Chapter 9: Drunk and Drunker

"I never brought Wes down here," I say abruptly. I don't know why, but I need Alex to know that. This was always our place - mine and Alex's. "It didn't seem right. Not that you and I were ever like me and Wes. We weren't romantic or hooking up, I mean." God, this alcohol is making it hard to explain what I mean. Or maybe it's just that Alex - or Xander, or whoever he is now - is making me nervous for some reason.

I grab another little rock and toss it into the water, laughing to cover up this weirdness that has settled over me.

"You know, Lucy still refuses to believe that nothing ever happened between us," I say. "Some people just can't seem to accept the idea that men and women can just be friends." I tilt my head back and look up at the leaves overhead. In my buzzed state, the patterns they make are mind-boggling.

"None of my guy friends ever believed it either," he says. "Though they liked to tease me about never being able to seal the deal."

"And look at you now," I say. "One of the country's hottest bachelors. Last month my mom said she saw you on the cover of some tabloid with a supermodel."

"Did she?"

"Are you denying it?"

"Did I say I was?"

"Oh my God, you playboy," I say, leaning over giving him a playful shove. "Was it anyone I'd recognize?"

He looks at me, his eyes piercing. "Why are you so curious?"

"My best friend dated a supermodel. Why wouldn't I be curious?"

That hint of a smile returns. "So I'm your best friend again? I've managed to prove myself to you?"

"I never said you weren't my best friend," I counter, stabbing him in the arm with my finger. "Only that you're different now."

That half-smile still lingers, but he doesn't say anything, only grabs the whiskey and takes another sip.

Something has shifted between us. And all at once, I understand: we can never again be the us we once were.

For a long moment Alex and I sit there, passing the flask back and forth, staring out across the river. We used to do this back then - sit out here for hours and not even need to say a word to each other.

The alcohol has slowly but surely taken hold of my brain, and I find myself being bolder about studying him. He's definitely broader than he was before, and I wonder just how many new muscles are hiding under that custom suit. I've never been the sort of girl to drool over six-pack abs or anything, but I have to admit that I'm intrigued by this change in him. Even the stubble, weird as it is, is starting to grow on me.

Those eyes, though - no matter what else has changed about him, those eyes are the same. They're a shade of blue that can look dark or bright depending on the light or his mood, and they've always been so sharp, so piercing and intelligent. They're the kind of eyes that seem to look right into the deepest part of you, to read everything you have written on your soul. It's been so long that I think I must have forgotten what it feels like to have him look right at me, because I feel my stomach tighten as he looks over at me now.

"Wes is an idiot," he says. "I just think that bears repeating."

"I don't want to talk about Wes. And when did you start talking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Telling me it bears repeating," I say, mimicking his low rumble of a voice. "Who talks like that?"

"Lots of people."

"Not in Haverton."

"Maybe not."

The silence stretches between us again, and this time it's me who breaks it.

"Do you miss it? Haverton, I mean?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he twists one of his shiny cufflinks between his thumb and forefinger and continues to watch the water flow by.

"Some things," he says finally.

"Mm. Let me guess." I try to lean back on my elbow again, then nearly topple over in the process. Gah, stupid alcohol. "Um...you miss the milkshakes down at the Main Street Diner. And you miss the Pumpkin Festival, but mostly because of those terrifying rickety carnival rides they bring in. And you miss your mom's corn casserole, of course."

He nods. "That's a good list to start."

"One thing you don't miss, I imagine," I say, trying to blink away the fuzziness in my vision, "is my cruel and unnecessary mockery."

He chuckles. "Nonsense. I've always appreciated your cruel and unnecessary mockery."

"There you go again," I say, trying to poke him and missing. "Nonsense. Nonsense! You talk just like...just like that rich guy from that book. You know..."

He shakes his head, still chuckling. "I'm afraid I don't."

"You know." I say. "That guy..." Hm. My brain can't seem to come up with the answer, but maybe some more alcohol will help. I grab the flask and bring it to my lips.

"That might be enough," he says, trying to take it away.

"Nonsense," I reply in that deep mocking tone. "Nonsense!" I try to take another drink, but I somehow miss my mouth and spill it down the front of my dress. "Shit."

"Here," Alex says, reaching across me and trying to take it. "I'm surprised there's any left in there."

"I'm fine," I insist, pulling the flask out of his reach. "Just fine, thank you."

"Mae." He gives me his I-know-you're-bullshitting-me look, but I'm not in the mood to be condescended to right now.

"I'm fine. Just got a little clumfy, that's all." I frown. "Clumfy. Cumsfy." God, I can't even remember words anymore.

"I think you mean clumsy," he says. "And yes, I'd have to agree with you. So here, let me have it."

He makes another attempt to take it, but I once again hold it out of his reach.

"I'm not hurting anyone," I say.

He withdraws his hand. "You're right. Maybe you should keep it."

I smile, happy to have won our little argument. But just when I'm raising the flask for one last drink, he makes a surprise attack, lunging across me to grab it.

I can hardly control my limbs right now. I have absolutely no chance. But I try to wiggle away anyway, then end up toppling over onto my back.

When I fall, so does Alex. He ends up halfway on top of me, one hand closed around mine - and the flask, which I'm still partially holding - and the other braced against the rock beside my head, keeping him from falling on me completely. His face is only a few inches above mine.

I freeze. We both do. I can feel his breath on my cheek. Feel the heavy thrum of his heart against my ribs. Feel the hardness of his chest against mine.

Suddenly, involuntarily, I find myself thinking of the conversation we just had - about how in all the years we've known each other, all the time we've spent alone together, nothing has ever happened between us. No inappropriate or curious touching. No "let's just try it once" nights of sex. Heck, we've never even shared a sloppy drunken kiss.

Why are you thinking about this now? I ask myself. It must be the alcohol. Stupid alcohol. But now that I've thought it, now that it's there in my mind, I can't seem to think about anything else. Can't seem to ignore the heat of his body on top of mine. Or fail to notice that he hasn't budged yet, hasn't tried to move away.

My heart is beating so fast now that I can't even hear my thoughts. Can't hear or see or smell or feel anything but him on top of me. And still he hasn't moved. Still we lie frozen and tangled and right on the edge of something.

And I'm too drunk, too confused to realize that this might be a very, very bad idea.