we've come to the conclusion that we've both lied. Big deal. I'd rather that we just leave it at that." She stood up and started around the table to head towards the fireplace, before Chris leaned over to the side and took hold of her wrist. "Really, I don't want-"
"Come on, Alex. 'Fess up, I did the same. You know who I am, but I have no clue who you are. Why won't you just tell me?" he asked quietly, looking up at her. Her face contorted with uncertainty as she looked away. "It's not like you're getting a needle or anything, it doesn't hurt. And it's definitely not like going to the gas chamber, even though you have that expression on your face."
Her eyes rolled as she looked down at him, wondering why she hadn't pulled her wrist away from him. She couldn't move it, for some reason. And it would have been incredibly easy to move away from him, almost too easy. All she had to do was start to step away, and she knew that he would let go, but damn it...maybe she didn't want to. "It's nothing like that, it's just that...no one really knows. Well, besides the Dragon Lady."
"Your mom," he confirmed, still looking at her. "I promise not to tell anyone, if that's what you want. Not that I would, anyway. I'm just curious."
"You're curious. How wonderful for you," she said sarcastically before sighing. "Fine, you want to know? I'm a struggling...VERY struggling fiction writer. In fact, I can't seem to write much of anything at this point, and now that I have this new...well, you don't need to hear about that," she finished weakly. "But that's the story. I'm a writer, and my mom doesn't like it, so she bitches me out."
Surprisingly, he didn't let go of her, but rather adjusted his hand slightly so that the hold was a little more loose, and looked at her a little more carefully. "Have you written anything that I would know? I mean, I don't know your last name, so-"
Alex cut him off quickly. "Simon. My last name, that is, and I probably wouldn't place money on it." No, she wouldn't place money on that fact, she would place as much as she had, because she already knew that he read the Cort Demers books, and he had liked them. He had told her so himself, but she had to keep going with the charade. "Happy now?"
His head shook. "No, there's a lot more that you aren't telling me. A lot more to the story than you're letting on, and I know it has something to do with your mom. I can tell that much just by how your eyes look." Frowning, she moved until she was sitting on the arm of the chair, and looked towards the window. "I don't judge people by what I hear, but rather by what I see, if you're wondering. And I really don't care that your mom and you don't get along all that well. I know plenty of people that don't get along with their parents, or haven't in the past."
"Why don't you tell me about your life instead?" she shot back, sending him a hot look.
"I was born, I grew up poor, managed to scrape enough together to go to college. I have a degree in psychology, and now I tour the world, dancing on stages with lots of pyrotechnics and screaming teenagers that profess their undying love for me, while singing that a girl can go 'Bye Bye Bye' for all I care. That's my life. Now it's your turn. Tell me, Alex."
She nodded slowly, wondering how to go about telling him the true story of why she became a writer, of why her and her mother never got along. She had been carrying it inside for so long that it might help her, she figured. "It started when I was a kid," she said quietly. "About the time that I started school. I could already read and write by then. Hell, I could write in cursive by that point. My mom taught me how. We were close then." Her voice trailed off for a moment, before she sighed and kept talking. "The one thing I can really remember from my childhood was Mom writing. She loved to write, and she thought that she was really good. She wrote those horrible steamy romance novels that I just can't stomach. Danielle Steel style and all. She worked on those stories for years upon years."
Quiet for another moment, her eyes turned towards the window, staring out of it blankly. "Finally, when I was in fifth grade, she decided to send her stuff to a publishing company, just to see what they would say. They didn't accept her books, saying that they were good, but they weren't looking for anything in that genre at the moment. Exactly what the letter had said. But she wasn't discouraged at first. She sent the same manuscripts out to a bunch of other publishers, thinking that one of them was bound to print and bind them, put them on the shelves. But they didn't want to, either. Romance novels were pretty dead at the moment, and everyone was looking for something more thought provoking or exciting. The story of the perfect woman finding the perfect man and having an affair with him just wasn't the readers' cup of tea anymore."
"God, she was so pissed off. She snapped at anyone and everyone. It didn't matter if you were her daughter, or her husband, or the paper boy...she didn't care. She had to release the anger somehow. It was about then that we had an assignment from our teacher, Mrs. Marshall. She's still my favorite after all these years. Anyway, she told us to write a fiction story, a short story, at least two hundred words, but it could be longer if we wanted. I loved the idea. All my teachers, including Mrs. Marshall used to tell me that I had a pretty expressive imagination, so she told me that this shouldn't be a problem."
