I’M MISERABLE, SO TIME PASSES LIKE MOLASSES from a chilled jar.
Portland for Christmas: endless, tax-free shopping trips for baby clothes, baby gear, baby products. The long drive home: Dad and Meredith, silent but on edge, the aftermath of an argument I missed. The lull between Christmas and the new year: work at True Brew, work on my original chocolate chip cookie recipe, work on my English lit reading list. The highlight? Dad’s officially forgiven my Bunco binge. I’m no longer grounded, and I celebrate with an evening at the movies with Leah.
I spend the afternoon of New Year’s Eve working on my butter nut brittle recipe. Dad’s not home, but Meredith sits, uninvited, on a kitchen stool through several slightly flawed variations of the candy, taste testing and offering her candid opinions (“How about a tiny bit more vanilla extract?” or “Finely chopped pecans with the peanuts might be yummy!”). Her criticisms are mildly irritating, but it seems the leech baby has refined her palate; I hate to admit it, but her input proves more helpful than it has in the past.
We’re interrupted when Marcy calls and begs me to come over. She needs me to keep an eye on Oliver. I’m a breath from telling her I can’t (because little kids are frightening) when she launches into an explanation about how she’s watching him for Zoe and Brett, but she’s got to run to the pharmacy to pick up one of Bill’s refilled prescriptions, which can’t wait. “Max is on his way,” she adds. “If you could just sit with Oli until he gets here.”
Max. I haven’t seen him since he clobbered the wall just before Christmas. The distance we’ve been keeping feels all wrong, particularly today, because for as long as my dad and I have known the Holdens, Bill and Marcy have hosted a New Year’s Eve party that rivals my parents’ Bunco Night. When we were younger, Max, Ivy, and I spent the evening hanging out in the upstairs bonus room while our parents and the better part of McAlder celebrated a floor below. Just before twelve, we’d sneak down to sit on the staircase, eager to spy on the midnight kissing. Ivy got all giddy and sentimental, while I pretended to gag along with her brother, though even back then, a gangly preteen with braces, I wondered when I’d have my first New Year’s kiss.
“I’ll be right over,” I tell Marcy, because the likelihood of seeing Max somehow supersedes my child phobia.
I hang my checkered apron on its hook and head to my room to exchange my sweats for jeans. I catch Meredith swiping a third piece of brittle as I hurry past the kitchen.
“Have fun!” she calls through a mouthful.
There’s nothing fun about two-year-olds. Oliver’s undeniably adorable, but he might as well be a Martian—that’s how little I relate to him. And I can tell he doesn’t care much for me, either, probably because I don’t kneel down and assume a Minnie Mouse falsetto when speaking to him. I’m wondering how desperate Marcy must be to have called me, Repeller of Children, as I dash across the street. By the time I ring the Holdens’ bell, a fine mist is clinging to my fleece and I’m agonizing over all the ways I’ll likely fail at babysitting.
Marcy flings the door open. “Bill’s sleeping,” she says, ushering me into the house. “His doctors are worried about him getting sick thanks to cold and flu season, so I’ve convinced him to nap every afternoon. We’re hoping the extra rest will help keep his strength up.”
Poor Bill.
“Ivy’s out with Becky,” Marcy continues, zipping her jacket. Her mouth pinches as she says that second name, probably because she’s still pissed about the night Officer Tate brought Max home—as she should be. I can’t for the life of me figure out what Becky was thinking, letting him get behind the wheel. “Max went to the gym with his friends, but Leo’s bringing him home now. Oli’s watching TV. I doubt he’ll even notice I’ve left, but if you need anything, call me.” She gives me a quick hug, grabs her purse, and scurries out the door.
I make my way to the living room where, sure enough, Oliver is engrossed in an episode of Barney. His little head, covered in dark, spiky hair like Max’s, bobs along to music.
“Hi, Oliver,” I say.
He doesn’t look away from the dancing dinosaur. I’m not offended; I don’t really want to talk to him, either.
