My phone buzzes during Mom’s lecture about quarterly projections and market volatility—classic Monday dinner conversation in the Alden household.
Lily: Wanna get ice cream after dinner? Need to debrief about that chemistry quiz disaster
Me: Yes. Desperately need sugar and sanity
Lily: Pick you up at 8
I’m mid-reply when another text slides down the screen.
Grayson West: How do I make you feel confused, Alden? You bolted like Cinderella before I could ask you that.
My pulse skips. The dining room suddenly feels too quiet—just forks on Mom’s good porcelain and the gentle clink of her Cartier bracelet against her wine glass.
Mom looks like she stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Perfectly tailored blazer even at dinner, blonde bob that never moves, the kind of understated elegance that screams “I manage portfolios worth more than small countries.” She’s successful—head of investment banking at Morrison & Associates—but not stupid rich like Lily’s family or whatever ungodly wealth the Wests are swimming in.
The phone’s glow is faint, but apparently not faint enough.
Dad’s eyes narrow as he glances at my phone screen. “Who’s Grayson?”
Damn. Abort mission.
I lock the screen immediately. “Class partner.”
His gaze sharpens like he’s cross-examining a hostile witness. “Partners don’t text at night.”
“We’re working on this Ethics paper and there was this quote we were debating about moral autonomy—”
“You are not to see any boys outside of class.” His voice cuts through my explanation like a scalpel. “Understood?”
Not a question. A decree from the throne of paternal paranoia.
I nod, lips pressed tight. Mom sips her wine and studies her plate like it contains the secrets of the universe.
Classic Mom. Switzerland incarnate.
The rule isn’t new—it’s a tradition. The Alden Family Guide to Raising Perfect Daughters, Volume One: reputation above all else. They raised me on words like “composure” and “grace,” taught me to be their shiny trophy they could display at charity galas.
But for the first time, the rule doesn’t feel like protection. It feels like a cage.
“So basically, you’re telling me Grayson West—campus legend, walking red flag, destroyer of GPAs—stole your first kiss in the chapel?”
Lily’s hands are off the steering wheel. We’re doing sixty in a thirty zone toward McDonald’s, and she’s gesticulating like she’s conducting an orchestra of chaos.
“Eyes on the road, Lil.”
“In the CHAPEL, Jules?”
“It’s not that—”
She slams the brakes so hard I smash my forehead against the dashboard.
“OW! What the hell?”
“Sorry, sorry!” She pulls over, hazards flashing. “But WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”
I rub my forehead, already feeling the bump forming. “Can we get ice cream before you kill us both?”
Twenty minutes later, we’re parked outside McDonald’s with vanilla cones, and I’m recounting the whole disaster while Lily’s jaw hangs somewhere near her designer sneakers.
“So you slapped him?”
“Obviously.”
“After kissing him back?”
“I did NOT kiss him back.”
“Juliet.”
“Fine, maybe for like two seconds, but—”
“And then he said you’d kiss him back next time?” She’s practically bouncing in the driver’s seat. “This is better than my parents’ divorce drama.”
“It’s not drama. It’s a catastrophe.”
“It’s foreplay.”
“It’s NOT—” I stop mid-protest because my phone buzzes.
Grayson: Is my girlfriend avoiding me?
I show Lily the screen. She actually squeals.
“Tell him you’re not his girlfriend!”
Me: I’m not avoiding you and I’m not your girlfriend
His response is immediate.
Grayson: A boy can manifest, right?
I stare at the phone like it might explode.
“What’d he say?” Lily grabs for it.
“He said he’s manifesting me being his girlfriend.”
“That’s… actually kind of sweet?”
“That’s terrifying.”
“Why?”
I lean back against the passenger seat, vanilla ice cream melting down my fingers. “Because part of me wants him to.”
Confused. Confusing. Very goddamn confused.
“Okay, real talk.” Lily turns serious, which is alarming because Lily is never serious. “What do you actually want?”
“I want to want what I’m supposed to want.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I have.”
She studies my face in the dim light from the McDonald’s sign. “You know what I think?”
“That I’m losing my mind?”
“I think you’re finally finding it.” She starts the engine. “And that scares the shit out of you.”
When she drops me off, another text is waiting.
Grayson: Still thinking about my question?
I stare at it for five full minutes before typing back.
Me: Which question?
Grayson: How do I make you feel confused?
Me: idk, just confused.
Grayson: Good. Confusion means you’re thinking
Me: Thinking what?
Grayson: That maybe perfect isn’t as interesting as you thought.
I stare at the screen, pulse racing. He always does this — drops a match, watches me burn. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, trying to find a way to sound unaffected. Chill. Untouched.
But I don’t feel untouched.
I feel flushed. Restless. Like I’m waiting for him to say something that tips me over the edge.
Me: And what are you? Interesting?
Grayson: I’m the reason you can’t sleep right now.
The three little dots appear again. Typing.
Grayson: Bet you’re biting your lip.
I release it instantly, like he can see me.
Grayson: Are you in bed?
My throat goes dry. I glance down — old T-shirt, no bra, bare legs tangled in sheets.
Why does the air feel hotter?
Me: That’s none of your business.
Grayson: Say the word and I’ll make it mine.
I suck in a breath.
Typing…
Typing…
Then nothing.
He leaves me there, simmering in the heat of almost.
30
