Page 149 of Just My Type of wrong guy

After our first show back from Disney, Daniele asked to talk. I thought it was a typical girls’ chat, but she and Rick had traced that profile—every post flooded with sunglasses emoji and red hearts—only followed people connected to A.J., Vicious, and, oddly, his dad. Knowing even the biggest fan wouldn’t know who his parents were, Rick suggested it might actually be his mom behind the account.

With help from “some guy who handles artists’ internet stuff for Victor,” they traced the IP to an address in Canada. The city and neighborhood checked out, so they were sure: it had to be one of A.J.’s parents, even though the profile pic was a “Pinterest-style” girl.

That left me with the job of messaging them on Instagram—and after everything A.J. has done for me, it was my turn to give back.

I don’t know if the meeting ended in cathartic tears and apologies, or if they aired every grievance, or if now they hate each other more than before I left. What I do know is the kid who bolted six years ago chasing a dream—and never came back because he didn’t want to tell his parents he’d hit rock bottom—deserved that conversation.

And I sincerely hope, from the bottom of my heart, they managed to talk.

A.J.: We need to talk.

His message makes me drop my coffee cup on the sidewalk. When it shatters, I curse at the world—my jeans, my shoes, every name I can think of.

But I don’t care, because A.J.’s words echo in my head…and I hate those words.

A.J.: I’m not breaking up with you, and I’m not pregnant. I just wanted to ask you to come home.

Great. Now he explains it.

***

I open the apartment door, expecting total silence and only A.J. inside.

“Kitchen!” he yells, and I take four steps before seeing three people in the spot that’s always just been ours.

His face is swollen, his eyes rimmed red, but he’s the best off in the room.

“Hi,” I say, waving awkwardly at the three of them, stepping around Martha. I notice plates of carrot cake on the island.

“Come here. I know you know them already, but I want you to meet them,” A.J. says, opening his arm in that familiar way. I approach, head bowed.

“You don’t hate me?” I blurt out as he drapes an arm over my shoulders.

A.J. smiles and kisses my forehead for a good two seconds.

“I feel a lot of things for you, Alexandra. None of them—ever—was hate,” he promises, sealing my brow with another kiss. The tall man with salt-and-pepper hair rocks on his stool with nerves, and the woman behind me sniffs. “You promised you wouldn’t cry again.”

“Sorry—it’s just the first time I’ve seen my son in love, but I’ll get it together,” she says, almost embarrassed to call him “my son.”

“Sweetie, these are Martha and Patrick,” A.J. introduces them with a finger.

“We talked a lot today—there’s more to say—but Martha promised not to cry anymore,” he adds, glancing at his mom, who nods and wipes a tear. We all let out a shy laugh. “And, well, this is my girl.”

I notice he never said “mom” or “dad,” but seeing them here together tells me things weren’t as awful as I feared. Maybe this is all he could do right now.

“Oh girl, you gave us the best Christmas gift when you reached out,” Patrick says, scratching his neck just like A.J.

“I’d given up on hugging my son again, you know?” Martha admits without looking at me. “So much time passed, but somehow you saw my comments and found me.” I beam like an angel, not like the crazy girl who hated the person leaving hearts on the posts of a guy who wasn’t even hers. “Thank you.”

“I’m grateful, too,” Patrick rushes in. “I always had hope, but wanting something and seeing it happen are very different. I’m happy my son has someone to look out for him.”

“I’m just returning the favor,” I say, and A.J. squeezes me. “Your son saved me more times than I could count. Will you stay for lunch?”

A.J. tenses immediately, and they seem to notice—Martha shakes her head and stands.

“We already had lunch before coming, sweetheart,” she tells Patrick, who looks confused. “We don’t want to intrude on your day. We’re just overjoyed to have talked to Anthony and tasted all this wonderful food,” she says warmly—but her eyes on A.J. plead for him to invite them.

“Yes—that’s right. We already took up enough of your time, but we’ll wait for you at our place,” Patrick says, voice thick. “A.J. wants to take you to see the house he grew up in.”

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