Chapter 17
[Rose's POV]
"So what exactly do you want?"
He leaned forward, bracing one hand against my desk, invading my personal space with the casual confidence of someone who had never been told no by a girl his own age. The smile that followed looked like something he'd rehearsed in mirrors until it achieved the exact balance of confidence and invitation he thought would be irresistible.
"I," he said, voice pitched to carry just the right note of sincere desire mixed with playful challenge, "am pursuing you."
The declaration landed with all the subtlety of a dropped textbook.
"Have you considered seeking professional medical help for that condition?" I replied without missing a beat, returning my attention to organizing lab notebooks. "There are excellent psychiatric facilities in the Boston area."
Alexander's expression cycled through surprise, frustration, and then something that looked almost like admiration, before settling into the particular brand of self-satisfaction that comes from completely misreading social cues.
"Come on, Rose." His voice dropped to what I assumed he considered a seductive register. "You've been secretly in love with me for a long time. Everyone can see it."
The sheer audacity of the statement required a response proportionate to its presumption. I selected the heaviest textbook from my stack and hurled it directly at his forehead.
The impact produced a satisfying thunk followed by Alexander's yelp of genuine surprise and the beginning of what would likely develop into an impressive bruise.
"She's just embarrassed and angry because I figured out her feelings," he announced to the small audience of early-arriving classmates, one hand pressed against the reddening mark on his forehead. "Classic defensive behavior when girls get called out."
Mike nodded with the wisdom of someone who had clearly never successfully spoken to a girl outside of mandatory group projects. "Women are so easily charmed. Then they get mad when you point out the obvious."
I turned my full attention to both of them, allowing the silence to stretch until it became genuinely uncomfortable. The casual morning chatter of nearby students faded as they registered the sudden temperature drop in our immediate vicinity.
Both boys fell silent with remarkable speed.
My phone buzzed against the desktop, a welcome distraction from the psychological warfare occurring two feet away. Christopher's name appeared on the screen with a text about scheduling details for the American Dream Star competition.
I swiped to respond and the notification panel revealed a cascade of social media updates I generally ignored. One caught my eye despite my usual indifference to digital self-promotion.
Alexander had posted an Instagram photo sometime after our encounter yesterday. The image showed him hunched over textbooks in what appeared to be a carefully staged study session—books arranged at photogenic angles, lighting adjusted for maximum dramatic effect, his expression crafted to suggest serious academic focus.
Christopher had commented: "Not bad. Some progress."
I glanced up at Alexander, who was currently attempting to explain his theories about female psychology to Mike using hand gestures.
"See?" Mike whispered with all the subtlety of a freight train. "She keeps staring at you. Totally smitten."
Alexander immediately adjusted his posture, running a hand through his artfully tousled hair and angling his face to catch the morning light streaming through the classroom windows. The pose lasted approximately ten seconds before he realized I was looking at him with the same clinical interest I might show a particularly puzzling lab result.
I returned to my phone, scrolling through Alexander's profile with growing certainty. The angle of his jawline in the study photo triggered something deeper than casual recognition. When he turned his head to speak with Mike, the similarity became undeniable.
The slope of his nose. The way his left eyebrow rose slightly higher than his right when he was concentrating. The particular set of his shoulders when he thought no one was watching.
I had seen those exact features every day for the first six years of my son's life.
My fingers moved without conscious direction, capturing a screenshot of Alexander's profile picture. I forwarded it to Christopher with a simple message: "What is your relationship to this person?"
The response arrived within minutes: "My brother."
I set the phone aside and studied Alexander with new eyes. Blue-dyed hair that defied both gravity and good sense. Multiple ear piercings that would have scandalized his great-great-grandmother. Ripped jeans that probably cost more than most families spent on groceries in a month. The oversized Supreme hoodie that screamed for attention while claiming to reject conventional values.
Having such a great-grandson, I thought with something between resignation and dark amusement, must surely be some form of punishment.
The morning classes passed in a blur of differential equations and thermodynamic principles, but my mind kept returning to fragments of memory. James as a toddler, clinging to my laboratory coat during thunderstorms. James at five, proudly showing me his first attempt at writing the equations he'd seen me work on. James at six, the last time I had seen him before the accident that ended everything.
Alexander shared more than just James's laugh. The way it started quiet and built to something genuinely delighted when he found something truly amusing, not just when he was performing for an audience.
By the time the lunch bell rang, my emotional landscape had shifted from defensive annoyance to something considerably more complex.
Christopher's parents had died in a car accident when Alexander was barely old enough to remember them clearly. He had been raised by nannies and boarding schools, summer camps and private tutors. All the money in the world could buy, but precious little of the steady parental guidance that shapes character during crucial developmental years.
No wonder he had transformed into this particular combination of privilege and rebellion.
I gathered my books slowly, allowing the other students to file out ahead of me. Alexander lingered by his desk, clearly working up to another attempt at conversation.
"Alexander," I said before he could launch into whatever prepared material he'd been rehearsing. "Would you like to join me for lunch in the cafeteria?"
The invitation clearly caught him off-guard. His eyebrows rose in genuine surprise, followed immediately by suspicion.
"Are you... asking me out?"
"I'm suggesting we eat lunch together in a public location surrounded by several hundred of our peers," I replied. "Draw your own conclusions about romantic intent."
He studied my face for signs of mockery or ulterior motives, found nothing he could definitively categorize, and nodded slowly.
"Sure. Yeah, okay."
The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos of overlapping conversations, clattering trays, and the particular acoustic nightmare that comes from containing three hundred teenagers in a single enclosed space.
We collected our food—he opted for pizza and energy drinks, I selected a salad that looked like it might have encountered actual vegetables at some point in its preparation—and surveyed the available seating options.
"There," Alexander said, nodding toward a table currently occupied by a group of underclassmen. "That spot has good lighting."
"It's also currently occupied."
"Not for long."
He approached the table with the easy swagger of someone accustomed to getting his way through a combination of charm and implicit social threat. The younger students took one look at his approaching form and immediately began gathering their belongings with nervous efficiency.
Within thirty seconds, the table stood empty and freshly wiped, as if the previous occupants had never existed.
"Impressive," I said, settling into my chair. "Do you practice that particular power display, or is it purely instinctive?"
"Leadership comes naturally to some people," he replied, clearly pleased with what he perceived as genuine admiration.
Before I could respond to that remarkable piece of self-assessment, Mike appeared carrying what looked like a professional-grade balloon arrangement. Two other boys I recognized from the hallway social hierarchy followed behind him, moving with the synchronized precision of a practiced operation.
"Surprise!" Mike announced, his voice cutting through the cafeteria's ambient noise like a fire alarm.
Confetti cannons exploded in bursts of pink and gold. Balloon strings unfurled like party streamers. Someone had rigged portable speakers to play what sounded like a romantic comedy soundtrack at precisely the right dramatic moment.
Alexander rose from his chair with theatrical flourish, accepting a bouquet of red roses from Mike's extended hands. The entire production had clearly been planned and rehearsed,
"Rose Evans," he announced, his voice projecting across the now-silent cafeteria with the confidence of someone who had never doubted his right to command attention, "I like you."
Every conversation in the room stopped simultaneously.