Page 42 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“This would be a very inconvenient time to find out you’re a lightweight,” Julius mutters.
I squint at him. Search his face. And maybe it’s because of this new warmth, this dreamy sensation—both like falling and like floating—that I find myself marveling at how well-defined his features are. Nothandsome, like the princes in fairy tales. But beautiful and cold and deadly, like the villains we’re taught to fear. “I’m not a lightweight,” I inform him, pronouncing each word loudly and carefully, as proof. “I was kind of worried just now—like, literally, a second ago—that I would be drunk, but now I think . . .” I close my eyes. Scan my body. Open them again. “I’m actually okay. I don’t think it’s made any noticeable difference? Wow, yeah. It’s so wild. I can’t believe I’m just, like, absorbing this alcohol into my bloodstream. It hasn’t impeded my speech one bit. I could go to school like this. I couldtake a testlike this. Granted that it’s in a subject I’ve studied before.”
Amusement touches his mouth. “Right,” he says. “Of course.”
“Do you want some?” I ask him, offering up the little remaining liquor to him, since it’s only polite. “It doesn’t taste that disgusting once you get used to it.”
He gently pushes the bottle back down. “No, thanks.”
“What do you want, then? I can give it to you.”
This should be a simple enough question. Multiple choice at most. But he falters as if he’s received a three-thousand-word essay prompt. Swallows. Looks away. “Nothing,” he says at last. “I don’t—want anything.”
“Are you sure? You’re, like, turning red.” Maybe I shouldn’t be pointing this out. A small voice in the back of my head tells me that I’m not supposed to. But why? Whynot? It’s not like I’m lying. I shift forward, just to get a closer look. And I’m right. His neck is flushed, the color seeping through his cheeks. “It’s really obvious here,” I say, tracing out the line of his collarbone with one fingertip. Even his skin is unnaturally hot.
Something flashes over his face. He wets his lower lip and steps back.
“Is it sunburn? Oh wait, that makes no sense.” I laugh at myself, laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Everything strikes me as hilarious now. “You can’t get sunburnt atnight. Or . . . no. Can you? Is that, like, a possibility? Is this something that could come up in our next science quiz?” I have the overwhelming urge to find out, right this second. I must know. I hate not knowing things. “Alex?” I call.
No response.
“Alex?”I call again, louder, spinning around. “Hello? Are you there?”
Julius stares at me. “Is there a random man named Alex hiding inside your house? Or did you mean Alexa?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” I demand, annoyed. “Alexis?Alexis, can you hear me? Answer me. I really, really need to know if you can get sunburnt after dark. This is incredibly important.”
“Again, it’s Alexa,” Julius says.
“Be quiet.” I clamp both my hands over his mouth. “You’re prettier when you don’t talk.”
He makes a faint, incredulous sound that’s muffled by my palm, his breath tickling my skin. His expression doesn’t change much, but I can sense his surprise, how it flickers beneath the surface. “Did you just call me pretty?”
“When you don’t talk,” I emphasize. “Which you’re doing at present.”
“So you admit it.”
“What?” I’ve already lost track of our conversation. Maybe I am drunk. Or maybe my memory is declining. That’s a terrifying thought. But then my attention shifts to the stray strand of hair tumbling over his forehead. I want to reach for him, brush it back.Don’t do it, that same voice whispers, but it sounds more and more distant by the second. Inconsequential. So I give in to the impulse and lean forward, smoothing his hair. “It’s so soft. Even softer than it looks,” I murmur, playing with a dark lock of it between two fingers. He’s gone very still before me, his pupils black and dilated. I can feel the air ripple with his next expelled breath, almost a pained sigh. “I always did like your hair.”
“I thought you hated it,” he says. His voice is scratchy, like he’s swallowed sand.
I frown. Tug absently at the strand. “Did I say that?”
“You did. In your email.” And then with his eyes on me, without having to pause or think twice, he recites,“From the bottom of my heart, I really hope your comb breaks and you run out of whatever expensive hair products you’ve been using to make your hair appear deceptively soft when I’m sure it’s not, because there’s nothing soft about you, anywhere at all.”
They’re my words, but on his lips they sound different. Intimate. Confessional. “How do you . . . remember all that?” I ask.
“I have all your emails memorized word for word,” he says, then instantly looks like he regrets having spoken.
“You do?” My mouth falls open.
“No.” He scowls. “No, forget I said—”
“You do,” I say, an accusation this time. “Oh my god, you totally do.” I start laughing again, laughing so hard I stumble back and land on the floor and clutch at my stomach. I laugh until I’m breathless, until I can’t feel any pain in my chest, until nothing else matters except this. When my mirth finally dies down, I grin up at him. “Well, Julius Gong. It sounds likeyou’rethe one obsessed with me.”
He rolls his eyes, but the skin of his neck turns a deeper shade of crimson.
“Can I ask you a question, then?” I say.
