THE NEXT AFTERNOON, THE QUAD IS FOR once drenched in sunshine, crammed with people soaking up vitamin D even though the day’s cool.
The final bell’s just rung, and I’m weaving through the crowd, hoping to talk to Kyle and Leah for a few minutes before I head for home. They’re missing from our regular spot, but Becky’s nearby, talking to her old standby Bryan Davenport, plus a bunch of his basketball buddies. When she sees me, she puts on an aggrieved mask that almost makes me feel sorry for her—until she leaves Bryan to strut toward me.
I become a statue on the walkway, watching, waiting as she makes her approach. The last I saw of her, she was sobbing on the Holdens’ bonus room floor. What could she possibly have to say to me now, and where the hell are my friends when I need them?
She’s advancing, her eyes locked on mine, and my pulse pounds in my ears. Frantically, I sift through a flurry of possible salutations, but my efforts are in vain because when she reaches me, she doesn’t stop like I expect. There are no loathsome words. No guilt-inducing tears. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all, except to freaking body-check me, ramming the barbed bone of her shoulder into mine as she pushes past.
I am shocked.
I know she’s pissed about Max bailing on their Saturday night plans, and I know the sight of him and me together on the beanbag chair mutated her into a monster, but—oh my God—I can’t believe she’s resorting to this sort of barbarity.
She’d make hell of my life at school, I’d told Kyle, and yeah, sure enough.
I’m still standing on the path, reeling, when I spot Kyle, football in hand, sauntering toward me to the whistled tune of “Walking on Sunshine.” “Jelly Bean,” he says, a greeting so cheerful I feel certain he missed what Becky did moments ago. When I don’t respond, he stoops down to scrutinize my expression. His smile falls. “Whoa. You okay?”
Pain radiates through my shoulder. My confidence must’ve been jolted, too, because my response is scarcely a whisper. “I’m fine.”
He gives a skeptical raise of his eyebrows but doesn’t push. “Have you seen Max?”
“Nope.” Thank God, because if he would’ve been around to witness Becky’s clip, I’d be a bazillion times more humiliated than I already am.
He slings an arm around me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure,” I say, shrugging him off. Feeling like the world’s biggest jerk, brushing away his concern like I am, I let a lie loose. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got Meredith’s car and she’s waiting for me, and just—I’ll call you later, okay?”
He shouts after me, but I pretend I don’t hear him as I make a rushed trip through the quad to the parking lot, where Meredith’s Saturn waits. I dump my bag into the backseat before sliding into the driver’s seat, thankful to be alone with my busted ego. With a shaky breath, I prod my shoulder; it’s tender where Becky rammed it, and holy shit, I loathe her.
I’m shifting the Saturn into gear when I notice Max climbing into his truck several parking spaces away. I leave my foot on the brake so I can watch him pull his favorite knit cap over his head, crank the truck’s ignition, and jab a button on the stereo. My heart beats a quick, hard rhythm because, God, he looks dejected.
He glances up, through our respective windshields, and his sad-puppy eyes find mine. His posture inclines toward me, as if impatient words tread on his tongue, stomping their hooves, waiting for the gate to open. He raises his shoulders in a slight, despondent shrug.
Damn it if my insides don’t go all warm and trembly. I want to climb out of the Saturn. I want to hurry toward him. I want to hop into the truck and hug him until his hurt goes away—until my hurt goes away.
Because this is torture, the wanting and the not having.
My breath comes shallow as, for the first time in all the weeks we’ve been hanging out, I envision my life with Max in it—as more than a friend. Traversing high school and family and the future in tandem. Maybe we could be good together, Max and me.
Maybe, just maybe, we could work.
I give him a nod of acknowledgment before wrenching my attention away, terrified by my sudden, unforeseen attitude shift. I leave tire marks as I peel out of the parking lot.
* * *
He calls an hour later.
I’m driving aimlessly through McAlder, too worked up to go home. I pull onto the shoulder, not far from the tree farm we visited with my dad, and answer with a wary, “Hello?”
“Jilly, hey. You busy?”
“Not really,” I say, guarded after our silent parking lot exchange. I turn on the Saturn’s hazard lights so no one barrels into its rear and say, “What’s up?”
“I, uh, need a favor.” His tempo’s off; he sounds exceptionally lethargic.
“What kind of favor?”
“A ride.”
“What’s wrong with your truck?”
“It’s … undrivable.” He releases the word slowly, with a chuckle and a slur, and I then know exactly why he sounds strange, and why the F-150 is undrivable. He’s been drinking.
“Call your girlfriend, Max,” I say with an agitated sigh.
“I can’t.”
“No? Already tried her?”
“You don’t know anything,” he says, muddy and disjointed.
“No, you don’t know anything—except for how to be an asshole.”
Through the phone line, I hear liquid slosh against glass, followed by a heavy swallow. He must’ve fought with Becky again. It’s the best explanation for the way she treated me on the quad, and for his unhappiness in the parking lot—not to mention his current state of inebriation.
I can’t believe I was considering the possibility of us all of an hour ago. Max isn’t fixable. He might never come around. And for whatever reason, he thinks it’s cool to come running to me anytime he needs to be comforted. Or bailed out.
“Call someone else,” I tell him. I’m done with his preferred method of coping.
