ALLY IS NOT A SOUND SLEEPER.
I mean, I assumed she’d wake up during the night, but I figured Meredith would get her, change her, feed her, and put her back to bed.
That’s not how it works.
Ally’s up at all hours, crying and carrying on. I’m shocked out of sleep by her wails, then forced to lie awake listening to Meredith’s singing—“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” or “Rock-a-Bye Baby”—her footsteps echoing up and down the hallway as she paces with the baby. Occasionally it’s Dad who gets up, and then it’s the theme song from Star Wars I hear, hummed low and lethargically. Over and over and over.
She really is a leech baby; she purloins sleep.
According to Meredith, Ally naps all day. I wouldn’t know because I’ve spent the last couple of days suffering through school and work with a wicked case of exhaustion. Call me crazy, but common sense seems to dictate that someone should be keeping the baby busy during daylight hours so she—and the rest of us—can sleep at night.
I plan on spending my Saturday in sweats, experimenting with a classic chocolate soufflé recipe and napping sporadically. That’s until Meredith calls me into the nursery, where she’s dressing Ally in a cheerful pink onesie. “Marcy and Max are coming for a visit.”
“Max? Why?”
She glances at me, one hand resting on the baby, surprise widening her eyes. How’s she to know I’m head over heels for our neighbor, the very boy who’s made the last few months of my life agonizing? How’s she to know I have no idea what to say to him about his suddenly single status? How’s she to know that when I’m in his presence I feel like a hot-air balloon—swollen with heat, in danger of floating away?
“I mean, I just don’t get why he’d spend his Saturday sitting around with you and Marcy and a baby.”
“Because he wants to? And you make a good point. It’d be nice if you sat with us, especially since your dad’s working. I don’t want him to get bored.”
“If boredom’s an issue, maybe he shouldn’t come.”
“Jillian! I thought Max was your friend?”
“He was—is—but I planned to spend the day baking.”
Meredith bends to kiss Ally on the forehead; the baby squirms, kicking the air. “Can’t you bake later?” she coos. “This sweet girl and I want your company.”
I frown. “Using the baby against me? Manipulation much?”
Meredith grins, triumphant. “Thanks, Jill. I owe you one. They’ll be here in an hour.”
I sigh and head for the shower. So much for sweats.
It’s almost lunchtime when the doorbell rings. My stomach drifts to the ground, fluttering like a leaf in a downdraft, though I pretend I don’t hear the chime. I steal a cracker from the platter Meredith’s set out, loaded with Brie, grapes, and apple slices. There’s a big pitcher of lemonade, too. I don’t mention that lemonade seems unfitting for a day cool and cast in impenetrable cloud cover, though, because it’s nice to see her bustling around the kitchen the way she did before her pregnancy.
The bell sounds again. Meredith must give up on me being any help, because she hurries out of the kitchen to open the front door.
Marcy makes a beeline for Ally. She lifts her from her bouncy chair, snuggling her close. Meredith looks on, beaming. And then Max saunters into the room, pilfering my attention. He’s in jeans and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, his hair covered by a Seahawks hat. He hugs Meredith and tells her how great she looks, then glances over his mom’s shoulder at my sister. Resting his big hand on top of Ally’s little head, he says, “She’s growing fast.”
I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing, because Meredith grins and says, “I think so, too!”
He turns to me and, with a decorous nod of his head, says, “Jillian.”
I counter with my own stiff greeting. “Hello, Max.”
He and Meredith gather the snack platter and lemonade, and we head for the living room. Marcy sits down with Ally in one of two chairs while Meredith snags the other, leaving Max and me with the couch. Fantastic.
I claim an end for myself. It’s big enough to seat three, but Max sinks down right beside me, so close I have to tuck my feet under so they’re not resting against his leg. I can’t decide if he’s oblivious to the fact that I value personal space or if he’s trying to tempt me, but either way, his nearness is taxing. I don’t trust myself to touch him in the most platonic of ways, yet we’re inches away from cuddling in front of his mother and Meredith.