I sink down onto the couch beside him, feeling oddly displaced in this house that’s almost as familiar as my own. It’s obvious the living room’s been recently cleaned. It’s devoid of anything Christmas, like the holiday never happened at all. I wonder how long it took Marcy to box up the ornaments and dump the tree Max so carefully picked out, erasing all evidence of holiday merriment—not that there’s been a whole lot of that this year.
On the TV, Barney finishes a vivacious song about taking turns. Oliver, apparently sensing a break in the fun, turns to me and says, “Juice.”
“You want a drink?”
He blinks huge eyes rimmed in long lashes, caricature cute. “Juice, pwease.”
“Okay, sure. Let’s go see what we can find.”
He follows me to the kitchen, where I try and fail to ignore the wall just off the staircase, the one Max put his fist through. The damaged area has been patched and painted over; it’s barely discernible. My dad brought the incident up a zillion times while we were in Portland, as if I could forget the look on my oldest friend’s face as I effectively rejected him. I wonder if Brett took care of the repair, or if Max manned up and cleaned his own mess.
Oliver tugs on the hem of my fleece, and I tear my attention from the wall to dig a spouted cup from a cabinet. I fill it to the brim with apple juice.
The second the lid’s secure, he grabs it and sucks the juice down.
“More,” he says, holding the cup out again.
“Really? I think that’s enough.”
“More!” he screeches. Fat crocodile tears fill his eyes.
“Oh, okay, don’t cry! I’ll get you more.” I take his cup and refill it quickly, motivated by the threat of a tantrum. I don’t want him to disturb Bill, and I don’t want Max to roll in and find that I’m incapable of handling this person who can’t even tie his own shoes. “Let’s go see if Barney’s still on, okay?”
I dangle the cup in front of his face and, predictably, he follows like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. When he’s back on the couch, juice in hand, I congratulate myself on handling his near meltdown like a pro. Maybe it won’t be so hard to have a baby around our house after all.
Oliver tosses a stuffed turtle onto my lap while Barney drones on about kindness to a group of children far too old to fall for his shtick.
I pick up the shabby toy. “Is this your friend?”
He nods. “Turtle.”
“Yep, he is a turtle. What’s his name?”
“Turtle.”
“But what’s his name?”
“Turtle!” Oliver shouts, his face flushed with outrage. He snatches his stuffed animal back and glares like I’m completely obtuse.
“A turtle named Turtle? Very clever, Oliver.”
He smiles an impish smile that reminds me of his uncle Max, then fires Turtle across the room, knocking down one of the potted plants Marcy has lined along the windowsill. The terra cotta doesn’t break, but dirt fans out across the floor.
“Oliver! That wasn’t nice!” I brush loose soil back into the pot with my flattened palm, thinking, Brat, brat, brat. The plant appears jostled but unharmed, so I fit it back into its container and then, out in the foyer, I hear the front door slam.
Perfect. Max, home just in time to catch things falling apart. I’m wiping my hands on my jeans so evidence of my incompetence isn’t obvious as he comes sauntering into the room, wearing workout clothes, a backward baseball hat, and a scowl.
Just like that, I forget all about Oliver and what a babysitting hack I am.
“What’s going on?” he says.
I stare, transfixed by the shadows under his eyes and the scruffiness of his jaw and the bruising, faintly yellow, on the knuckles of his right hand. A wave of longing crashes into me, and I inhale a tremulous breath.
He has to repeat his question before I remember myself. “Oh, um, Oliver made a mess.”
“You made a mess,” Oliver says, pointing at me. I want to disagree, but I’m sort of tongue-tied. Also, it might be juvenile to argue with a toddler.
Max rounds the couch and sinks down next to his nephew. He musses Oliver’s hair in this sweet, devoted way that makes my heart turn over. “Oli, be nice to Jill,” he says, and as my name leaves his mouth, he looks at me. His perusal holds for a second—my naked face, my sloppy ponytail, my baggy fleece—before he gives his head a little shake and props his feet on the coffee table. He focuses on Barney and his gaggle of dancing kinder-friends, as if I’m not standing five feet away.
When I can’t tolerate the silence any longer, I fill it with mindless prattle. “So, um, your mom’ll be home soon. In a few minutes, probably. You know, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” He turns to Oliver. “Whatcha drinking, buddy?”