“Forget it. I’ll drive myself home.”
A wall of anger knocks into me. I’ve been confused by his behavior for ages, and disappointed in him more times than I can count, but this tremendous animosity I’m feeling is new. I want to hurl my phone through the windshield. I want to hurt him as badly as he’s hurting me.
“You are such a jerk, Max. I hate you—did you know that? I hate you.”
“Jesus, Jill—”
“Don’t. There’s nothing you can say that’ll change the way I feel.” It’s the truth, but no matter how completely this latest setback pisses me off, I can’t leave him stranded. I drop my head against the rest behind me. “Where are you?”
A moment of silence passes before he says, “The river.”
I close my eyes, sad beyond description because I know the spot. A long, rarely driven road running parallel to the river, once a favorite bike-riding route for Max and me. I still cruise it from time to time, for nostalgia’s sake.
Apparently he does, too.
I drive fast, imagining the very worst: Officer Tate and a fleet of squad cars, Max stuck in a cinder-block cell.
When I arrive, I’m relieved to see that the F-150 is the only other vehicle on the road. I park behind it. The rush of river water rages in my ears as I walk to the driver’s-side door and throw it open. There’s Max, clutching a nearly empty bottle of Maker’s Mark by its red, waxy neck.
“Jilly!”
I shake my head, sickened by the slovenly sight of him. I point to the whisky. “Where did you get that?”
“My dad’s liquor cabinet.” He swirls the contents of the bottle before taking a gulp, swallowing noisily. “I don’t think he’ll miss it.”
I flinch at his derisiveness. I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
He looks at the bottle, then back at me. A challenge.
“Give it to me, right now, or I swear to God I’ll leave. With your keys.”
He shoves the booze at me. I dump what’s left on the side of the road, then hurl the empty bottle toward the river. It arcs like a football, landing with a barely audible splash.
I turn back to Max; he’s unquestionably irate, and I don’t care. “Do you have more?”
“I wish.”
“Lock your truck. You can come back for it tomorrow. I’m taking you home.”
“But I’d rather go to Leo’s.”
“Too bad. I’m not a freaking shuttle service. Let’s go.”
I march to my car, rolling my eyes at the pitiful scuffle of his feet as he trails behind me. It’s maddening that he’s backslid so far. Maddening that I have to play designated driver on a Monday afternoon because he makes the world’s most moronic choices.
“Put your seat belt on,” I say after he’s collapsed into the passenger seat.
“Don’t treat me like a fucking child,” he retorts with a glare.
I’ve half a mind to shove him out of the car. “Don’t act like a fucking child!”
He buckles his seat belt, then yanks the lever that reclines his seat. He falls backward until he lands, horizontal, with a thud. “Get going,” he says, closing his eyes.
My anger simmers all the way to our neighborhood. I meant what I said: Today, I really and truly hate him. Still, I can’t fault him for calling for a ride—at least a responsible decision followed the careless footsteps before it. But he shouldn’t have called me. Becky would’ve been a more suitable choice. Ivy would’ve come for him. Kyle, or Leo, or Jesse would’ve picked his ass up.
Why me?
Why today?
Why the river?
Why, why, why?
When we reach his house, I have to shake him awake. “Go to your room and lie down,” I instruct as he groggily straightens his hat. Marcy’s car isn’t in the driveway, and then I remember: “Meredith told me your parents are visiting a specialist in Seattle. You’re off the hook, but for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone until you sober up.”
He stares at me, vacant and unmoving.
“Max?”
Still … nothing.
His withdrawal into hollowness dashes my anger away, replacing it with a heap of fear. And just like that, the ingrained and unrelenting desire to take his pain away returns.
Will I always feel this torturous ache of concern when it comes to Max Holden?
I rest my palm on his cheek. “Max? Are you hearing me?”
He blinks, leaning into my touch. “Yeah. I’m hearing you.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fuck no.” He looks dazed and doleful, so very out of it. He’s definitely still drunk—I see it in the sleepiness of his eyes, the sluggishness of his movements—but he’s no longer cross. Now he’s just sad.
“Things will get better,” I say, hoping it’s the truth.
He shakes his head. “Dick move back there, right? Verbally assaulting the girl who’s saving my ass? You’re right to hate me. You should’ve left me on the side of the road, Jilly.”
Jilly. God. He knows exactly how to play me. I pull my hand away. What was I thinking, touching him? Too impulsive, too intimate, totally inappropriate.
“I would never leave you on the side of the road. You know I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah … I’m sorry I keep screwing up.” To his credit, he sounds sincere.
“What happened? Why the whisky?”
He grimaces. “The last few days … shitty.”
“You’re going to have to pull it together, Max. Like, soon.”
“Yeah. Probably hard to believe right now, but I’m working on it.”
“Well, work harder. Because I can’t keep reliving this same experience. You mess up and somehow I get involved, and we both end up suffering.”
“I get it,” he says. “It’s hard on me, too.”
“Then fix it.”
He gazes at me for a long, pensive moment. Finally, quietly, he says, “Thanks for coming to get me.”
He climbs out of the car and makes a slow, stutter-step trek to his front door. When he’s safely inside, I back down the Holdens’ driveway and into my own, blinking back tears.