THAT KIND OF LOVE

CHAPTER 4: THE PROMISE

MAYA

Age 15.

The rain hit the Brooklyn Public Library windows like it had a grudge against the glass. Outside on Grand Army Plaza, cars hissed through puddles. Inside, the radiator clanked and the librarian shushed every 5 minutes.

I was supposed to be studying for Regents finals. Instead I was watching Alex from across the wooden table, trying to figure out why he hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked finally. My pencil stopped moving.

He didn’t look up from his AP Calculus textbook. “No.”

“Then why are you acting like I insulted your entire family?”

“Because i want to,” he said. His jaw was tight.

I reached across the table and took his pencil. He let me. He always let me.

“Alex,” I said. “Talk to me. You’ve been quiet since third period. Since Sarah Chen asked you to the spring dance at Stuyvesant.”

His head snapped up. “I said no.”

“I know you said no,” I said. “But she asked. And you looked at me when you said it. Like you were waiting for me to say something.”

“What was I supposed to say?” He finally looked at me. Gray eyes. Stormy. “Some times I wonder what you take me for.”

“You’re my best friend. You’re the only person who gets my stupid jokes about physics.”

“Best friend,” he repeated. Like it tasted bitter. Like a Manhattan kid who already knew how fast people leave. “Right. Best friend. Until someone better comes along.”

“Stop,” I said. I stood up. The chair scraped against the library floor. “Shhh!” the librarian hissed. I toned down my voice . “Stop talking like that. Like I’m going to leave you. I’m not going anywhere, Alex.”

“You don’t know that,” he said.

He finally looked at me. Really looked. And I saw it. The fear. Raw. Unguarded. The same fear he’d show whenever I got a little close to any boy.

“You don’t know what it’s like. Watching you talk to Jake in math class. Watching you laugh at his jokes in the cafeteria. Wondering if you’re comparing us in your head.”

“I’m not comparing you,” I said. “Because there’s nothing to compare. You’re you. He’s Jake from Queens. He’s boring.”

Alex almost smiled. Almost. “He’s captain of the soccer team. He’s six-two. He doesn’t overthink every word that comes out of his mouth like some kid from the Upper West Side.”

“So?” I said. I crossed my arms. “I don’t like soccer. I don’t like six-two of boring. I like you. The guy who explains calculus to me on the Q train. The guy who saves me the last slice of pizza from Joe’s. The guy who—”

“Who what?” He asked. Voice low. Like he was afraid of the answer.

“The guy who makes me feel safe,” I finished. The words felt too big for a Brooklyn library. Too big for fifteen. But I said them anyway.

“When I’m with you, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be perfect. I can just be Maya. Messy, bad-at-flirting, talks-too-much Maya from Flatbush.”

He stared at me for a long time. The rain kept hitting the windows. A siren wailed down Flatbush Ave and faded.

“You really mean that?” he asked finally. Quiet. Like he didn’t believe it but he wanted to.

“I do,” I said. I sat back down. I pushed his pencil back to him. “I’m terrible at lies, Alex. Remember? If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t say it. That’s the Brooklyn in me.”

“Okay,” he said. He picked up the pencil. But he isn’t looking at his textbook anymore. He was looking at me. “Okay. But Maya, can I ask you something? Something stupid?”

“You can ask me anything,” I said. “Stupid or not.”

“What if I’m not enough?” He said it fast, like ripping off a bandage. “What if one day you wake up and realize you could have had Jake. Or Hardin from the lacrosse team. Or anyone else from Manhattan. And you picked me by mistake?”

My chest hurt. Because he really believed it. This kid who could solve any math problem in five minutes. This kid who defended me when Tyler called me “annoying” in seventh grade at MS 51. This kid who remembered I hated the crust on my pizza and always cut it off before we split a pie from Joe’s.

He thought he wasn’t enough.

