AFTER A NIGHT OF FITFUL SLEEP, I get to endure ten minutes in the car with my still-furious father. He’s on his way to the office, where he’ll probably spend the better part of the weekend. His overtime works out well, though, since he’s insisted on shuttling me to work—I might still have alcohol in my system, he speculates, which means I’m not driving myself anywhere. And besides, I can’t be trusted.
Kyle’s beaten me to True Brew, as usual. He’s whistling a cheerful rendition of “Jingle Bells” and running shots of espresso through the machine, seasoning it, when I stagger through the door. His well-rested grin and a gust of toasty, coffee-scented air greet me.
Kyle’s parents opened True Brew ages ago, and it’s the only independently owned coffee shop in our Starbucks-saturated county to survive the highs and lows of being a small business. There’s almost always a line of cars in the drive-through, and the shop is usually busy with some combination of grocery-getter moms, khaki-pantsed businessmen, students lugging armloads of textbooks, couples on quiet dates, and passionate Bible study groups.
This morning, customers of any sort strike me as daunting.
I tie on my apron and go about writing today’s special (Frosty’s Favorite: Cool Mint Mocha) on each of two display chalkboards. When I’ve finished, I stock the pastry case with this morning’s bakery delivery. The yeasty-sweet aromas of muffins and coffee cake and bagels turn my stomach. Kyle checks the tills, mumbling quietly as he counts bills and coins. When our preopening tasks are complete, we have a little time before we need to unlock the glass-paneled door. I take advantage by propping my elbows on the counter and dropping my heavy head into my hands.
“Aren’t we bright-eyed?” Kyle says.
“Long night.” I’ve been rehashing it, fuming over my dad’s assertions, dissecting Max’s behavior, excusing mine away. And then there’s the matter of my New York money, gone forever. My stomach cramps; I need to spill before I give myself an ulcer.
Kyle fills two cups with drip coffee and slides one to me. “So? Bunco treated you well?”
“Bunco sucked,” I say, tearing open a sugar packet. I dump it into my coffee and add a splash of half-and-half, stirring until my drink’s a deep caramel color.
Kyle smiles. He has a sneaky way of advancing conversation with a flash of his golden-boy grin. “Game got a little too wild for ya?”
I sip my coffee, avoiding his eyes. “Actually, yes.”
“Well? Let’s hear it.”
I debate which secret to divulge. I’m not cool with telling Kyle about my spent culinary school fund—at least, not until I come to terms with the sad fact that my life’s aspirations have gone up in fertility flames. And then there’s Max, who’s Kyle’s friend, too, and disclosing what happened last night would just be way too weird. But then my stomach does that gross cramping thing again, and I let the words fly fast, before I have a chance to overthink them. “Max and I kissed.”
He blanches. “Uh, okay. Wait—what?”
“We kissed,” I repeat. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Kyle! Why would I make something like that up?”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s considering my question. Then he says, “Is this … a good thing?”
I frown. “What do you think?”
“I think you look exhausted, which means you lost sleep, which means you’re torn, which means your feelings aren’t clear, which means this could be a good thing … maybe? If you’re into Max, just tell him.”
“I never said I was into Max.”
His brows ascend his forehead. “Then forget about it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Because part of you liked that kissy-kissing.” He grins. “Maybe all of you liked it.”
“You’re an ass,” I say, shaking my head. Kyle abides by the assumed don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy of our peers, but he’s up front about his sexuality with Leah and the guys and me; he has been since last summer, when I walked into True Brew to begin a shared closing shift and witnessed him accepting the phone number of a very cute, very male chai tea drinker. “You being an ass goes against all logic,” I tell him after another swallow of coffee. “You’re supposed to be sensitive and intuitive, full of answers.”
“Oh, please. Stereotype much? I carry a Y chromosome, which gives me the right to act like a Neanderthal anytime I please.”
“Kyle, come on,” I whine, slumping against the counter. “Help me!”
“Hell, Jill, if you and Max decide you wanna be together, cool.”
“But we can’t be together.”
“Why not?”
“There are plenty of reasons. Let’s start with Becky McMahon.”
He shudders. “Ew.”
I laugh—I can’t help it. Kyle’s disliked Becky and her dramatics since we were in middle school, but when she started goading Max into drinking to the point of irresponsibility, he decided he hated her.
“Seriously,” he says. “Becky’s awful. The way she’s always guilting Max, bitching at him until she gets her way … It’s underhanded, and it’s shitty. I can say with certainty that you’d never treat him that way.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s with her and he shows no signs of ending it. God, Kyle. I think he played me, and he’s definitely playing her. How did I let this happen?”
“You didn’t let it happen,” he says, dropping a hand onto my back. “It just did, because you’re human and so is he. But you’re both good, otherwise I wouldn’t give either of you the time of day. It’ll work out, Jelly Bean.” He smacks a kiss on my cheek before stepping away to flip the OPEN sign and unlock the door.
