I’M SURPRISED TO FIND MY DAD ON A kitchen bar stool when I descend the stairs. He’s not on time for Bunco; he’s early. He’s using a toothpick to spear a Swedish meatball from the Crock-Pot, but he pauses to let out a low whistle as I walk into the room. “Dressed up for Bunco, I see.”
“Don’t start,” I say, but there’s no denying I’m pleased. Over the last several months—since Meredith announced her pregnancy and Bill suffered his stroke—our once indestructible bond has weakened. Since he’s barely spared me a glance since that horrible Halloween lecture, a compliment aimed my way feels special.
He pops a steaming meatball in his mouth. He’s a foodie, but he’s cool with bar snacks, too, so long as they fit the occasion. “These aren’t bad.”
“One of Meredith’s specialties,” I say, taking stock of the kitchen. All of the counter space is occupied by warming hors d’oeuvres, and the air is heavy with the scents of sourdough bread, melted cheese, and caramelized onions. “Frozen meatballs that’ve spent hours marinating in their own grease.”
“In other words, gourmet,” he says with a wink.
Dad met my mother at a chef’s tasting just as he was beginning to practice real estate law. They married, Beth further cultivated his love of fancy cuisine, I was born, and then she had an existential crisis and flew the coop, leaving them bitterly estranged. Even after she left, though, Dad hung on to his passion for fine fare. Once I was old enough to behave myself, he and I started spending Saturday evenings dining at the best restaurants in Western Washington, critiquing flavor and texture and presentation. I’ve never shied away from trying new foods with unique ingredients, though dessert’s always been my favorite course. Dad’s partial to expensive cuts of steak and stoutly brewed beer.
Saturday night dinners ceased when Meredith pranced into our lives.
Dad tweaks one of my curls. “I hope you didn’t get gussied up for the Holden kid.”
My cheeks warm. Tonight’ll be the first time he and Max share space since Dad caught the two of us groping each other. “He’s only playing because Meredith asked him to,” I say. “Same reason I’m playing.”
“Hopefully he’ll be able to keep his hands to himself.”
I become very involved adjusting cookies on their platter. “Dad, Halloween—what you saw—that was a one-time thing. A mistake. Remember? Max has a girlfriend.”
“I could give a damn. That kid can have a whole harem of girls waiting to fulfill his every need, so long as none of them is my daughter. Understood?”
“Yeah. Understood.” I’ll acquiesce to pretty much anything if he’ll shut up about harems and hands and fulfilling needs.
He’s watching me, his expression serious. “Try to remember, Jill. You deserve better.”
The compulsion to defend Max is strong—we’ve got too significant a history for me to tolerate his name being dragged through muck—but contesting my dad is pointless; he argues for a living. I roll my neck to ease the tightness this exchange has caused.
Dad points the end of his toothpick at me. “I don’t want him in your room—not tonight, not ever. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I watch as he pops another meatball into his mouth. His hair’s chestnut like mine, though his is beginning to gray at the temples, and his eyes are deep brown, a reflection of my own. He’s like whole wheat bread, sturdy and steadfast, and I try not to hold his dislike of Max against him. I know he’s got my best interests in mind. At the moment, though, a change in topic seems like a brilliant idea.
“I baked a veritable banquet of desserts for tonight,” I tell him, and then I go on to list the confections I spent all afternoon perfecting.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Dad says. “You’re already making a name for yourself in McAlder. You know, I actually heard someone refer to you as Master of All Things Delectable the other day?”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. And I thought, ‘That’s my girl!’”
I smile. “Just wait until I learn all there is to know from the International Culinary Institute. I’ll blow this town away with my treats.”
Meredith breezes into the kitchen. She’s wearing a coral sweaterdress, and her flaxen hair, freshly trimmed, grazes her shoulders. Her eyes are bigger than a Disney princess’s. “The International Culinary Institute?” she says. “I thought that wasn’t happening.”
I laugh, a terse sound. “Of course it’s happening.”
“But … the money.”
“What about the money?”
My dad gives the front of his hair a nervous tug. “I, uh—”
“Dad, what’s she talking about?”
Meredith smooths her dress, plainly apprehensive. “Oh, Jake. You haven’t told her?”
“Told me what?”
