I haven’t spoken with Alex, but I’ve talked with his mami every day since it happened. She says he’s been quiet, staying mostly in his room, except for his morning runs. She had her ex-husband and Yaritza and Robi over for dinner on Christmas since Alex didn’t want to ride the subway. He said he wasn’t ready. I don’t blame him.
But this morning—this morning he messaged me. He wanted to see me. He wanted to know if that would be all right. I texted him back asking him to please come. There’s so much I need to tell him. Now he’s in our building, something I once would have thought impossible.
Mom opens the door. Alex stands in the hallway. He’s wearing pants and a button-down shirt, not athletic clothes, under his coat. Alex stares down at his feet—he’s even wearing leather shoes, not sneakers. He glances up at my mom with a shyness I’ve never seen.
Mom knows Alex’s parents are Dominican. But she avoided the “triggering” videos of the rescue. She hasn’t seen him before. Not like this.
Mom sticks out her hand. “I’m Elisa García Warren, Isabelle’s mother.”
Alex takes her hand. “Hello. I’m Alex, Alex Rosario. It’s good to meet you.”
I fidget. I don’t know what she’s going to say.
“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. Not just the other day with Merrit and Isa in the subway. My husband tells me—Isa tells me—you’ve been a source of support for our daughter over this past hellish year. So, for that, you have my gratitude.”
Alex’s tense mouth takes on the trace of a smile. It’s true what Mom said; we’ve been talking more since the accident. She’s been listening. Mom’s still holding the door. She doesn’t step back to make room for him. “And I want to apologize for my behavior back in April at Isa’s dance performance. I didn’t . . .” She inhales and closes her eyes, likes she’s resetting herself. “I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone, much less a friend of Isa’s. Not that it’s an excuse. But I am sorry for how I acted.”
Alex watches her, his face frozen in that almost-smile.
“But before you come in,” Mom continues, sounding much more like herself, “I need to ask about that friend of yours. Danny, right? What exactly is your plan with him?”
Alex frowns. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
I don’t understand either. “Mom?” I make to get up off the couch. She holds her hand up to me but doesn’t look away from Alex.
“Your mother told me that Danny’s gotten mixed up with the wrong people. If he’s your friend, you’ll want to help him. You need to tell him that either he walks away from that gang, or you walk away from him.”
Wait—she called Sra. Rosario? And what is she saying about Danny? “Mom!” I shout.
It’s Alex who lifts his hand this time, telling me to hold on. He licks his lips and nods at my mom. “All right. I’ll talk to him. I’ve been planning to anyway.”
Wait—it’s . . . true? Danny’s involved in all of that? I’m staring at Alex but he’s not looking at me.
My mom lets out a breath. “Good. Because otherwise I’d have to insist that you cut off contact with my daughter. I won’t allow her to be put at risk again.” Mom moves into the apartment. “Oh—wait. There’s one more thing.” She puts her arm in front of him. “If I ever find out that you are going around with other girls behind Isa’s back, I will personally make you regret it.” Mom lifts her fingers into the shape of scissors and makes a cutting motion with them. “Got it?”
Alex’s eyebrows shoot up, even though her threat is ridiculous. He nods again. I almost bury my red-hot cheeks in my hands, but I don’t want to miss anything.
Mom gestures to the chair by the door, the one I use to get my boot off. “You can pull that over by the couch,” she tells him. “I’ve got some work to do in my room. My husband’s been looking forward to seeing you. He’s still at work, but he asked if you could stay for dinner.”
“Mom!” Now I do throw my arm in front of my face. That’s so like her to go from terrorizing him to laying it on too thick. “Alex probably has to get back to his family.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Alex’s question surprises me. Those intense eyes search mine.
“Yes,” I tell him, my voice very quiet. It hurts that he has to ask that, that he’s not sure if I want him around. But it makes sense, because of the way I’ve treated him.
“Then I’ll stay,” he says.
“Good,” Mom says. “I’ll call your mother to let her know. I want to invite her too.” Mom backs down the hallway, a hint of a smile replacing her typical frown. Alex and I are alone.
Alex sits on the chair. He’s so tall and the chair’s so tall, he towers above me. Having him close makes me self-conscious all of a sudden.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For not saying anything about Danny. I’m sorry for everything on Saturday.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“But they were going after me,” he says. “After me and Danny. That put you and Merrit in danger.”
“Well, I’m more sorry. That they took you. That I couldn’t stop them.” He knows I’m talking about the police. I wish I could erase it all, everything that happened to him that hurt him. I wish it were as easy as deleting that video Kiara took. But what happened to him wasn’t just a video. It was real.
Alex frowns down at his hands where they rest against his knees. He starts to speak, then stops himself. Eventually he says, “There was nothing you could have done.”
“Maybe,” I tell him. But I think of all those times when Alex got so tense, when he got so nervous around the police. “I never asked you about it. Before. How you felt when police officers came by. I should have.” I should have found out why. I should have let him talk to me about it at least. Because now I know how stupid and naive I was. Just like I was stupid and naive about his concerns about meeting my parents. I don’t have to tell him this. I don’t have to tell him I saw him as this sensitive, smart, and caring person who made me laugh, and that I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing him differently. But I do tell him. I don’t want anything left hidden between us.
Alex only nods.
“How horrible was it?” I ask.
He closes his eyes tight, like even the memory is painful. “Bad. But I don’t want to talk about that.” He lets out a slow exhale. “How’s your ankle?”
“I don’t want to talk about that either.” I don’t want to tell him I likely won’t dance until the spring. There’s something more important I have to say.
“Alex?”
He’s watching his hands again. I wait for him to look at me.
“I wasn’t honest with you. About my family. Or myself.” We talk about my attempt at a double life, the happy one with him and the sad one with my parents and brother. We talk about all of it—Dad’s job, Merrit’s suspension, the apartment. Also my fears about bipolar disorder: my mom’s and Merrit’s diagnoses, what that means for me. Because of the genetics. Because I might get it or pass it on.