He and I sit in silence while the two of them chat. He swallows truckloads of food. I try not to think about him.
Time trickles by, until I jump to attention at the sound of my name; Marcy’s looking at me expectantly. “Um … What?”
“Your middle name? What is it?”
“Oh, it’s Grace.”
Max peers at me. “Jillian Grace … Why didn’t I know that?”
Because you’re an ass, I want to say. I’ve known his middle name—William, after his dad—since I was eight.
“And Allyson Claire,” Marcy says, gazing down at the baby.
“Ally sounds good with Jilly,” Max remarks. Odd, considering he’s the only person who calls me Jilly. I bite my lip to conceal a spontaneous smile.
“Mer,” Marcy whispers. “She’s dozed off. How long will she sleep?”
Meredith checks her watch. “Probably an hour. She’s not due to eat until two.”
“Can I treat you to a cup of coffee in town?”
I’m pretty sure the panicked expression Meredith’s wearing mirrors my own. There’s no way I’m comfortable babysitting a newborn, and I doubt she’s cool with letting me try. “I don’t know,” she says. “I haven’t left Ally for a minute since she was born.”
“That’s why you need to get out,” Marcy says. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”
“But she’s so little, and Jill doesn’t have any experience with babies.”
“Max does. He’s been watching Oli since he was a few weeks old. We’ll be gone thirty minutes, tops.”
“I don’t mind sticking around,” Max says. Of course he doesn’t—tormenting me is his favorite pastime.
Meredith looks to me. She knows how unprepared I am for baby duty, and she knows I’m not supposed to be with Max unsupervised. Surely she won’t leave.
“Well,” she says. “What do you think, Jill?”
I blink, dumbfounded—I thought we’d made headway in our relationship!
“I can handle it,” I lie, because how can I refuse without sounding entirely self-centered?
Max wraps an arm around my shoulders. “We’ll be fine. Ally’ll probably still be sleeping when you get back.”
Meredith nods, but her shifty gaze says she’s unconvinced. She gets up and lifts Ally from Marcy’s arms. She kisses her cheeks, then snuggles her into the swing. “I’ll get my purse,” she says, glancing back at the baby like she might never see her again.
A few minutes later, Marcy pulls her out the door, leaving Max and me alone.
I shrug away from the warmth of his arm and move to the chair Meredith vacated. “You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine for a half hour.”
“I don’t mind hanging out, but if you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
I keep my mouth shut. Even greater than my fear of babysitting alone is my often ill-fated desire to spend time with Max Holden.
He snags a bunch of grapes from the platter and pops one into his mouth. “So, what do you want to do?”
“Read, I think. You can watch TV.”
If he’s offended, he doesn’t let on. It’s not like I’m trying to insult him; I just need time to collect myself, to figure out how far I’m willing to let this impromptu bonding session go. It seems like every time Max and I start to make forward progress, we’re blown backward by an outside force or, sometimes, a mess of our own making. My heart winds up bruised, and he does something undoubtedly stupid, and I hesitate to put myself out there, again, when I’m not one hundred percent sure where his head’s at. I want things to be good, for me and for him and for us, and I think they could be, but the very real possibility that they could just as well fall apart terrifies me.
I pluck a Williams-Sonoma catalog from the coffee table and curl up in my chair. I open it, but instead of perusing its pages, I spy on Max. He looks so cozy, stretched out on our couch in that shirt that appears superbly soft.
I miss him. That’s the simple truth of it.
When he clicks on the TV, finds SportsCenter, and gets involved watching a panel of experts discuss Super Bowl odds, it hits me how ridiculously marital this scene is: Max and the remote, me and my cookware catalog, the snoozing baby. But I can’t stop watching him, and I can’t stop thinking about his hug outside True Brew, and the fun we’ve had hanging out over the last few weeks, and the way his mouth feels on mine.