Neither one of them had really noticed, but somehow, while Alex had been talking, his hand had somehow traveled down from her wrist. Their fingers entwined, completely comfortable...or not paying attention to what had happened, she went on with the story of her childhood. "I practically raced home, and I didn't tell Mom or Dad about what we were supposed to do. I put myself in the spare room, which Mom had used as a writing office, and sat in front of her typewriter, wondering what I should write about. I had written stories before in school, but they weren't anything special. This was different from any assignment that I had before, because this one...I wanted to do really good at it. I wanted to really excel at this, and show my mom what I could do. I thought it would make her happy.
"The story was long, about eight pages, double spaced. Longer that everyone else's stories. It was about a girl that was walking home from the store, and she heard footsteps behind her. Another girl in her school had been kidnapped just a week ago, and she was scared that the same thing was going to happen to her. It basically told of her walk home, and how scared she was, until she made it to her house, where her loving Mom and Dad were waiting for her. It wasn't that great, but a little better than what most fifth graders would write. I pulled out every big word out of my vocabulary to use, for extra marks or just to show how smart I was, I'm not sure. We had a week to write the story. I finished mine in three days." Her chest hitched with her sigh. "I handed mine in with everyone else's. A day later, I got it back. A perfect mark. 'Alexandra, you have a wonderful grasp of words and their meanings. It was a little scary, but a great story. Great job, and keep up with the writing,' it said. Complete with a smiley face. I still have the story around here somewhere...maybe it's at home."
Her hand shifted slightly, and she looked down in surprise to see where it was, held by his...within his. Still staring at it, she continued to speak. "I couldn't believe that I had done so well. I ran home that day from school and slammed the door against the wall when I came in. I was so excited to show Mom. I raced into the living room, where she was reading a book. One of those romance novels that she likes. I don't know why she put herself through that torture, but she did. 'Mom, you have to look at this,' I told her. She barely moved, but she did say something. That same automatic question that I had gotten for the past little while, ever since she had been rejected. 'Do you have any homework?' I told her that I didn't and asked her again to look at my story, though I didn't tell her what it was then. She told me that she was reading, and unless it was really important, she didn't want to know. She wanted to be left alone, like she always did back then. So I told her that we were asked to write a story for school and I wanted to show her, because I had done so good. I told her that it was a perfect mark and everything, that the teacher really liked it.
"God, I still can't believe her response. 'I'm not reading anything,' she had said. 'I don't care how good you did. It's nothing but a piece of shit written by a grade schooler.' Not only had she said that, but she had cursed. She never did that before, and she cursed to ME. She used to go up one side of my dad and down the other if he cursed around me, but now she was doing it, and right in front of me, right to my face. I remember leaving the living room and going up the stairs to my room and crying. I cried so hard that day. I thought that the tears would never stop, never. And my dad came up there later and he read the story and told me that I did a great job, too. He told me that if I really liked writing, and since I was so good at it, that maybe I should do more, not just when the teacher asked for us to write something. But it wasn't the same as it would have been, hearing those words from my mom, I mean."
Chris shifted when she looked away, but remained silent, captivated by her words and her story, by her voice. He had people give him their life story before, and he had heard painful stories before. He had people crying on his shoulder before, but this was different. This was Alex. She was fighting her emotions and feelings, but telling the story with so much honestly and pain that he wondered why she didn't just break down. Without a thought about it, he barely tightened his hold on her hand, surprised when she reciprocated.
"It really did start from that day. She resented the fact that I spent so much time upstairs with her old typewriter, banging away on it most of the time. She resented the fact that I always brought home perfect grades when it came to English classes, especially when my teachers would make a note of how well I wrote. Some of the teachers that I had taught my mom when she was younger, and those teachers always said that they thought her writing talent had rubbed off on me. She always made a face and some sort of horrible comment when it came to those notes.
