Page 105 of Just My Type of wrong guy

And make sure that you’ll be all right

The One - Back Street Boys

Alexandra didn’t leave her room on Monday.

On Tuesday, I didn’t see her at breakfast, but I knew she’d eaten because the dishes were in the dishwasher. A silent message:she needed space.

Yesterday, she had breakfast while I was at the gym, which was unusually early for her.

In an attempt to figure out whether Alex was mad at me or just embarrassed by everything that happened, I cooked pasta for lunch. After eating, I washed my plate and left a few minutes later, slamming the door just loud enough so she’d know I was gone. Then I headed to a coffee shop wearing a high-collared coat, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. A good enough disguise to call Daniele on a cold afternoon in New York.

I still hadn’t told my best friend what had gone down between me and Alex., and honestly, I was bracing for a scolding for keeping it from her.

But the scolding never came.

For the first time ever, Dani didn’t joke or tease. She just stared at me through the screen, eyes soft with pity, and said she hoped Alex and I could go back to the way we were. I smiled and nodded — because I wanted that too. Desperately.

We talked about the band, about her and Richard, and how much she missed him since he was spending Christmas with his parents. It was a relief to shift the focus for a while, but it made me sad too. They’ve been hiding for so long, and I hate knowing how much Daniele fears ruining her brother’s dream band just by loving someone.

When I got home, I found a Post-it on the counter saying “Burgers in the oven”. I reheated one and ate in silence. These past few days have been weird, but yesterday… yesterday was something else. It felt like torture to realize Alexandra wasn’t mad at me,she just didn’t want me around.

So today, I stuck to the routine. I left even earlier, went to Brittany’s clinic for my massage, gave Alex space to have breakfast in peace. I came back, hit the gym, made lunch, and left again. All so she wouldn’t have to see me.

But now, after throwing out half of my lunch – a pizza she made with pita bread dough that tasted better than most restaurants – I realize I can’t keep doing this. Avoiding her. Avoiding the house. Avoiding whatever this is.

We have a show tomorrow, and this situation makes no sense.

I grab two pillows from the couch, walk up to the door, and slammed it hard. Then, I place the pillows on the floor and drag myself over them until I sit carefully on the couch, feeling like a damn intruder, or worse, someone who doesn’t belong in their own home.

She doesn’t come out right away. But five minutes later, the door opens, and there she is, flannel pajamas, hair in a messy pineapple bun I’d usually make fun of but now kind of ache to fix. Her eyes land on me like daggers, sharp and cold, and I know: she’s not mad. She’s hurt.

She says nothing. Just turns around and walks back into her room.

“Alexandra, we need to talk.” My words stop her. She doesn’t turn back, but I notice her take a deep breath.

“You remembered?”

“Why is it so important to you that I remember?” I ask, because I don’t have the answer.

“It’s not,” she says quickly. “I just thought maybe...”

“No, I didn’t remember, but this situation is ridiculous,” I confess, swallowing hard. “This is not..us.”

Her shoulders drop as she turns to face me and exhales slowly.

“Not this isn’t,” she says, crossing her arms.

My foolproof plan ends here. I wanted to get her out of the room and make her face me, but I didn’t think through the next steps.

“Do you want to eat pizza with me? We can watch a movie, hang out here in the living room…”

“I already ate, A.J.” She walks toward me, slow and hesitant steps. “But you’re right, we need to talk.”

Her gaze flicks to the frames above me, to the coffee table, to the floor—anywhere but my face.

“We can sneak out from the security guys, grab overpriced coffee, and talk…” I offer with a shrug, and the fear in my voice makes me cringe. But her lips twitch just slightly, the hint of a smile breaking through.

“Give me ten minutes?” she asks, gesturing at her pajamas, and I nod, relieved. “Pick a place with decent coffee. None of that overpriced trash.”

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