True Brew comes alive with activity. Kyle mans the counter, serving the customers who’ve wandered in for hot drinks. I work the drive-through, mostly because the pace is faster and less conversation is required. The morning flies by as we sling coffee and croissants, tea and toasted bagels, making small talk in the lulls between customers.
Midmorning, a familiar crimson Civic appears in the drive-through—Natalie Samson, my dad’s secretary. I wonder if she’s headed to work on this fine Saturday, and whether Dad asked her to stop here first, just to check up on me. I wipe my hands on my espresso-spattered apron, slide the window open, and greet her with false cheer. “Hey, Natalie. What can I get for you this morning?”
She’s dressed like a sorority girl gone corporate: tight sweater, dark makeup, vampy manicure, honey-colored hair coiled into a loose twist. She’s in her early twenties, working her way toward an AA at the local community college. My dad hired her last year, when his first secretary—sweet Mrs. Silver, who always kept a bowl of butterscotch candies on her desk—retired. “I’ll try the special,” she says, “and can I get a double cappuccino, dry, with two Equals?”
Dad’s drink—he asks for it whenever he visits True Brew—which means Natalie’s likely here on a recon mission. I bite my lip, pull espresso from the grinder, and vow to be professional. After all, it’s not her fault Dad’s using her as a spy. “Early morning for you,” I say, working to keep my tone conversational.
“I’m headed to the office. Your dad’s a busy man, Jillian.”
I drown the milk wand in a pitcher of nonfat. The hiss of steam isn’t enough to impede chitchat, and I feel compelled to respond. “It’s nice of you help him out on a Saturday.”
She smiles. “He pays time and a half on the weekends.”
She goes on, prattling about the case Dad’s working on, and how he’s starting to teach her the ins and outs of real estate law, but I’m tuning out. Talk of my dad’s busyness coming from Natalie, dolled up in her best one-size-too-small business-casual, bothers me for reasons I can’t quite pin down. It’s not just that Dad’s been working long hours. He’s been distracted and moody at home, too. My default is to blame Meredith—she pushed for a baby no matter what the sacrifice—but rationally, I know her pregnancy isn’t the sole source of his distance. There’s his increased caseload, worries about money, and Bill’s health, too, which I suspect has forced him to face all sorts of issues regarding his own impermanence.
But it’s not like he’s the only one who’s stressed—I’m drowning in schoolwork, killing myself trying to help out around the house, and now I get to agonize over how to pay for the only school I’ve ever wanted to attend.
I miss normalcy.
I miss my dad.
* * *
A steady stream of business eats up the morning, which is perfect because without the fast-paced distraction of work, my mind would somersault into overdrive. When things finally settle down, Kyle pours me another cup of coffee, adds my requisite splash of cream and heap of sugar, and says, “So, what’re you gonna do about Max?”
“Nothing,” I say with resolve I don’t feel. Last night’s flight through the unfamiliar has become today’s terrifying free fall. “He can ride off into the sunset with Becky.”
“I think you should at least talk to him.”
“Kyle. I suck at talking.”
“Yeah, but Max is our friend. Your neighbor. It’s not like you can hide from him.”
“I can try.”
“Sure,” he says gently, “but do you want to?”
He may be onto something—something I’m currently unwilling to explore—but what am I supposed to do? Max and I can’t continue whatever last night was, though the thought of telling him to stay away makes my skin itch. But then, who am I to assume he wants to continue hanging out with me? He’s been drunk the two times we’ve been together, and he has a girlfriend who, like it or not, sticks to him like cake to an ungreased Bundt pan.
Besides, he’s Max and I’m Jillian, and we’re friends—if that.
Through the shop’s front window, I spot a white truck pulling into the parking lot, the emblem of a smiling cow adorning its side. “I’m going to let the milkman in. You good here?”
Kyle swipes a sprinkling of coffee grounds from the counter. “Yep, got it.”
I open the back door that leads into the storage room and watch as the milkman hauls in crates of nonfat, 2 percent, half-and-half, whipped cream, and newly seasonal eggnog. I sign his invoice and pay him with a purchase order, then go about loading the big stock fridge with dairy products. The cold air clears my head, and the filtered melody of Kyle’s whistling—he’s moved on to “Joy to the World”—eases my nerves.
Then the rumble of another truck muffles Kyle’s tune. The gritty crooning of Johnny Cash’s “Cry, Cry, Cry” carries into the back room, and I freeze with a gallon of milk in each hand.
Max hardly ever comes by True Brew; he doesn’t even drink coffee.
I can’t make out the details of his exchange with Kyle over the Man in Black’s guitar riffs, but I can tell it’s taking place through the window, and I can discern their grave tones. At last I hear Kyle say, loudly, “See you later, dude.”
The F-150’s engine revs, then fades.
I plunk the remaining milk into the fridge, wondering why he came and what he said, and mostly, why he left without a word to me. Then I slam the fridge’s door and make my way into the shop to interrogate Kyle.
