MIDWEEK, SHOUTING ROUSES ME FROM SLEEP, HOT words blistering my subconscious before I’m alert enough to comprehend them. Bleary-eyed, I glance at my clock; it’s just after midnight.
A thud from the living room makes me jump—a book hitting the coffee table?
The arguments are getting worse. No longer does Meredith attempt to keep her voice down, and Dad has abandoned his evasive I was working mantra. Hurling thinly veiled insults with no concern for hurt feelings has become okay—normal. I hate that it’s all Ally knows.
I sit up in bed as Meredith shouts, “You could tell me where you’re disappearing to!”
“The last thing I need is a babysitter. Get off my back!”
“You’re hiding something. I know you are.” Her razor-sharp accusation cuts the sleepiness from my brain.
“Bullshit!” Dad says. “The only thing I’ve hidden is how much work it takes to keep this family afloat. Your lifestyle isn’t free.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me. I’m your wife, not a financial burden, and you’re smack in the middle of a midlife crisis.”
“Can you blame me? You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under at work, and you have no idea what kind of debt you racked up with those specialists—even after we pissed away Jillian’s money. All you cared about was having a goddamn baby, and look where that’s gotten us!”
Ally starts to cry. Dad’s pitching low blows, and the hostility in his voice digs into my skin like a thorn—I can only imagine how Meredith must feel. My frustration with him, once a snowball tumbling innocuously downhill, has become an avalanche.
Instinct says I should take his side, but he’s being such a jerk. Meredith could leave him—I’m not sure I’d blame her—and she’d take my sister, who I’m only just getting to know. All I’d be left with is my father, who’s become so dispassionate he’s hardly recognizable, and a future full of uncertainties.
The house falls quiet. I imagine Meredith settling down to feed Ally. Dad probably has buried his nose in his laptop, as if he hasn’t just spewed a deluge of hurtful words. I close my eyes and think of Max, our after-school visits, cruising around in his truck, our final destination the secluded road by the river, where we talk and laugh and kiss like we’re the only people in existence.… The best hours of my day.
I’m sinking back into sleep when Meredith’s voice floats down the hall. “Jake?”
“What?” Cold, brittle.
“Are you having an affair?”
I sit up, straining to catch his answer.
“I’d rather know now,” Meredith says. “Considering your past, you can understand why I’d be suspicious.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve got a new baby. Your closest friend’s had a health scare. You’re stressed. You’re unhappy.” She pauses, letting her words sink in. “Beth left you because after Jillian was born, you strayed. Now you’re in a similar situation. Who’s to say you won’t cheat again?”
Beth … my mother … moved halfway around the world because Dad couldn’t keep his pants on?
A wave of vertigo rolls through me.
I reach for my nightstand and grab my phone. Briefly, I consider calling Beth. She’s the only person who can confirm Meredith’s accusation. But what’s the point? Dad’s lack of contradiction is proof enough.
My fingers dial a different number.
He answers after four rings, his voice textured like sandpaper.
“Max?” His name slips out, wobbly and small.
I hear a rustling. “Jill? You okay?”
I swallow the sob that arrives with his concern. “Can I come over?”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll meet you at the door.”
I don’t change out of the flannel pajama pants I’m wearing, but I pull a sweatshirt over my tank top and slip on a pair of flip-flops. I climb out my window with far less finesse than Max manages, and my shoes slap pavement as I run across the street.
True to his word, he’s on the front porch, in gym shorts and a white T-shirt, his hair haphazard, dark spikes jutting every which way. Somewhere between my window and his front door, I’ve started to cry in earnest. He scoops me up and holds me as I shudder against him, trying to muffle my sobs.
After a few minutes, he leans back, hands on my cheeks, angling my face up. I’m sure I’m a mess—I get very splotchy when I cry—but he’s gazing down at me with such concern, I doubt he’s noticed. He whispers, “If you can be silent for ten seconds, we can go upstairs.”
I nod and follow him inside. He closes the door without a sound. We tiptoe through the living room and kitchen, beyond the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, to the staircase that leads to the second floor. We creep past Ivy’s room and the bonus room before making our way into his bedroom. He locks the door before guiding me to his bed and nudging me onto his rumpled sheets. Sinking down beside me, he moves his hand over my back in slow circles as fresh tears trail down my cheeks.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he says. “You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “My parents…”
He shakes his head, brows lifted enough to tell me he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“They’re fighting,” I explain. “A lot. Horrible arguments.”
“Jesus, Jill. Since when?”
“Last summer. But lately, since Ally was born, it’s gotten really bad. And my dad … He’s cheating on Meredith.”
Max’s mouth falls open. “Like, an affair?”
I nod. “He’s never home. He’s evasive. He’s being so mean. And he was MIA the day Ally was born!” I remember with alarm where I am and pause to find my composure. When I speak again, my voice is quieter, safer. “What kind of man would miss his daughter’s birth?”
“I don’t know … a stupid man? But not one of those things makes your dad a cheater.”
“All piled up they do.”
He reaches for my hand. “I’m not gonna argue that he’s being a dick, but don’t you think you should give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he’s busy at work. Maybe he doesn’t know how to deal with the baby and he’s making a mess of things.”
