Page 45 of Just My Type of wrong guy

I’m tired, yeah, but being with Thalia, who fights so hard for me, and even with him, who’s been my company in chaos of theMade to Never Break World Tour, after a night like this, makes me feel grateful.

The car drives through the streets, and we keep talking about the show. A.J. really liked the night; he’s not just trying to be nice because he mentions things I can barely remember happening. The conversation stays light and lively, and when we enter my apartment’s street, I place the pizza order through the app while I explain to A.J. that Bon Jovi is the only foreign thingmy dad listens to. I don’t even know why, he just… likes it. So I ended up liking a few singles too.

“And, man, your fans? You know they’re just as obsessed as the Vagabonders, right? There were signs saying ‘I’ve been following you since 2017,’ and I wasn’t even singing in 2017!”

“They’re amazing, right?” I ask, aware of the responsibility, and pull my feet up to the seat, turning toward him. “Sometimes I pretend it’s no big deal, just because I know I’ll never get the success I had back in the GenZ days on my own.”

“You can’t know that,” Thalia corrects me, and I roll my eyes because it’s like she has no idea what GenZ was like when she talks like that.

Me, alone, singing what I sing? I’ll never fill a stadium.

“I agree with Thalia, but let’s focus on the present,” A.J. says, taking a lock of my hair off my face. “I could feel the energy and the happiness from the crowd, Alex. The way they seemed to connect with your music…”

“I only saw that chaos when you showed up,” I joke, pulling his fingers from my face and holding his hand against the seat. “I was afraid they were going to invade the stage, okay?”

“You’re welcome,” Thalia points out.

“They didn’t expect you, I didn’t expect you. It was a surprise for everyone. It was so cool, Thalia. Thank you so much!” I say, meeting her gaze in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll admit I was scared you’d hate it.” A.J.’s words make me look back at him. “It was your moment, your show,” he explains, moving his hands as if he’s still processing what happened.

“I’d only hate it if it all went wrong, you know? Like, if people started trampling each other or something.” I shrug. “But the show was perfect. Like, our song became even more amazing in that setting.”

“It was beautiful, small, and intimate,” A.J. tries to put into words what weighs on my heart as we pass through the garage gate.

***

We get home still buzzing with adrenaline from the show. The first thing we do is enjoy the perks of a house with three bathrooms. One in the social area, one in my room, and one in the guest room.

I take a shower to think about how much I loved this night, this show, and how much I loved that Thalia and my fans insisted so much for me to do it. It wasn’t my biggest moment as a solo artist, but it was definitely the most special one.

I always knew that opening for Vicious would make a difference, but now I’ve gone from two hundred thousand listeners to the most-played song in the country, and that’s not just huge. It’s the realization of a dream I didn’t even know I had.

That’s why I focus on humming anything that stops me from crying and get out of the shower as soon as I’m clean. No time to enjoy the relaxing cold water of my Rio 40º today.

When I go back to the kitchen, I run into A.J. sitting at the island, waiting. He’s wearing a pajama set of mine because he didn’t bring anything to sleep in. The shirt, poor thing, looks like a tight crop tee on his broad shoulders, and the pants only fit him because I always buy size GG, even though I wear M, for comfort. Pathetic and adorable at the same time.

I run to him, hugging him from behind, and breathe in the fresh scent from his wet hair as he laughs, grateful and almost embarrassed that he flew all the way from New York just because I had a show that I pretended not to care too much about.

“Maybe I won’t say this often,” I rest my elbow on the island, stopping beside him, “but singing our song at my show was special for me.”

A.J. turns the stool to face me.

“It was special for me too.”

“It still surprises me how cool you are…” I shrug, not wanting to inflate his ego too much.

“Just so you know, I’m not as much of an asshole, kissy guy, and clueless as you thought.”

“Asshole you’re not, clueless is still under review, but the kissy part I’ll never know…”

“How come?”

“Oh, you know. You said you’d never kiss me…” I tease, twirling my hair around my fingers, and his hand reaches my waist.

It’s a big hand. Sometimes I forget that the nice guy who sings with me is a six-foot-two hottie.

“That’s not exactly what I said…” A.J.’s low voice is so hoarse it must scratch his throat when it comes out. Warm, raw, direct. I swallow hard and take a step back.

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