"I came to resent her, as well. Because she resented me and what I loved. And I truly did love writing, maybe more than she did. It became my life, my breath. Every night, I had trouble falling asleep because I had some sort of plot running through my head. She had trouble pulling me away from the typewriter for dinner. But because she didn't like what I was doing, I made it a point to not like what she was doing to me. The dresses she picked out for me and bought...I never wore them. I wore nothing but jeans back then. All the times she tried to make me more like a lady, I would curse and rant, slouching in my seat and pulling my baseball cap further down over my eyes. It wasn't much more fun at school, either."
Biting her lip, she closed her eyes, concentrating on her memories. "Back then, it was all about glam and how good you looked, if you were a girl. Hair, make up, clothes...that was what was important back then. I didn't care for any of it. Oh, I had always been a tomboy, but never to that extreme. But then, I made sure I was. So, of course, the girls made snide comments, and the boys called me names. I came to dislike all the cliques, especially the cheerleaders. They were the perfect idea of what my mom wanted me to be, and so I hated them more than any of them. The only thing that mattered to me were my English classes, and the writing that I did at home. I must have had a stack of short stories by then, a big one. I was working on a novel back then, too. I kept all of them, hid them for years, because I was afraid that my mom would try and get rid of them.
"We never saw eye to eye ever since fifth grade, and we were both of the cause of it. My parents divorced when I was in seventh grade, and I wanted nothing more than to live with my dad, but that just wasn't acceptable back then. If the mother was alive, the child stayed with her. I didn't like that arrangement, but there was nothing that I could do about it. So I had to put up with my mom bitching and complaining about what I did and who I was."
Her eyes opened slowly, and for the first time, Chris saw tears in them, something that, at first, he didn't think Alex was capable of. Something that seemed beyond her reach. All the emotions were playing out on her face; she couldn't keep them inside any longer, and he couldn't blame her. Neither one of them had made life very easy for themselves, but she was a kid, not completely sure of what she was doing. And her mother had set off the change. "I was so...not jaded...bitter back then." She broke off with a laugh that had very little emotion in it, betraying what was on her face. "Hell, I'm still bitter about how she never supported me, but rather, tried to sway me from doing what I truly loved. So I made up my mind that I was going to be published. Do something that she couldn't do, live out her dream because she had failed. At first, it wasn't my dream. I would have been just as happy to write in my spare time and never let anyone see it, despite what people think, but there was no way around NOT being published. I had no friends or family that would read the stories, besides my dad, and he kept telling me that they were good, really good, and that they deserved to be read by hundreds of people...thousands, if not millions.
"So I looked into it. I sent my manuscripts off, and like Mom, I got back negative responses, but I didn't let it stop me. If they didn't like the story that I sent them, I would send a different one. And if they didn't like that one, I would try again. Everyone told me that I was very driven, all the editors told me that, but they still wouldn't accept them. I made up my mind to do something about it eventually. I had sent a novel that I had written off to a publisher, and I didn't get any response back from them. I actually went to the building and threatened my way up to the highest person on the publishing food chain there. I demanded that he read my story, and that he did it right then and there. I told him that I would be back the next day to find out what he thought about it.
"I went back, and I sat in his office, and he told me what he thought. That it was great, something that he didn't expect when he saw a twenty three year old woman storm into his office. They offered me a deal, a pretty good one for a first time published author, and I signed on the dotted line. They released the book that I had sent it, but it didn't do as well as they thought it would. I ended up writing two books after that, and they did a little better. But Ma...she still couldn't be happy for me. If anything, she was more upset. I figured that getting the deal and having my name in print, having my words in print and bound together would mean something to her. I handed her my first book myself, with a proud smile, thinking that it would end the rivalry and territorial pissing contests that had become second nature to us. But it didn't. She threw the book into the fire without ever reading it."
A single tear traveled down from her eye and rested on her cheek, as she fought for the words that she needed to get out. The words that she had wanted to say for years, but never did. "She read it eventually, and she read my other books, too. But they weren't mushy romance novels, so she hated them. She called down the genre that I wrote, she called down my characters which are like...the only way to explain them are as intimate lovers, the way that I know them and write them. But she made fun of the plot, told me that I was wasting my life by doing this. She never cared that this is what I wanted. She never cared about what I felt so strongly about.
"That's why we fight, and in the future, we'll fight. It will never end. We'll go on until one of us dies. And she'll never see the world like I do, and vice versa. We're just too different, and even though I don't show it, it hurts me more than anyone could ever know. A lot more than anyone could ever imagine."
