"How?" I couldn't help asking.
"We were both on the soccer team. Same position. Henry was first string, I was bench. Which I didn't mind," he was quick to add. "I didn't need the spotlight like he did, but when I started getting more time off the bench, he got pissed, and the next thing I know I'm being hauled into the dean's office. A laundry list as long as my damn arm of bogus infractions thrown at me. The grapevine said it was Henry. " He scratched his chin. "I was expelled the next day."
"Why didn't you protest?"
Alex didn't speak for a few minutes; he was staring blankly through the windshield, as if remembering something unpleasant. I didn't want to add to that.
"Because of his family and connections," he said at last, "there was nothing I could do. He was the one born with a silver spoon in his mouth, not me. I've had to work like the effing devil for everything I've got."
I understood this. I could also understand the bitterness he was harboring after four years. What I couldn't understand was how he'd bent over and taken it, hadn't fought the decision of his expulsion, hadn't disputed it.
"But, ya know, I never owned up to the crimes." Alex chuckled, but there was a bite of anger underneath. "Kicked out on my ass, anyway. It was a shame, too, because I actually liked the guy, thought of him as a brother. I know his family, his little sister." He muttered something under his breath that I couldn't hear while he ran a hand through his light hair. "But after a while, you gotta call a spade a spade, right?" After he pulled into a parking space, he turned to me with a sigh. "I guess money can buy you anything. It even bought him admission to Stanford Law. Guy hasn't worked an honest day in his life." He touched a finger to my chin. "Believe me."
"Well, the bigger they are the harder they fall," I offered, caught up in Alex's rainfall of cliché sayings. "I mean, I do. I believe you."
"Thanks," he said. "Ready to eat?"
"I'm starving."
The main drag of downtown Palo Alto was packed. Seemed all of campus was out attempting to savor one last bit of freedom before life as we knew it completely stopped. We had only a few blocks to walk, and once I was able to actually stroll beside him, Alex made it a point to laugh at whatever I said and touch me-my hand, my elbow, my shoulder. It was the usual repartee that goes along with a first date, when you don't know much about the other person. I was an expert at the first-date routine because I seldom allowed myself a second.
"Have you ever heard of a movie called Annie Hall?" Alex asked as we stopped at a crosswalk.
"Woody Allen."
"You know The Wood-Man?" He nudged my shoulder. "I might have to marry you."
The light turned green, and we joined the queue of other crossers.
"Do you remember what happened on Alvie's first date with Annie?"
"It's been a long time since I've seen it. Did Alvie forget his wallet? How typical."
"They were bantering in that neurotic Woody Allen way," Alex said, shooting me a sideways glance. "Kind of like we were doing the other night." He took my hand and tucked it into the crock of his elbow. "Alvie said to Annie something like, ‘At the end of this date, I'll want to kiss you, but it'll be awkward and embarrassing from all the tension. So, why don't we get it out of the way now while there's no pressure.'"
"Clever," I said.
Alex peered at me with that lazy smile he wore so well. "The thing is," he said, raking a hand through his hair, so charmingly nervous, "I think I'll be feeling some similar pressure at the end of our date."
He stopped walking. So did I. It took two seconds for my mind to catch up to where his already was.
After correctly assessing my grin of agreement, Alex stepped up and placed a hand on my cheek. But then he paused and glanced around, inspecting all the people ambling down the sidewalk around us. The next thing I knew, he grabbed my hand and was pulling me away.
We walked very briskly next to each other for about five seconds, and I followed him around the corner to a parking lot. It was valet only and, aside from the dozen or so parked million-dollar vehicles, it was vacant.
Without a word, he grabbed my free hand and yanked me forward. There was barely time for me to giggle before the kissing began. His arms were strong around me, and his lips were soft on my lips and chin and neck. Just as he had done on the dance floor, his hands were on my hips, swaying me like we were moving to music. His mouth had a minty taste, not exactly toothpaste, something sharper.
Not that I was a prude, but even at the end of a date I would not have completely sucked face with a guy … and here it was the beginning of our first date. But for whatever reason, I wasn't letting anything slow me down. I felt determined and a bit defiant, like I was trying to prove something to someone.
Plus, it had been a long, dry summer back in Coos Bay, Oregon. My mother spent most of June complaining about how my father had refused again to pay for any of my tuition. Not that I was surprised … I hadn't expected anything from my father in years. My two brothers and I decided ages ago that the sooner we forgot about him, the better. The rest of the summer, Mom delved deeper into her crystals and tarot cards. My brothers came home for only one visit. I was working two full-time jobs, anyway-no time for dating or fun. Maybe that was why I was so into Alex's kisses.
His hands slid to the small of my back, still rocking us to the beat of an unheard rhythm.
Julia had a theory about there being two kinds of kisses. The first kind of kiss is when you want to experience the purely physical pleasure of kissing. There can be heat and excitement and plenty of sparks during this first kind of kiss, but it's mostly just doing whatever will bring personal gratification. These kisses are fun and freeing and preferably non-committal. The first kind of kiss is corporeal, touching only your body and the shallowest of senses, but never deep emotions, and never your soul or your heart.
What I was experiencing in that dimly lit parking lot was the first kind of kiss. Obviously so, since I was cognizant enough to realize that Alex was merely filling a physical desire and nothing more. My emotions, soul, and heart were all fully intact. Perfect.
According to Julia, however, there is a second kind of kiss. This kiss comes with a whole list of prerequisite regulations. There is commitment, caring, giving, sacrifice, compromise, relationship, and especially love. Apparently, all of the above-listed rules make the second kind of kiss something more magical and earth-shaking than even the steamiest first kind of kiss.
As Alex's hands moved up and down my spine like I was his bass fiddle, I couldn't imagine a thing like that were possible. But Julia did have her harebrained theories.
First kind or not, Alex was a great kisser. Very creative. I probably could have kept it up for the full fifteen minutes-that was usually my limit before I grew bored-but when a valet attendant tried to push past us to get into the blue SUV Alex had me pressed against, we pulled apart.
"Well, you're full of surprises," I said, a bit breathless.
He touched my chin with one finger, then ran it down my neck. "Want to go back to my place?"
"What?"
Almost as if he were snapping out of a trance, his intense expression dissolved and his lazy smile was back. "Come on, gorgeous." He took my hand, linking my arm through his, and we walked out of the parking lot. "You pick the restaurant."
"I can't believe you stole your moves like that," I said, thinking what a pervy beast Woody Allen must be in real life.
Alex laughed and shot me a sideways glance. "If that's what gets your engines blazing, I'll be sure to talk about Henry more often." He put his hand over mine and squeezed.
Knightly? I almost tripped over my own feet. Why on earth would Alex be thinking about him? Or assuming that I would be thinking about him while we were kissing?
Chapter 7
"I'm sorry. No more empty tables."
I moaned and glanced over the hostess's shoulder at the unusually, overly packed café.
"It's the rain," she explained with a shrug. "No one wants to be outside."
"Yeah," I agreed, perturbed that all of Stanford apparently chose to eat at Oy Vey Café that morning.
"You can get your order to go," she suggested, then pointed behind me at the dozen or so people already standing in line. I guessed that was my only option.