He glances up and catches me looking. He smirks. “How’s the magazine?”
“Fine.”
“Which one is it?”
Why do I suddenly feel out of place in my own house? “Um, what?”
“Never mind,” he says, chuckling.
I’m fumbling for a comeback when Ally startles in her swing. She whimpers, and I look wide-eyed at Max.
He holds his hands up. “I didn’t do anything.”
“They’ve only been gone ten minutes!”
He turns the TV down. “Read your magazine, Jillian Grace. She’ll go back to sleep.”
But the baby’s fusses quickly progress to full-on cries, and I’m becoming increasingly alarmed. “Should I call Meredith?”
“Nah. She probably just wants to be held.” He goes to the swing, turns it off, and lifts Ally into his arms. He hushes her and bounces on his knees a little. It’s endearing, the way this jock of a guy holds a helpless little person with such care. Miraculously, Ally’s cries fizzle, and I find myself envious of Max’s magic touch.
“Maybe she woke up because she wants to eat,” he says.
“It’s nowhere near two o’clock.”
“So she’s not hungry. I don’t think she’s cold. Maybe she needs her diaper changed?”
“Ew.”
“What do you mean, ‘ew’? Don’t tell me you haven’t changed her diaper yet.”
I stare at him.
“Okay, wow. You haven’t changed her diaper yet.”
“Meredith does that stuff.”
“Still, you should know how.”
“Why?”
“Are you kidding? So you can be a kick-ass big sister. Come on,” he says, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ll talk you through it.”
With a sigh, I follow him to Ally’s nursery. He situates her on the changing table. “Okay, step up there,” he says, rubbing his hands together like he’s a sideline coach or something.
I do, and draw a complete blank.
He rolls his eyes. “Unwrap the blanket and unsnap her onesie.”
I’m tempted to make a joke about Mr. Football knowing what a onesie is, but the truth is, I’d be lost without his help. I bite my lip and follow his directions. “What now?”
“Get the wipes and the new diaper ready before you take the old one off. You don’t want her diaperless for longer than a second.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” I say, unfolding a clean diaper.
“Oh, yeah. Oli peed on me more than once. Not cool.”
I giggle at the mental image. “Ready with the new diaper.”
“Okay, hold her feet like this.” He shows me how to corrall Ally’s wriggling ankles, then says, “You’ll unfasten the old diaper, use the wipe, and slip the fresh diaper underneath.”
I follow his directions, fastening the tabs of the clean diaper, feeling accomplished. “Now I snap the onesie back up?”
He nods. “Simple as that.”
I finish dressing my sister, my heart filling with hope. This amiable rapport Max and I’ve got going feels good—like it could be more than good.
I carry Ally back to the living room and sit down on the couch. She rests contentedly across my lap, focusing on the slowly rotating ceiling fan above.
Max joins me, this time leaving a good foot of space between us. “You did good,” he says. “Now you’re a kick-ass big sister.”
“Thanks for teaching me.”
He shrugs. “It was nice to have you talking to me again.” He tilts his head, looking over at me. “Kyle told you, didn’t he? About Becky and me?”
“He might’ve mentioned it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure if I should say I’m sorry, or congratulate you.”
His smile’s like a pinch of salt—minuscule, but enough to affect me. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that she’s not a factor anymore. Not at all, okay?”
I nod, and as an offering of peace, I pick up the remote and turn SportsCenter up.
He grins his Max grin, wide and open, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I feel a rush of emotion so intense I can’t dismiss it—I don’t want to dismiss it. He stretches his hand in my direction, letting it rest on the couch cushion, palm up, and my hesitancy melts away.
Holding his gaze, I slide my hand into the warmth of his, and his fingers find their way into the space between each of mine in this deliberate, intimate way that erases the last of my doubt. Without the darkness of Becky’s shadow, without the difficulty of the last several months clouding my vision, Max is what I see.
Max is all I see.