THE MONDAY AFTER WINTER BREAK, I CATCH a ride home from school with Leah, then wait in the living room, watching out the window for Leo’s Tahoe to pull into the Holdens’ driveway. Max’s truck hasn’t moved since his clash with Officer Tate, but Ivy’s car is gone and so is Marcy’s, which means Bill’s not home, either. This is a good thing … I think.
Meredith wanders in and out of the living room, biding time, I guess, trying to engage me in conversation. While I’m putting extra effort into being kind as her pregnancy winds down—the leech baby is siphoning her energy like nobody’s business—I’m too anxious for mindless chitchat.
Finally, Leo’s SUV veers into the Holdens’ driveway. I can hear the heavy thump of his music’s bass even from inside the house. Max climbs out, lifts his hand in a wave, then makes his way to the front door. Even though my heart’s doing nervous pirouettes, I allow him five minutes—who knows what boys do when they get home from school?—then give Meredith a bogus excuse about needing to borrow a recipe from Marcy and jog across the street.
I have to ring the bell twice before Max opens the door. To say he’s confused when he sees me standing on the porch would be a major understatement.
“Uh, hey,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
His lack of enthusiastic welcome isn’t a surprise, but it makes me even more nervous. Doesn’t matter, though—I’m not going to botch this. I’m going to say what I came to say, and then I’m going to let him make the next move.
I breeze past him, right into the house, which smells of fresh baking, like ginger and nutmeg. He trails me to the kitchen, eyeing me like my intrusion is possibly perilous. I open the fridge and root around inside, mentally reviewing my Be Max’s Friend plan until I find two cans of Coke. I pull them out and hold one out to him. “Thirsty?”
“I guess.” He takes the can, pops the top, then hands it back to me.
“Thanks,” I say, trading. I like this about him—his instinctual chivalry—and I find myself smiling as I watch him open the second soda for himself.
He takes a swig, then leans back against the countertop. “What’re you doing here, Jill?”
“I came to see how your first day back to school was.” I say this like it’s nothing—like I drop by to check in on him all the time.
He shrugs. “Predictable.”
“And your New Year?”
“I stayed home, a choice that wasn’t well-received by … some.”
Becky. I’m intrigued by this knowledge that he bowed out despite her disapproval. Kind of makes me want to raise my arms in victory.
“I stayed home, too,” I tell him. “I baked soft pretzels. Meredith ate four, positively drenched in mustard.”
He gives me a tentative smile. “Sounds like a good time. What about your dad?”
“He was out of town. A work thing.” Dad and I are still up and down, but that didn’t keep me from feeling for him, all alone in some stark hotel room as the clock struck midnight. Made me sad.
Still makes me sad.
“Jill,” Max says, sliding a step closer. “You okay?”
I nod because, yeah, of course I’m okay. My dad went away on business. He’s back now, and everything’s fine.
Except, Max is standing right beside me, and we’re in his empty house, and my hands are shaking even as they clutch my Coke can. How on God’s green earth did I think this was a good idea? How can Max and I be friends when I’m hyperaware of the energy crackling between us? When I know how his kisses make my skin sing?
I hate this panicky, quivering thing my stomach does in his proximity now.
Heat inches up my neck as he watches me, concerned, and I know—I’ve got to let him in on the truth about why I’m here. I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that the other day when I was watching Oliver … Well, things got weird and that sucks, and I think it might’ve been my fault because I made your nephew puke.” At this, I get a genuine grin. Encouraged, I press on. “Then there was that night with the desserts, when Officer Tate … Yeah. I shouldn’t have left you hanging the way I did. We’ve been friends too long, and that was so uncool of me.”
He blinks and for a second, I worry I’ve splashed lighter fluid on the embers of his frustration. Then his eyes go soft. He puts his soda down and touches my arm. “You’re not apologizing, are you?”
“I’m—”
“Because you’ve been nothing but good to me, so don’t, okay?”
I smooth my ponytail and will myself to stop blushing. “Okay.”
