I'll Be Here

serious that I nod and try to look like I’m paying attention.  Pulling away, the tip of his index finger grazes mine and I yank my hand back like I’ve been zinged by an electrical outlet.  Alex’s eyes go round and his face changes—the smile he is wearing replaced by a half-frown. 
    What.  The.  Hell. 
    Why is he looking at me like that?
    And why exactly is Alex Faber standing here in front of me instead of being safely stowed away at college where he belongs?
    Is this some kind of cosmic joke?
    I have not seen Alex in over a year and now the very day after my heart gets flattened he pops back into my life?  It’s so insane that I’m afraid I’m about to launch into hysterical laughter
    I squeeze my eyes closed and when I open them he’s still standing in front of me looking back at me with that face.  He looks different than the last time I saw him.  Older and… Oh my God—I won’t think it.  Stopstopstopstop!  Oh God.  I can’t help it!
    I suck in a gulp of air.
    The fact of the matter is that Alex looks even better than the last time I saw him.   The guy standing in front of me is familiar and different all at once.  The only thing I’m sure of is that he is hot.  Scalding.  Smoking.  As in: incredibly sexy.  As in: makes a girl’s pulse speed up.  As in: makes things turn over in places you don’t generally discuss in mixed company.
    He has these amazing blue eyes that have been known to send shivers down my spine and hair that is so dark it’s almost black.  It grows in all directions like it can’t quite make up its mind and just now he’s wearing it cropped close to his scalp.  Even short, it somehow manages to retain that sexy and mussed-up look that people ask for at high-end salons, though I doubt Alex bothers to pay big bucks for a haircut.  He’s just naturally blessed. 
    His skin is pale and under the overhead fluorescents of Patty’s office it takes on a transparent quality—a stark contrast to the few days of dark scruff growing over his jaw line.
    Made of shadows and moonlight.   That’s how I used to think of Alex back when I let myself think of him. 
    Ugh.  
     Alex is great.
    Amazing actually.
    Brilliant.
    Wonderful.
    Outside and inside.  The facial piercing doesn’t fool me.  I know that he’s the type of person that takes his shopping cart back into the store before getting in his car.  Alex helps old ladies cross the street and donates blood several times a year.  He cares about things.  He cares about the environment and about making the world a better place.  He cares about people.  He cares about doing the right thing.
    I used to have a mad crush on him.  Or maybe it really was love or at least a twisted, juvenile version of the sentiment.  It began when I was eleven and he was thirteen and he and his dad taught me how to bowl.  Actually—roll that back—the truth is that my heart lurched the very first moment that I saw him leaning against the counter in the school office. 
    Then, when he was in the eighth grade he ran for student body president of our middle school and tried to get the Styrofoam cups and plates used in the cafeteria replaced with biodegradable ones and my crush transformed into love. 
    Just the sight of him makes my arm hair stand on end.  Still.
    And here he is in front of me, telling me where Patty should fax the papers to after she signs them.  I notice the muscles stretching under the skin of his taut forearms and the way his square jaw moves when he swallows.  Now his smile changes.  It’s almost wary.  Hesitant.  It makes my breathing falter.  His eyes meet mine. 
    “I’m here for my dad’s birthday,” he offers in answer to my unasked question.
    “Oh, sure.”  This is an opening for normalcy.  This is when I’m supposed to ask him a question or say something pleasant.  “Tell Pete I said happy birthday.”
    His eyes blink under a dark fringe of lashes and he smiles softly.  “I will.”
    “Um, how’s school going?”
    “It’s going.  Just a few more classes and then finals and then summer.  I’m not doing an internship this year or taking any summer classes so I’ll be home most of the time.” 
    Am I imagining the pointed look he’s giving me? 
    “How about you Willow?”
    I straighten my back and try not to dwell on the sound of my name coming off of his tongue.  Absently, I pick up a pen from my desk and roll it between the fingers of my left hand. 
    “I’m