“Juice,” Oliver says.
Max regards me. “Did you dilute it?”
“Dilute it with what?”
“Water. Zoe’s a freak about Oliver and juice. He can only have it if it’s diluted, and then only, like, half a cup.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I feel a twinge of guilt, which is stupid. It’s just juice.
“Two,” Oliver tells Max, displaying two chubby fingers.
“Two what, buddy?”
Oli holds out his empty cup. “Two juice.”
Max chuckles. “Oh, man. You better not tell your mommy.”
With that, Oliver groans, clutches his stomach, and throws up all over the floor.
I gasp. Max hollers, “Shit!” and yanks his feet out of the line of fire. Oliver starts to cry.
Max recovers with impressive speed. He runs to the kitchen while I sit next to a sobbing Oliver, my hand pressed over my nose and mouth to block the pungent stench of toddler puke. I should probably comfort him or something, but I cannot bring myself to move closer to the vomit. My eyes are watering as it is.
Max returns with paper towels and all-purpose cleaner. He blasts me with an incensed glare before kneeling to wipe the hardwood.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my apology muffled by my hand.
He scrubs, grumbling, “Dilute the juice next time.”
When the mess has been handled—with zero help from me—Max carries Oliver out of the room to clean him up. I sit stiffly, trying to get a grip on my gag reflex.
They return a few minutes later, Oliver in a fresh outfit, sitting atop his uncle’s broad shoulders. I catch a welcome whiff of soap as Max lumbers past, dumping his giggling cargo on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I really didn’t know.”
“It’s my mom’s fault. You don’t like kids; she shouldn’t have left him with you.” Because you’re heartless, not to mention hopelessly inept, he might as well tack on. He plops down next to Oliver, giving his bony back a thump. “You gonna be okay, buddy?”
Oliver nods. He’s still a little pale, but he’s looking at his uncle with fascinated admiration. The uninformed would never guess he just spewed apple juice—a good thing, since Marcy won’t be long.
“Thanks for cleaning up,” I say. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here.”
Max is gazing absentmindedly at Barney, who’s moved on to warbling about farm animals. “You’d be sitting in puke.”
I smile. “Well, then, thank God for you.”
“Yeah, thank God.” He glances at me, and there’s a glimmer of warmth behind his eyes when he says, “How was Oregon?”
“Okay. My dad worked remotely, Meredith obsessed over the baby, and we hung out with her parents. A lot.” And then I ask a question I want to gobble right back up: “How was your Christmas?”
He stares at me, his face falling like a soufflé. His Christmas was awful—it must have been. It fell only two days after he was nearly arrested for drunk driving, and it was the first since his dad’s stroke. He likely spent the holiday staving off his parents’ crestfallen looks while icing his bruised hand.
He leans in a little, like he has a secret, and my heart gallops in anticipation. Very quietly, very coolly, he says, “Christmas fucking sucked.”
Max, forever an asshole when he’s upset.
I recall, suddenly, the beach vacation of three years ago, when I paddled out too far and lost control in an undertow. Max swam to me like an Olympic freestyler, plucked me from the ocean’s frothy waves, and paddled for the beach like he performed water rescues daily. Coughing and sputtering salt water, I expected him to fawn over me, but after dumping me unceremoniously on the sand, he tossed up his hands and yelled, “Damn it, Jillian! Do you have a death wish?”
Later, when I’d tearfully recounted the rescue and subsequent shouting to Marcy, she explained that some boys are afraid of their emotions, her son especially, and watching me thrash among the whitecaps had probably scared him. Instead of owning up to it, he yelled. That was hard to swallow at the time, one of those things mothers say to make kids feel better, so I convinced myself that Max was just a jerk. I shadowed Ivy for the next two days, until Max hunted me down and convinced me to walk to town with him. There, he bought me coconut ice cream on a waffle cone, his stunted-boy version of an apology.
I don’t foresee any ice cream apologies in my future.
He closes his eyes. The half-moon shadows beneath them are prominent. “I’ve got Oli,” he says. “You can go home.”
