Page 43 of His Problem Alpha
"It's nothing," I'd said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. Now, with every crack in the sidewalk I cross, the "nothing" grinds like a stone in my gut.
I check my phone again, a sick compulsion. Finn's text stares back at me, five words that have methodically demolished the fragile peace I'd been building for weeks:
I'm in town. We need to talk.
Six years of silence, shattered by a text message. The timing is a special kind of cruelty. It had to be now. Just when I'd started to believe I could have something good. Just when the scent of Devon—citrus and sharp wit and sunshine—had started to feel like the only air I wanted to breathe.
The coffee shop looms ahead, its cheerful yellow awning a fucking mockery of the dread churning in my stomach. Through the window, I spot him immediately. Finn. He looks older,his sandy hair shorter than I remember, but it’s still him. Still the kid who grew up three houses down. My best friend. My brother's best friend. A living, breathing monument to everything I destroyed.
For a second, I think about turning around. Just walking away. Going back to the apartment, back to Devon, and pretending none of this exists. But I can't. The past always finds you, no matter how far or how fast you run.
I push open the door and a bell jingles, the sound piercing through me, setting my teeth on edge. The whole place feels too loud, an assault on my senses. The hiss of the espresso machine, the aggressive clatter of spoons against ceramic, the meaningless chatter of strangers. My audio engineer's brain catalogs each sound, a desperate, useless attempt at distraction.
Finn looks up. Our eyes meet across the crowded room. The world narrows to just us, the space between us charged with years of unspoken words.
"Alex," he says, standing. His voice is deeper. Warier. "You came."
"You didn't give me much choice," I reply, my feet feeling leaden as I move toward the empty chair across from him.
He gestures awkwardly. "Sit? I got you coffee. Black, right?"
I nod, sliding into the seat. The mug in front of me steams, untouched. I can’t imagine swallowing anything right now. "Why are you here, Finn?"
He fidgets with his own cup, turning it in slow, agonizing circles. "I've been trying to reach you for months. Your parents said you changed your number."
"I did." On purpose. A clean cut. It was supposed to protect them from me.
"Look, I know you don't want to be back in touch, but—" He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a nervous gestureI remember from when we were kids. "The ten-year reunion is next month. People are asking about you."
A high school reunion. It's so mundane, so fucking normal, that a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound is harsh and brittle, and it makes a woman at the next table look over with a frown. "I'm not going to a fucking reunion."
"I figured," Finn says, his expression pained. "But I thought you should know. Everyone asks about you. And about Ethan."
He says the name, and the world goes sideways. I flinch, a full-body recoil like I've been punched. The coffee shop sounds warp around me, stretching and distorting. The chatter fades to a dull, underwater roar. The clinking of dishes becomes distant, muted. All I can hear is that name, echoing in the sudden, cavernous silence of my own head.
Ethan.
I can't breathe. The air feels too thick, my lungs seizing up. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I’m not here anymore. I’m not in this coffee shop with its stupid yellow awning. I'm back there—six years ago, at a party that smelled of stale beer and cheap weed, my phone clutched in my hand.
"Alex?" Finn's voice sounds like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel. "Are you okay?"
I’d been so drunk. Too drunk to drive. My thumb had hovered over my parents' contact before sliding to Ethan's name instead. It was easier to call him. Less explaining. Less disappointment. Just my little brother, always happy to help, always looking up to me like I was something worth admiring.
"Hey, you still with me?" Finn's voice breaks through again, but I can't focus on his face. All I see is my phone screen that night, Ethan's name glowing in the dark.
"I'm fine," I manage, the words a useless reflex. My hands are shaking. I hide them under the table, pressing my palms flat against my thighs.
"It's been years, Alex," Finn says, his voice painfully gentle. "Ethan wouldn't want you living like this."
A hot, sudden anger flares up inside me. "Don't tell me what he would want," I snap, my voice low and vicious. "You don't get to speak for him."
Finn flinches but doesn't back down. "I'm not. But I knew him too, remember? We all did. And this—" he gestures at the wreckage of me, "—this isn't what he would have wanted for you."
The memory crashes over me again. Ethan's voice, sleepy but immediately alert when I called."Where are you? I'll come get you."No judgment. No lecture. Just immediate, unquestioning support. I should have called someone else. I should have walked. I should have slept on a fucking couch. But I was a selfish, drunk prick and I took the easy way out. I used my little brother’s love for me and got him killed.
"It doesn't matter what he would have wanted," I say, my voice hollow. "He's not here to want anything."
"Because of the drunk driver who hit him," Finn says firmly, his gaze unwavering. "Not because of you."
