I DRIVE, UNAWARE OF MY SURROUNDINGS AND the passage of time—until I notice the moon overhead. I pull into a 7-Eleven parking lot. I’m thirty miles from McAlder, nearly out of gas, and I have no recollection of my time on the road. The realization is sobering.
I sit in Meredith’s car, collecting my bearings while I watch two aging hippies emerge from a beat-up station wagon with a travel trailer hitched to its bumper. He has long, graying hair and a fringed leather jacket. She’s in Birkenstocks and a patched peasant skirt, even though it’s sleeting and blustery. He smiles and takes her hand, and they walk into the convenience store. I imagine they’re headed south to some commune in the California desert, where they’ll spend their nights making music around a big bonfire, then crawl into their trailer to keep each other warm until the sun peeks over the horizon.
I could live that life; compared to my current situation, it sounds lovely.
Okay, no. I can’t hitch a ride to California; I can’t run away. I need a calming presence. Someone capable of balanced advice. Someone who’ll tell me everything’s going to be okay.
I need Max.
Instead, I call Kyle. I thank him for covering for me at work, and then I tell him about Dad and Mrs. Tate. He’s horrified, and incredibly sympathetic. I ask him to be sure Max stays at Leo’s until I get there.
I fill the Saturn’s gas tank and head for McAlder. I drive carefully, watching for pedestrians and merging vehicles and construction zones. I’m able to recall the entire trip when I pull into Leo’s neighborhood—a small victory.
The street’s lined with cars, and I’m forced to park halfway down the block. I lock the car and hurry toward the house, which shines like a beacon of high school debauchery.
As I get closer, I see a few of my classmates spilling witlessly from the front door, stumbling in the general direction of the driveway. Kyle is manning the porch—unofficially, if the keg cup he holds is any indication. He wraps me in a hug, sloshing a dribble of cold beer down my back. “You okay, Jelly Bean?”
I nod. I’m in coffee-spattered jeans and a True Brew T-shirt, my hair is rain-frizzed, and I’ve cried my makeup off. I’m at the kind of party I usually avoid—drunken hordes of people with wanton objectives moving in time to a booming bass beat—but now that I’m with Kyle and in Max’s vicinity, I feel grounded.
“I saw him in the kitchen a few minutes ago,” Kyle says. “Want me to go with you?”
I nod, then follow him through the mob, dodging splashes of foamy beer while attempting to keep up with the choppy, whistled strains of “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” Kyle’s equilibrium doesn’t seem to be much better than mine, but at least he can claim drunkenness.
We find Leah in the living room, and she makes our duo a trio. She looks like she just stepped out of a magazine—artfully distressed jeans, a tank with a beaded neckline—and she’s sipping from a bottle of hard cider. “I’m trying to find Jesse,” she shouts over the music. “He’s probably with Max!”
I nod as she loops her arm through mine, and we resume our trek through the house.
As we near the kitchen, my footsteps grow heavy, like I’m trudging through marshland, and a fit of nerves nearly swallows me. Despite the bombshell that detonated at Dad’s office, I haven’t forgotten why I went there in the first place. Thanks to the confusion and accusations and anger, I never did get my news about Max out. I know that’ll be the first question he asks; he doesn’t know any better.
I’m trying to figure out how to tell him that, yet again, I’ve failed in the full disclosure department, when a heeled boot juts out in front of me, catching the toe of my shoe. I pitch forward in this hideous, slow-motion stagger, bumping innumerable bystanders, nearly taking Leah down with me. By some keg-party miracle, I’m able to grab the back of Kyle’s sweatshirt, saving us from a face-plant on the sticky floor.
He and Leah help me recover, and as soon as I’m stable, I whirl around.
Becky. Her penny-colored hair is slicked into a ponytail so severe she looks like the victim of an unfortunate face-lift, and she’s got a hand braced on her hip. “Have a nice trip?” she asks, snickering like she didn’t just sputter the most juvenile inquiry ever.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, taking a belligerent step toward her.
“You broke Max and me up. I told you I wouldn’t let you forget.”
“I didn’t break you and Max up; he left you. He left you because you’re the worst.” In my periphery, I spot Ivy coming to stand behind Becky, propping her up like a buttress, but I don’t care. I’ve kept quiet too long, and now that I’ve given the valve a twist, the words I should’ve said weeks ago come streaming out. “Even if Max and I hadn’t ended up together, he’d still be better off because he’d be free of you.” Behind me, Kyle and Leah break into applause, the sound like gasoline to a flickering flame. With more vitriol than I knew I had in me, I snarl, “Screw you, Becky.”
She juts her chin out. “If you think you can compete with me—”
“I can’t,” I say, “and I don’t want to. You’re nothing. Nothing.”
I’m turning to walk away, to rejoin my friends, when Ivy bounds forward. She grabs my hand and pulls me back and for a horrific moment, I wonder if she’s going to hit me. But her glower loosens, her whole face melting into an expression like understanding—like the one she wore in the hallway at school this afternoon as she watched Max and me talking. She reminds me so much of Marcy as she leans forward to speak into my ear. “This is done. No more. I’ll handle Becky—she won’t bother you again. Just … don’t break my brother’s heart, okay?”
“Ivy, I would never.”
She drops my hand but holds my gaze, and a silent promise passes between us. We might never be friends, but this … This feels like it could be enough.