“You’re wrong.”
Max regards me, his mouth set in a deep frown, making me uncomfortable, squirmy. I busy myself trying to remember the last time he saw me cry.… Seventh grade, I decide, riding bikes. I fell (trying to keep up with him) and scraped the hell out of my leg. He helped me, bloodied and bawling, as I hobbled home, then stayed by my side while Meredith (Dad’s fiancée at the time) rummaged through medicine cabinets for gauze and Bactine.
Having read enough from my expression, he says, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“He’s done it before,” I say, and the admission makes me heartsick. “He cheated before, on my mother. He’s the reason she left.”
Max sighs, a sorrowful sound, and draws me into his arms. I cry, hating my helplessness, my vulnerability, despising the tears that scatter like rain across his shirt.
When I’m reduced to rosy cheeks and sniffles, he helps me out of my sweatshirt and shoes, and even though I feel a little like a child, it’s nice to be taken care of. He fluffs a pillow for me, then tucks layers of blankets up to my chin. I’ve never been in his bed before—it’s been years since I’ve even sat on it. It’s so intimate, being wrapped in the sheets he sleeps in, cloaked in his scent and his personal space. I want to hibernate here until winter’s over.
As I watch him stride across the room to flip off the light, I realize he’s replaced Kyle as my go-to friend, the person I reach out to intuitively. When he climbs into bed, I scoot into the cocoon of his embrace and whisper, “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“I hate that I woke you.”
“Please, Jill. How many times have I bothered you with my shit? Call whenever you need me, no matter where I am or how late it is.”
“I will,” I say, and then, “Same goes for you.”
He nods, running his hand over my hair. “How come you didn’t tell me about your dad and Meredith?”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“Not even Kyle?”
“Not even Kyle. It’s not exactly fun to talk about.”
“But you shouldn’t have to deal on your own.” He’s speaking from experience, his voice deep, startling in its seriousness. “Talk to me, okay? Whenever you feel like it. Even if you don’t want me to talk back … I’ll hear you.”
I could cry all over again. I burrow into his sleepy scent, pressing my lips to the warm skin of his neck. God, I love him. I sensed it before, but now I feel it, prickling my skin, seeping into my bones, consuming me from the inside out.
“Saturday’s Valentine’s Day,” I say. “Can we hang out?”
“Of course. What should we do?”
I ponder while he toys with the ends of my hair, and then inspiration strikes. “Seattle. I want to take you to my favorite restaurant.”
“Cool. Can I plan the rest of the day?”
“Depends on what you’ve got in mind.”
“Fun stuff. Stuff that’ll cheer you up.”
“But it’s not your job to cheer me up.”
“Uh, yeah it is. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but my happiness relates directly to yours. I never want to see you cry again.”
“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said, Holden.”
“I have my moments.” I hear humor in his voice as he goes on, “Remember when you had that horrible summer job walking the Rolons’ dog?”
They hired me a few years back to take their grouchy terrier around the block once every weekday while school was out. It was a thankless job full of ankle nips and poop scooping, worsened by the fact that it was one of the hottest summers on record. “Ugh. Yes, why?”
“Remember how I used to walk with you?”
“I do.” Max’s company was the only thing that kept me from strangling that dog.
“Do you know why I walked with you?”
Curious, I fold my hands across his chest, drop my chin, and work to make out his features through the darkness. “Why?”
“Because I thought I was in love with you.”
I laugh out loud, only quieting when I remember I’m in Max Holden’s bed in the middle of the night, down the hall from his sister and a floor away from his parents.
“Seriously. I was convinced you were, like, my soul mate.” He pauses, smiling at the memory. “Even back then, watching you drag that shitty little dog down the block, I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say, only able to recall braces, knobby knees, and a flat chest.
He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. “I still think you’re the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.”
I wriggle up so we’re face-to-face and run my fingers through his hair; it’s deceptively soft. “Do you think it’s weird that we know each other so well, even though this”—I gesture between the two of us—“is new?”
“No way. I like that I know everything about you.” He gives me a lazy grin. “Makes you easier to put up with.”
“You don’t know everything,” I say, indignant.
“Wanna bet?” He plows ahead without waiting for an answer. “I know you like soda best from a fountain, and I know your cookbook collection’s the first thing you’d save in a house fire. I know you drink your coffee with cream and a shit-ton of sugar, and I know your favorite book is The Giver. I know you like dark chocolate more than milk. I know you have a tiny freckle on the inside of your left wrist.” With the pad of his thumb, he grazes the spot he’s referring to. He sits up and trails his fingers down my spine, over my hip, and along my thigh. With his eyes locked on mine, he wraps his hand around the back of my knee and says, “I know this is the only place on your body where you’re really, truly ticklish.”
I giggle and squirm until he stops, then work my way back into the crook of his arm. He tilts his head and waits for me to brush my lips against his. “Saturday,” he says. “You figure out dinner, but I’ve got the rest.” The hopeful timbre of his voice, the impish gleam in his eye—they’re very cute.
“Deal.”
He kisses me again, softly, then sprinkles kisses all over my face—across my cheeks, along the line of my jaw, and once on the tip of my nose. He finds my mouth again, and his lips taste of seawater, the last evidence of my tears.