He’s waiting for me, hands on his hips, a look of reproach peeking out from beneath his shaggy hair. “You’re going to talk to him,” he says. “Right now.”
“I heard his truck pull away.”
“Nice try. He’s in the parking lot, and—fair warning—he’s wrecked.”
I swallow. “Wrecked?”
“You’ll see when you get out there.”
“I’m not going out there. I can’t.”
“You can.” He strides across our work space, plucks my jacket from its hook, and holds it out for me. With a resigned sigh, I untie my apron and trade up. Kyle zips me to my chin and pats my shoulder. “There we are. You’re gonna feel better once you guys work this out.”
On autopilot, I make my way out of True Brew. I trudge across the foggy parking lot, my feet crunching wet gravel as I approach Max’s truck. Exhaust spills from its tailpipe, and a slow, steady bass beat vibrates the cab. I step up to the driver’s-side door.
God, he does look wrecked.
He lowers the window. “Come sit with me?”
I nod and round the truck to the passenger side. I get in, settling myself on the seat without looking at him. Johnny Cash has been turned down to less than earsplitting, but I can still make out “Peace in the Valley,” a song that couldn’t be more depressing if it tried. It’s warm in the truck, and it still smells the way it did when Bill drove it during his logging days: crisp and organic, like the woods after a rain shower.
“I brought you a Coke,” Max says, nodding toward the huge lidded cup in the holder.
“Wow.” I pick it up and take a sip. “This must be, like, sixty ounces of soda.”
“Yeah, I figured you might need a boost. How are you?”
“Tired, I guess. You?”
“I’m good.” He traces his finger around the blue Ford logo on the steering wheel, and I can tell he’s gearing up to say something heavy. “Listen, Jill, I feel like shit about last night. There are rules about this stuff. It shouldn’t have happened the way it did.”
It shouldn’t have happened.…
I climbed into the truck intent on telling him some version of the same thing, but hearing my words fall from his mouth bruises my heart.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice as insubstantial as meringue. I sit up straighter, attempting to gather the shattered bits of my dignity. It shouldn’t have happened, as evident by Kyle’s confusion and my dad’s displeasure. I say, “There are rules. You have a girlfriend.”
“I know.” He scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling, “I’m such an asshole.”
“It didn’t even matter, Max, okay? We’ll forget it happened.”
He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists. “Like that’s possible.”
Silence stretches out between us, and not the comfortable kind. The truck’s cab is like the inside of a teakettle. The water’s boiling. The pressure’s building. There’s nowhere for it to go.
I whisper, “I’m sorry,” to break the silence, and because I truly am. Despite the obstacles standing between Max and me, I hate to see him hurting. He cheated on his girlfriend—he’s obviously shredded—and here I am, a freaking consolation prize, spewing pointless apologies the morning after. I feel like Cinderella after the ball: unremarkable and defeated.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” he says, hard and cold.
“Well, I am.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Maybe, but—”
“Jillian! Just don’t, okay?”
I stare at him and he stares back, so abruptly hostile I’m at a loss for words. He was the one who showed up at my house on Halloween. He was the one who suggested drinking last night, who initiated the flirting, who pointed out the mistletoe. He nudged me into a zillion bad decisions, and then he showed up here to rub my nose in them.
If anyone has reason to be bitter, it’s me. At least he has Becky to fall back on.
“You don’t have to be a jerk,” I say, harsh.
He looks at me with wide eyes, like he’s been lost, wandering for ages and just stumbled upon the compass he didn’t know he was missing. “I’m not trying to be a jerk,” he says, suddenly repentant. “It’s just…”
My chest squeezes as his unfinished thought fades into the music, but I push the feeling down, away. Self-preservation says Max doesn’t deserve my compassion—not today.
I reach for the door handle. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
He cuts the ignition. “I’ll walk you.”
I want to be away from him, far, far away, but I’m too rattled to protest.
It’s a quiet twenty-yard trip across the parking lot. When we reach the shop door, I toe the pavement with my shoe, frustratingly reluctant to tell him good-bye. He stands very still, watching me, ratcheting my pulse up, up, up. Then, before I have a chance to deflect him, he steps forward and folds me into his arms.
It’s startling, yet immediately comforting, like home.
I bury my face in the softness of his sweatshirt and his arms tighten around me, the heat of his body sheltering me from the frosty air. He sighs deeply, contentedly, and an idea arrives so suddenly and with such precision, I can’t force it away.…
My body fits perfectly against Max Holden’s.
His lips touch my hair, and even though it’s the middle of the day and we’re both sober, it feels strangely, wonderfully right.
He whispers, “You smell like coffee.”
I pull away and stagger backward, before I fall too far into him. “I’ve got to go,” I say, shoving the shop door open. I hurry into the building, leaving Max outside in the cold.
It’s not until later, after Kyle’s talked himself hoarse trying to console me, that I realize I left my Coke in the truck.