She disappears into the crowd, dragging Becky behind her.
Kyle, Leah, and I head toward the kitchen. “You and Max, huh?” she says as we battle the mob. She grins and holds her cider bottle up like, Cheers! “I wish I could say I’m surprised.”
And I wish I could share her blind enthusiasm, but we’ve rounded a corner and there he is, in jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair’s a disaster, surging skyward in every direction. He’s standing with Jesse and Leo, and he’s clutching a keg cup.
Of course.
His wild eyes trap me in a silent question.
I’m frozen, torn between running from him and what’ll likely be another argument, and running to him, finding assurance in his presence. When I don’t make a move in either direction, animosity marches across his face.
“There he is,” Leah says, like I can’t see what’s right in front of me.
“Yeah. I need a minute.”
Max raises a challenging eyebrow. I swear to God, my feet have turned to lead.
“He doesn’t look very happ-y,” Kyle singsongs.
“You’re not help-ing,” I sing back.
He places a hand on my back and shoves. At the same time, Max slams his cup down, slopping liquid onto the counter, and takes a step toward me. I’m standing in front of my boyfriend, who’s flushed and so obviously frustrated, and I have no idea what to do. Leah and Kyle appear apprehensive, while Leo and Jesse survey the scene with fuzzy bewilderment. I wonder how much they’ve had to drink. I wonder how much Max has had to drink.
“Nice of you to join me,” he says, loud enough to be heard throughout the bustling kitchen.
“Nice of you to get wasted before I showed up.”
“I’m not wasted.”
I might believe him. I can see now that the liquid in his cup is clear, and he’s not swaying or stumbling. His eyes aren’t glazed or red, like his friends’.
“I need to talk to you,” I say, glancing at our audience. “Can we go outside?”
“Outside,” he repeats, lofty and condescending. “Figures.”
He stomps out of the kitchen, and I crash into half of McAlder High’s student body trying to keep up. Finally, we slip out the front door and into the night. The rain has stopped, but the cloud cover remains, leaving the air dense and damp.
Max is halfway across Leo’s soggy lawn when I catch up. I grab his arm, and he skids on the slick grass, reeling around. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No, but—”
“Jesus, Jillian. Not six hours ago you promised you would!”
“Are you drunk?” I ask. I don’t think he is, not anymore, but I’m half hoping he’ll tell me yes anyway, so I can pin his anger on beer instead of myself.
His hands clench, his expression incendiary. If there was a wall nearby, I’m pretty sure he’d put a fist through it. “No, but it’s nice to know that’s your immediate assumption.”
“It’s not like you have the best track record, Max.”
“Oh, and you’re so fucking perfect.”
I will myself to hold his gaze, to maintain an assertive posture on the saturated lawn, though he’s never made me feel so small.
When he speaks again, his tone is flat, explanatory. “I poured a beer when I got here. Is that what you want to hear? Would you believe me if I told you I couldn’t finish it? I was too busy thinking about football and my family and you—how I want to be good enough for you. I dumped it down the drain.”
“Max—”
“Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? I’m not good enough. All that shit your dad fed you about me being trouble—you swallowed it. I’ve been busting my ass to get my act together, to prove I’m not a screwup, but you’re ashamed.”
“That’s not true!”
“Then what? You just like having me by the balls?”
“Max, no.” It’s a tiny, timid word, but it’s all I’ve got. He’s thought this through. He believes what he’s saying. How is that even possible?
“I see how it is,” he says. “You made a choice, and it’s not me.” His hand is on my shoulder, a consoling pat. Gently, he adds, “It’s okay.”
I bat him away, sick of being interrupted, talked down to as if I’m too meek for hard truths. My heart hardens, crystallizing like candied ginger, and I throw up my hands. “Nothing is okay! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, if you’d just listen!”
He stares, stunned, because for all I’ve tried to numb myself to tonight’s events, I’m crying. I’m sobbing. Max’s surprise gives way to concern, and he grasps my arms, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “I’m listening now,” he says. “What happened?”
“My dad. I went to talk to him, but he wasn’t alone.… I found him in his office with her, and I just—I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
Max runs his hands up and down my arms. “Shit, Jill. Who?”
“Mrs. Tate.”
He blows out a heavy breath. “Jesus.”
“Sucks, right? And to top it off, your ex more or less assaulted me when I got here, which was icing on the freaking cake. So, yeah. My dad’s sleeping with Robin Tate. He’s an asshole and he’s tearing my family apart and today has been absolute shit, so excuse me if I didn’t get around to making a grand announcement about you and me.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“Of course you didn’t,” I say, shaking free of him. My throat feels as if it’s coated in pastry flour, and I swallow before barreling on. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. God, Max! You think I’m some snob who’s shuttering you away because you’re not good enough? How many chances have I given you over the last few months? How many times have I listened to you vent? How many times have I eased you off the ledge? Why would I bother if I thought you were less-than? I care about you so much, and it breaks my heart to know you might not feel the same.”
“Jilly…” But he doesn’t finish.
Good, because there’s nothing left to say.
I’m backing away as he scours his face with his hands, looking so dejected I can’t believe he’s still on his feet. I’ve seen varying degrees of this expression too many times, and while it shreds me, I don’t have the strength to help him recover. Not tonight.
I leave him to stand alone on the dark lawn.