Her last words died out in a whisper, and it was then that Chris started to understand. She may have looked and acted like a brassy twenty seven year old, but the truth was, she was a hurt little girl inside that was just dying for some sort of attention. Any attention, and that was why, at first, she had decided to try and make his life a living hell. But he had stopped her, and in the process, she found a different kind of attention, but it still wasn't the one she wanted.
She wanted her mom's attention, more than anything. And not the negative type of attention that she was getting at the moment, and had received ever since she was a fifth grader with a perfect mark on an English assignment. She wanted love, affection, support...anything but comments that put her dangerously and extremely on the defensive. And her defense was anger and bitterness.
Alex had been betrayed by what she thought was supposed to be the perfect life. She was betrayed by what, in her mind, should have been the perfect mother. The supportive one, that one that offered smiles and compliments, hell, even fresh baked cookies. Not a mother that didn't care and probably never would.
Her sniffle brought him out of his thoughts and he focused his attention on the woman sitting beside him, trying to hold back her tears. He had seen it before, seen Brooklyn do it in his presence, thinking that she could get away with it. And now the broken down woman that was sitting so near him was trying to do the same thing. But he noticed, and that was the problem. He could never let anything go, and he was a firm believer in the fact that you had to get everything out once in awhile.
Disentangling his hand from hers, he reached up and brushed back her hair so that it was behind her ear, so that he could see her face better. But that was all it took for her to break down completely, and finally let everything out. Her head fell forward, and she let out the breath she had been holding as all the tears started to literally pour out of her eyes, falling like rain on her lap. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure what to do. He knew how to comfort his friends, ex girlfriends, his mother and his sisters, but Alex was different from all of them, different from anyone he had ever known.
She answered the unspoken question for him, as she turned and blindly leaned against him, needing some sort of personal contact, any form of physical contact. His arms wrapped around her, as she slid down a little until she was basically sitting in his lap, still crying, almost getting to the point where she was sobbing. He could feel the tears through his sweater, a feat that he never thought possible. She was clinging to him, trying to reassure herself that there really was someone there, and for once, someone on her side.
He never stopped her, never encouraged her. He spoke nonsense, though the nonsense he spoke was comforting to her. He held her, brushed his fingers through her hair like he always did to Brooklyn when she cried, let himself be a support to her, one that she could lean on. It didn't seem like she was ever going to calm down. Over ten years of hurt and pain were in those tears, ten years of anguish and rejection was hidden in the ragged breaths that she took. Almost an entire lifetime for her, really, and he sat there as she tried to free herself from the torment she had been through that whole time.
Eventually, though, the tears did stop, until she was reduced to the occasional whimper and sniffle, still hiding her face against him. Very slowly, he leaned back, and she didn't follow, but rather looked down at the front of his sweater, a frown on her lips. He tilted her head with a single finger and forced her to look at him, as he brushed away the few remains of the tears that were on her face. "Feel better now?" he asked in a whisper, nothing else being needed for how close they really were.
She nodded hesitantly, her fingers twisting each other so that she had something to distract her just a little bit. "Yeah, I guess," she whispered in return, her voice rough from the crying. "But I've never really felt a lot these past few years, so I don't know."
"You felt, but you hid it so that no one would see, least of all you. That's not smart, Alex. I was doing the same thing for awhile, and it almost killed me. Literally." She nodded again, her eyes dropping. "Hey, look at me. What's wrong?"
Her shoulders started to move in a shrug before she finally did look at him, brown eyes meeting brown eyes. Only hers were watery and his were as friendly as ever. "Why...why are you being so nice to me? If I were you, I would have just laughed and walked out the door."
He smiled and pushed her hair back from her face again. "Why wouldn't I be so nice? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."
"I wasn't very nice to you. In fact, I was down right mean. You have every reason in the world to hate me. You realize that, don't you? You shouldn't even be wasting your time with me. I mean, come on, Chris. You just admitted to who you are, and I'm not as ignorant to pop music as people think I am. I know how big NSYNC is, and I know that if there was someone or something that you didn't like, all you would have to do is snap your fingers and you'd never have to see it or them again. I know."
Nodding slowly, he let out his breath slowly and licked his lips as he tried to find a proper answer. "That's true, I probably could do that. I've never tried, but I'm sure you're right. All of us, we're treated like kings by the record company. But what does that have to do with you and me?"
