Page 146 of Just My Type of wrong guy

Alexandra smooths my face, strokes my hair, and gives me a quick kiss.

“You lived with them for eighteen years, Anthony—and you’ve got your whole life ahead. One day you’ll look back and six years won’t feel like much,” she says with such certainty I almost believe it. “And honestly, there’s nothing you did to deserve forgiveness. You just went to live your life.” She turns to grab a slice of corn cake off the tray.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I usually am.” She laughs as the air fryer beeps in the kitchen. “Now let me go—I’m not done with this birthday tasting.”

“Is itcoxinhatime?”

“Sure, it is!” she announces, standing up.

“Who knew all I needed to like birthdays again was a Brazilian girlfriend?” I call after her.

“I’m still not your girlfriend…” Before she finishes, I chase her down and scoop her up for a kiss.

Alexandra sticks out her tongue and pretends not to like it—but then kisses me again.

***

Five minutes after Alex left to buy fresh cream and potato sticks, I found them both—she was already in the Uber, insisting she wanted to stock up on a few extra things. She put me in charge of making perfectly rice, what will be hard. I stillhave the tea towel over my shoulder and the wooden spoon in my hand when the doorbell rings. I wipe the last grains of rice from my lips and remove the pot from the hot burner.

I check my phone, half-expecting a message that she’s locked out and needs me to buzz her in, but the only notification in our chat is:

The reason of my insomnia: Forgive me, but I needed you to try.

In Portuguese—clearly sent by mistake. I wipe my hands on my hoodie, hoping it’s not someone from the building doing maintenance.

“Good afternoon, how can I hel—?” I trail off because it’s not a maintenance guy. And it’s not Alexandra.

My mom is standing there. Shorter, thinner, in a pale-blue dress, her dark-blonde hair in a sloppy bun. Her once-pale skin is drawn, and her emerald eyes look tired. Next to her, my dad shifts his weight, eyes on me, foot jiggling nervously. Expectation in their faces makes my heart slam against my ribs, my knees, then my feet.

I close the door. This can’t be real—my parents don’t even know where I live. I never told them. I’ve always known birthday celebrations would do more harm than good—and now I’m hallucinating.

The doorbell rings again. My heart jumps and my throat tightens. But I decide to open it—just to prove to myself nothing’s out there and laugh at my brain.

“Hi, Anthony. May we come in?” My dad asks awkwardly. Tall, straight-backed, clean-shaven, wearing a rumpled light-blue shirt.

“Come in?” I echo— not because they can’t, but because I never expected them to want to.

“Yes, we came to see you. It’d be nice if it wasn’t… at your front door.”

“Of course.” My throat tightens as I step aside. They enter cautiously, as if my floor were a minefield. Following my gesture, they cross the hallway and stop in the living room, where my half-eaten birthday breakfast still sits.

“You look… stronger,” my mom says, searching for something to hold onto.

“And taller,” adds my dad.

I nod, taking them in, standing in my living room.

“And… you guys look older,” I finish, meeting their eyes.

They laugh softly, an awkward sound, and I sense my dad wants to hug me. I push my hair back and flop onto the corner of the sofa, keeping my distance.

“Have a seat—the couch is huge,” I say, and my dad sits down about a foot away from me, Mom perches on the edge, practically uncomfortable.

“So you live here alone?” Patrick asks, eyeing my wall of framed photos. “It looks great.”

“I do. Well, I…,” I rub my hands on my thighs to steady myself, “my girl lives here too,” I blur out—since she isn’t technically my girlfriend yet.

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