“That’s not how it works,” I said. I reached across the table again. This time I took his hand. His fingers were cold from the rain outside. I warmed them with mine. “I don’t pick people by mistake, Alex. I pick people because I want to. And I want you.”

“You’re fifteen,” he said. Like that was an answer. “You don’t know what you want yet.”

“I know what I don’t want,” I said. “I don’t want Jake. I don’t want boring. I don’t want someone who doesn’t understand why I laugh at physics jokes.”

He squeezed my hand. Just once. Then let go like he was afraid he’d scared me off.

“Promise me something,” he said suddenly. His eyes were serious. Dead serious.

“What?” I asked.

“Promise me that if you ever stop wanting me, you’ll tell me,” he said. “Don’t leave me wondering. Don’t let me spiral. Just... tell me. Straight. So I can prepare. So I don’t have to guess.”

The request broke my heart. Because fifteen-year-old boys from NYC shouldn’t have to ask for that. They shouldn’t have to beg for honesty as a defense mechanism but I understand why. I always do.

“I promise,” I said. No hesitation. “If I ever stop wanting you, Alex, you’ll be the first to know. I’m terrible at lies. I’m terrible at hiding things. You’ll know before anyone else.”

He exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. That’s all I needed.”

“Is that why you’ve been quiet?” I asked. “Because you were scared I was going to pick Jake?”

“No,” he said. Too fast. Then: “Yes. Maybe. I heard him ask you about the dance. I saw you smile when you answered him.”

“I smiled because he told a bad joke,” I said. “I smile at bad jokes. It’s a reflex. Ask anyone from Brooklyn.”

Alex nodded. Slow. Like he was filing the information away. Building evidence for later. For all the times he’d need to remember that my smiles didn’t mean I was leaving.

“Can I tell you something stupid too?” he asked.

“Always,” I said.

“I don’t like it when you talk to other guys,” he admitted. His ears went red.

“I know it’s dumb. I know you’re allowed to have friends. But when you laugh at their jokes, it feels like you’re laughing at me. Like you’re practicing on them before you leave me.”

“Oh,” I said. Because I didn’t know what else to say. No one had ever been that honest with me before.

“So I’m sorry,” he said. “For being weird. For being... a lot. I’m trying not to be. I really am.”

“You don’t have to be less,” I said. I copied his words from tonight, twelve years early. “You just have to talk to me. Before you spiral. Before you decide I’m guilty of something I didn’t do.”

He looked at me like I’d invented the concept.

“You’d do that?” he asked. “Listen to me spiral?”

“I’d do anything,” I said. And I meant it. Yes I’m fifteen and immature but I meant it with my whole chest.

“That’s what best friends do, right? Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s a lot.”

“Best friends,” he repeated. But this time it didn’t sound bitter. It sounded like a promise.

“You know what?” Alex said suddenly. He was smiling. Small. Real. The first real smile I’d seen from him all day. “I think I like being your best friend.”

“I think I like being yours too,” I said.

He bumped my shoulder with his. Gentle. Careful.

“Hey Maya?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“If I ever get too much, tell me,” he said. “Don’t just deal with it. Tell me. So I can try to be better.”

“I will,” I promised. “And if I ever make you feel like you’re disappearing, you tell me too. So I can fix it.”

“Deal,” he said. He held out his pinky. Like we were five again, making pinky promises on the playground at Prospect Park.

I hooked my pinky around his.

“Promise,” I said.

“Promise,” he said back.

Because I was there. Because I promised.

PRESENT DAY

Back to 3:24am. Alex is asleep on my chest in our Manhattan penthouse. His breathing is finally steady. Outside, NYC is quiet for once. No sirens. No taxis. Just rain.

I trace circles on his back with my thumb. The same way he traced circles on mine hours ago.

“You’re safe,” I whisper into his hair. Even though he’s asleep. Especially because he’s asleep. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

And I meant it at fifteen, in that Brooklyn library.

I mean it more now at twenty-one in New York City.