The muffled sound of his phone’s ringtone comes from the pocket of his jeans. He ignores it and says, “I think we should talk. Like, for real.”
“Your phone’s ringing.”
“It can wait.”
“Is it Becky?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
I step away because, hello, reality check, but Max reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist assertively enough to still me. His warmth, his presence, surround me like a cocoon. His phone rings, and rings again.
“Max,” I caution. “You have a girlfriend.”
“I’ll end it.”
I sputter a few false starts before asking, “You’d do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why haven’t you?”
He must be out of retorts, because he bites down on his bottom lip. His phone finally shuts up; Becky’s probably pulling on her fiery locks, exasperated by her boyfriend’s unavailability.
“Jill, we’re friends, right?”
I nod and shake my head at the same time, spastic.
“Friends hear each other out, right?”
He’s still holding my wrist and the contact’s making pudding of my thoughts. I’m hazy with his evergreen scent, the sincerity of his tone, and I take an involuntary step back, until the marble countertop presses into the small of my back. He lets me go, and I can breathe easier now that there’s distance between us. “Yes,” I say. “Friends hear each other out.”
His gaze is intense, trained right on me. “After Bunco, the mistletoe, you said it didn’t matter, that we should forget about it.”
“And you were on the same page. You said it shouldn’t have happened.”
“Jesus. I said it shouldn’t have happened the way it did.” I’m having a hard time processing his words, their implications, and I can’t believe it when he steps closer. He reaches out to thread an errant lock of hair behind my ear. “Do you really believe it didn’t matter?” he asks, and in this moment, he’s so very Max. “’Cause it mattered to me. I came to the coffee shop to tell you, but the whole thing went to hell and…”
He leans forward, tilting his head, and I realize—holy crap—he’s going to kiss me. This is not a part of the plan at all, but I want him to, and I don’t want him to, and my mind’s twirling in circles, like he and I used to do when we were kids. Only, we’re not going to fall to the ground, laughing while the world whirls above us. We’re going to kiss, again, and even though I know it’s the absolute wrong thing to do, I’m not sure I have the willpower to stop it.
I put my palm on his chest with the intention of pushing him away because, yes, I can do the right thing, but he misreads the gesture and covers my hand with his. The tiny bit of conviction I found melts like butter as his other hand finds my cheek. I tip my chin up—say it, Jillian, tell him to back off. His cinnamon breath sweeps across my skin, and my eyes fall closed.
His phone begins to ring again, like an alarm—like a freaking air horn—and that’s it. I push him away.
My face is sizzling. Becky, Becky, Becky … God, I wish she’d disappear.
Max silences his phone, vexed, and I wonder: Is she his fallback?
Am I?
“Jilly,” he says, his voice low, abraded, like he’s nearly used it up.
I shake my head. “I can’t. Not like this.”
A shadow falls over his face, but he says, “Yeah. Okay.”
There’s an elephant tromping around the kitchen, a resentful, ginger-haired elephant who wears Becky’s face and swings its trunk with wrathful intention. “Look,” I start, because I can’t ignore it—her—anymore. “I don’t understand why, but you’ve stayed with Becky through thick and thin and all the bullshit in between. Even though you cheated on her, she still wants to be with you. Honestly, I think you guys are terrible for each other, but for whatever reason, you’re hanging on. At the risk of sounding like a shrink, I feel like you need to do some serious thinking about what you want from her. It’s not fair otherwise.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” he mutters, staring at his shoes. “You’re on her side?”
“Hardly. I just don’t want to be the reason you do or don’t stay with her. While you guys are whatever you are, you and I … can’t.”
He looks up, his eyes wide and earnest. “But you said we were friends.”
“Friends don’t kiss, Max.”
His mouth turns up, a hint of a smile. “They don’t?”
“Nope. Friends hang out. Friends talk. Friends are there for each other.” I offer him my hand, cheesy but appropriately platonic. “I want that for us. I really do.”
He nods, shaking my hand. “I want that, too.”