Page 67 of Just My Type of wrong guy

“With that dress, looking hot like that, I’m sure a lot of things are gonna happen... but I don’t think you need to worry about them.” Thomas’s words make me close my eyes to stop myself from cussing him out. “At least if you’re not in love and all...” he mocks, and Guilherme takes a swig from his water bottle just to keep his mouth occupied, and Richard agrees with Thomas.

“I can still turn off and go after her if you guys don’t stop pestering me!”

After a lot of back and forth, we start a game ofAmong Usbefore discussing anything. It’s childish and silly, but it’s something we did back during the reality show days, and our first year as a world-famous band is making us a little nostalgic for the time when everything was just a dream.

Living the reality sometimes scares you, but, if the first time I was alone and lost, it’s good to know that now we’re four friends. Sharing joys, sorrows, and keeping each other’s feet on the ground, but with our hands always pointing to the next step.

The game ends, and we get back to talking. Thomas talks about how weird it is to be in one place for so long, Richard comments that the calm, monotonous life of his parents seemed like a desperate idea before he got there, but now he realizes it’s everything he needed, and Guilherme spends almost half an hour talking about receiving Beatriz.

Finally, after many meetings and miscommunications and reunions, these two will finally be able to be together. And I’m happy for them.

But when Thomas asks about my Christmas plans, I talk about Alexandra, trying to get teased and bury the questions. This time, however, no one laughs.

All my friends know I’ll be home for Christmas, and that I’d be alone or at Guilherme’s house if Alexandra wasn’t here.Because, even though it hurts to think about it, I don’t have parents anymore.

Sometimes, doing what you want costs a lot.

We end the call in that shitty mood, and I still joke, asking them to talk about my parents at the beginning of the next call, so no one hangs up with a sad face.

***

I leave the room looking for something to eat, but it’s already past eleven, so I make instant noodles, eat them standing under the dim kitchen lights, and head to bed with a cup of tea in hand.

I’m not even tired, but I need to sleep. I don’t want to look like a psycho—or a jealous older brother—waiting up for Alexandra in the living room.

Still, I don’t sleep a wink.

Ever since Alex told me I should start writing again, a melody with no lyrics has been looping in my head, begging to be heard, begging for words.

But I don’t do that anymore.

Not alone, at least.

I check DMs, read emails, answer pending messages, scroll through Instagram, even reply to some comments, something I haven’t done in months, but who am I kidding? I didn’t open the app for myself. I opened it for her.

Who had dinner alone at Cipriani, posted a picture in Central Park an hour later, and made a Boomerang in the middle of Times Square, with the coat, leaving only her heels and hair visible.

And somehow — in a way I don’t even understand — I find myself thinking that, wherever she is, her mother must be smiling. Watching her girl cross off one of the impossible dreams they once stitched together

***

The impatient trembling of my legs finally stops at 10:38 when Alexandra’s bedroom door opens. Letting out a slow breath, I lift my head from my hands and take my elbow off the marble, then step down from the island counter.

I turn on the kettle on the sink and take the cheese, salami, and cream cheese out of the fridge, ignoring the anxiety of seeing Alexandra. I keep staring at the carton of milk for a few seconds until her footsteps become more audible.

“Good morning,” she says cheerfully, and I turn just in time to see her face drop and twist into a grimace. “Oh my God, A.J., don’t you own clothes?”

“You’ve seen me in boxers tons of times, come on, this is like shorts.” I force myself to joke, even though I’m studying every little inch of her.

As if something last night could’ve happened to take her away from me.

From here.Take herfrom here.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s freezing.” She points at herself, wearing a coat over her pajamas.

“I already told you, you just need to adjust…” I leave the milk carton on the island and close the fridge door before walking toward the wall on the other side of the kitchen and turning up the temperature on the display. “And do this!”

“This thing only goes up to twenty-seven degrees.” She waves my comment away with her hand and sits in front of one of the plates on the island. “I used to fake being sick to skip school when it was this cold, you know?”

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