I rise from the couch, shocked by his dismissal. I’m too hurt to muster genuine anger, but a frustrated sense of helplessness sloshes around in the pit of my stomach. This was a stupid idea, coming here. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to fix things with a single impromptu visit. I should be in my kitchen, baking, or in my room, cataloging scholarships. I should be far, far away from Max Holden.
I shuffle out of the living room and into the foyer. I’ve got a hand on the front doorknob when traitorous tears begin to fall.
I can’t go home—I don’t want Meredith to know I’m upset—so I duck into the Holdens’ powder room to pull myself together.
God. I can’t believe I let him get to me. I’m crying over a boy who won’t dump his shitty girlfriend, who’d rather sulk than grow a pair and get his life together. I look at myself in the mirror and find my face blotchy and tearstained—pitiful. I don’t like the Jillian who looks back at me. She’s changed alongside her parents and her neighbors, and not for the better. She’s a glimmer of the savvy, determined girl she was last spring.
So what if her college funds disappeared? So what if her parents argue almost as often as they breathe? So what if she’s about to become the world’s most reluctant big sister?
So what if the boy I care about most in the world has become intolerable?
What sucks is that I don’t even know what I want from Max. My feelings are jumbled. Ever-altering. Infuriating. I wish, not for the first time, that I could forget all about him.
I whirl away from the wimp in the mirror and blot my face with a bit of toilet paper. I straighten my spine and lift my chin, then march out of the bathroom, straight to the front door.
I don’t allow myself to look back, but I know Max is sprawled across the couch as sure as I know my shadow trails behind me. I know he’s tuned into preschool programming with the nephew he adores. I know today’s crossness is a product of last week’s rebuff.
And I know, somehow, that he can be the old Max, the good Max, again.
* * *
On New Year’s Day, True Brew cuts back its hours of business, which means Kyle and I get to open and close.
Leah comes in midafternoon to hang out, which is perfect because the holiday’s making for a slow shift. She stands opposite the pastry case, sipping the Honey Lavender Latte (today’s special) I made for her.
“My new favorite,” she says, licking a bit of foam from her lip. “So? How’d we all ring in the New Year?”
Kyle whistles a cartoony downslide. “I played Parcheesi with my parents. Hopefully last night’s not an indicator of how this year’s gonna pan out.”
“I baked,” I say, omitting the part about why I baked: to pull myself out of another case of Max-inflicted doldrums.
Leah smiles dreamily. “Jesse and I had dinner and saw a movie, and then we went back to his house. I hope he’ll always be my New Year’s kiss.”
Kyle rolls his eyes. “That comment so deserves to be mocked, and yet I kind of hope so, too.” He turns to me. “You didn’t see Max last night?”
“No. Why would I?”
“’Cause your parents hang out? I figured you two might end up getting together.”
“Nope, though I did have a brief encounter with him yesterday afternoon.”
“A brief encounter?” Leah says. “Sounds like you’re talking about a wild animal.”
“I mean, basically. I just…” The hurt of yesterday’s spurn finds me all over again, and I drop my elbows to the counter, letting my chin fall to my hands. “I feel so helpless. We’ve been friends for so long.… I should be able to make it easier for him to deal with what happened to his dad. Instead, I’m just standing by, watching him fall apart.”
“That’s not what you’re doing,” Leah says, reaching out to squeeze my hand.
But, yeah, I kind of am. Yesterday’s visit was a complete fail, and I abandoned him the night Officer Tate brought him home, the night he needed someone in his corner more than any other. I haven’t stopped regretting it.
“You can’t keep him from acting like an idiot,” Kyle says. “None of us can.”
Leah nods. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need his friends.”
“He still hangs out with his friends,” I mumble, looking at Kyle. “He sees you and Jesse and Leo all the time. He sees Becky.”
“Becky’s not his friend,” Leah says.
Kyle nudges me. “You are. We all are. Max’ll come around, but for now, we’re gonna have to ride it out. We’ll be there for him in the best ways we know how.”
I nod. I can do that. I can exist in Max’s world the way I used to.…
As a friend.