Biting her bottom lip, she looked at him, honesty shining in her still wet eyes. "Why didn't you just make me disappear? I'm sure you would have liked to."
Surprisingly, to her at least, he started to laugh as he leaned back even further in the chair. "Oh, there were definitely times that I would have liked to do that, and like I said, it probably wouldn't have been a problem. I even considered telling Brooke that you started some nasty rumors about her and watch the cat fight take place, but I didn't. Because I knew that there was something else about you."
"Something else?"
"Something that you were hiding," he continued in that soft whisper, searching her face with his eyes for some sort of understanding of what he was saying. "Something that you kept hidden from everyone, and that was what drawing me to you. I don't know why, but I do know that it was because of that, that I never gave up. And I'm glad that I didn't, because otherwise, we wouldn't be here right now, the way that we are."
Letting out what almost seemed like a painful breath, she looked away. "Every now and then, I really wish that you did hate me. You're too trusting, and I always felt so bad whenever I had to tell another lie, but there was no way around it. What you said about wanting privacy, I understood that. Because I have the privacy and I want what you have. I want the excitement and the drama that your life is filled with. I'm a dull person, Chris. I really am. But then again, there are times when I'm glad that you don't hate me. Like right now."
Sitting forward again, he reached up to brush away the few new tears that started down her face, before his hands came to rest on the sides of her neck, his fingers just brushing the area where he could feel her pulse. Strong and steady, something that she didn't seem at the moment. "You have a lot to learn, Alexandra. You have to learn that not everyone is going to hurt you."
"Yes, they will," she half whispered, half cried. "Everyone hurts you, whether they mean to or not. And everyone always means to hurt me."
His head shook slowly, the movement not at its regular speed so that he could get the point across. The fact that she was wrong. "Not everyone does. Intentional hurt and unintentional hurt are two different things. Your mom...she intentionally hurts you. But after all I've learned about you, after all I've heard and seen over the past few weeks...and not just today...I don't think that I could ever intentionally try to hurt you. Never."
Her eyes seemed to fill with fear at the very mention of that. "Don't promise. Promises, like rules, were meant to be broken, and I...I can't take another broken promise. Not another. Anything but that."
"I'm not promising you anything, Alex. But I do swear by that." And it was almost unconscious, ALMOST, how they seemed to move closer to each other, still staring into the other's eyes, still captivated by the emotions that were shown as clearly as a glass of water would be clear. "I really do."
For a moment, he thought that their lips would touch, and with that touch would come another, one of souls and hearts, like the hopeless romantic that he really was. For a moment, he thought that the sweet salvation of what he wanted and what he desired would finally become truth instead of fiction, like the fiction that she wrote. That he could find comfort in her and she in him.
But it wasn't meant to be. Not at that moment and not at the time or place. She seemed to want it just as much as he did, crave it as he did at the time, but she was the one that jerked backwards, almost violently, as she realized where she was and what was happening. And it was Alex that climbed off of him and backed away a few steps, closing her eyes in frustration. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I...shouldn't have done that. Broken down like that. I'm sorry."
"I'm not," he told her, the seriousness he meant to say the words with conveyed to her. Because he wasn't sorry, not in the very least.
"Why?" she questioned, wondering what he was going to say, how he was going to explain himself, if he was going to be as articulate as he normally was.
With a shrug, he leaned back a final time, looking more relaxed than he felt. "Because. Because now I know who you really are, what makes you the way that you are. Because it made me forgive you for all the things that you had said and done, and made me regret everything that I said and did to you. Because now...I understand you and...I like you." Oh, sound like a third grader, he told himself, not wanting to roll his eyes. When was the last time he used that particular line? Before he kissed the little girl on the playground, and before she smacked him for giving her cooties, he was pretty sure about that one.
A faint smile appeared on her face as she looked around the room for a moment. "I...excuse me, I have to go wash my face...or something. Um, excuse me," she repeated, before practically running out of the room, disappearing into the downstairs bathroom.
Now he rolled his eyes and groaned under his breath, wondering when the sudden hit of stupidity had come upon him.
"Sure, Kirkpatrick. Where's the Shakespeare when you need it?"
Chapter Fifteen
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