Destiny Binds(18)

“Hey, Alex,” she said with her pink, glossy bottom lip gutting out like a pouting child. “You havenʼt called me lately. Where have you been?”

Alex smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Iʼve been really busy with work and school and stuff.” I felt as though something rather large and misshapen, like a professional wrestler, had taken up residence in my stomach. A quick fantasy flashed through my mind of delivering a right hook to Ashleyʼs stupid, goat-like face.

“Well, if you get a free night sometime soon, we should make plans.” She leaned her whole body against him to whisper in his ear. Judging by the blush that crept up his neck and onto his face, it had something to do with exactly what those plans would entail.

Alex coughed nervously. “O-o-okay. So, Iʼll...ummm...talk to you later.”

“I look forward to it,” she cooed. She was practically caressing him with her breasts. I couldnʼt decide if I would rather puke or beat her to death with my shoe.

Alex stepped back and almost tripped over a wooden sword. “Yeah. Okay...so, yeah. Later.”

“Well, Iʼll let you guys get back to practicing then.” She turned her attention to me, her expression condescending. “Scout as the Shrew. I guess Ms. Ryder is a big fan of typecasting.”

I was glad I was wearing a pair of tennis shoes. She would die much too quickly and not suffer nearly enough if I were to beat her with my boots.

“Her boobs are fake, you know,” I said after she was gone. “She also wet the bed until the seventh grade and wore a robe to school every day for three weeks when we were ten because she thought middle school would be just like Hogwarts.” Alex just stood there and stared at me as if I had grown a second head.

“Sorry,” I said. “I know you guys are dating or whatever. I was being rude.” For some reason, Alex was smiling. He was probably laughing at my idiotic behavior. I would be if I were him.

“Iʼm not dating Ashley Johnson.”

“Youʼre not?” What was he talking about? Of course he was dating Ashley. Or maybe they didnʼt do “dating” in Montana.

“Nope. Sheʼs not my type.” He was in full-on dimple mode. His eyes were even doing that sparkly dancing thing.

“But you took her to Homecoming.”

“I just did that to try and make someone else jealous.” He liked someone else. Great. My mind started going through the possibilities. Molly Eastwick is pretty, and I had seen Alex talking to her a couple of times in the hallway. Jase recently broke up with Nikki Anderson, who looks like an MTV backup dancer. Every male in a five county radius was trying to be the rebound guy. I shuddered at the thought of how Alex dating Jaseʼs ex would play out.

“Did it work?” What I was really asking was if he was dating someone else already, because nothing feels quite so good as pouring salt in an open wound.

“I didnʼt think so at first, but it looks like I might have been wrong.” It was not until the blush returned to his cheeks I even considered hoping that he was talking about me.

He was running his hand through his hair again. Did that mean that he was nervous? Was I making him nervous?

“So, are you doing anything over Thanksgiving break next week?” Alex asked, apropos of nothing. He also seemed to be very interested in his shoes. While they were cute - some well worn Adidas Gazelles - they were far from fascinating.

“I have to go to Washington to spend the holiday with Senator and Mrs. Harper.”

“Senate Majority Leader Senator Harper? Why?”

Because my life sucked. “Heʼs my bio momʼs father.”

“Senator Harper is your grandfather?” Alex sounded impressed.

“Technically.”

I only see my motherʼs parents once a year. They always fly me into DC for Thanksgiving break. For four days I get attacked by stylist and posed in different activities with the Harpers to ensure there are enough pictures of their All-American Family for the next campaign.

The eyebrow plucking and itchy sweaters are nothing compared to the painful conversations I have to endure. Mrs. Harper can wax on for hours about how I am nowhere near as pretty as my mother, while the Senator likes to lecture me on the responsibilities that came with being a politicianʼs granddaughter and the necessity of applying myself. The whole thing made me a little wrist-slitty.

My distaste for the whole situation must have shown on my face.

“You arenʼt exactly fond of your grandparents, are you?”

“My grandparents blame my motherʼs death on my father. They see him as a murderer, and me as his weapon of choice. They have never acknowledged my birthday or sent me so much as a Christmas card. The only time they contact me is when it benefits them in some fashion.