My dad discharges a heavy sigh, sending his wife a reproachful look before settling his gaze on me. “Jill, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.” If his tone was solemn when he was warning me about Max, it’s downright grim now. “I didn’t want to tell you tonight, but…”
My heart thuds in anticipation of what’s obviously bad news. “God, Dad. But what?”
“Your culinary school fund … It’s become unavailable.”
“Unavailable?”
Meredith winces as he amends, “It’s gone, Jill. The money is gone.”
It feels like there’s a lump of yeasty dough expanding in my throat. “Gone? How?”
My parents exchange a glance doused in guilt. “It went toward Meredith’s medical expenses. Our health insurance doesn’t cover fertility treatments, and Mer’s been through years of them. The costs became a mountain of debt, and that money was sitting in an account, collecting pennies of interest. It only made sense to use it.”
My mind’s racing, and I feel, suddenly, like I’m going to be sick.
“Otherwise,” Dad’s saying, his voice far away, “we’d be so far in the hole, we’d never climb out. That’s no way for a family to live. I know you were counting on that money, but using it to help cover Mer’s infertility treatments was the most responsible choice.”
Gone.
Thousands and thousands of dollars, saved for years and years. Money earmarked for me. For the International Culinary Institute. For my Grand Diplôme. Now funneled toward my stepmother and the leech baby who’s holed up in her belly.
My eyes burn. I can’t believe my education wasn’t a priority. A consideration. I can’t believe they emptied the account without a word about it to me.
“Jill, I’m so sorry,” Meredith says quietly.
“I know this is a surprise,” Dad says, “but you have more than a year to make the money back. We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Make the money back? Laughable. I’ve got a savings account of my own funded by my True Brew paychecks. It might get me a plane ticket to New York.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I really am.”
The compulsion to run, to bury myself in my bed and stay there through the weekend, weeping until I’m emptied of tears, is nearly unbearable. This is a blow, a dream-shattering, destiny-crushing blow. My breath comes shallow, like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“You understand, don’t you?” my dad says.
I don’t understand—not even a little bit, and not even when I try to view his news objectively, through my most altruistic filter. My emotions boil over, riotous and wrathful. “No, I don’t understand! You’ve ruined everything—my whole future!”
Meredith moves to touch my hand, but I snatch it out of her reach. This is her fault just as much as it’s his.
“Jill, it’ll work out,” my dad says.
“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything! God, Dad, how could you do this? How could you not tell me?!”
He flounders and I wait, my hands balled into fists, desperate to hear how he’ll justify his actions, this secret he’s been keeping for who knows how long.
He’s opening his mouth to respond when the doorbell rings, sparing him an explanation. The relief that washes over his face is infuriating.
“Probably the Holdens,” Meredith says, eyeing Dad. She looks like she’s seconds from laying into him—because he didn’t tell me about the money, or because her party’s in danger of being ruined? “Marcy said they’d come a few minutes early. Would you let them in, Jill?”
I balk, huffing out a petulant breath.
“Please,” Meredith says.
I only do as she asks because I can’t stand to look at her or my father another second.
I march toward the foyer in a daze of dashed aspirations. I’m tempted to veer off course, to detour to my room, to blow this stupid party off completely—it’s not like commitments mean anything in this household—but then it occurs to me that Max is likely standing on the front porch, and the prospect of seeing him keeps my feet moving in the direction of the foyer. If anyone can distract me from what just happened in the kitchen, it’s him. I swallow past the brick of disappointment lodged in my throat and swing the front door open.
Most of the Holden clan stands before me. Marcy’s all smiles; she hired a nurse to sit with Bill while she spends the evening at our house, a rare reprieve from her husband’s care. Ivy’s filling in as her date, and it’s entirely possible Marcy bribed her for the privilege of her company. The oldest Holden offspring, Zoe, who acts fifty-six instead of twenty-six and lives an hour north, stands with her husband, Brett, whose parents are watching Oliver while they get their Bunco on. And then there’s Max.
“Hey,” I whisper, feeling raw and exposed.
There’s a weird moment of silence during which they all just stand there, staring at me, and I wonder if they can see, somehow, my life’s goals lying in fragments at my feet.
Marcy passes Ivy the bottle of wine she’s holding and reaches out to hug me. “Jill! You look lovely, sweetie.”
I return her hug, savoring its momentary comfort, then greet the others in turn, forcing a wooden smile. Brett, carrying a casserole dish with pot holders, bends to kiss my cheek and says, “I hope you were in charge of desserts.” Zoe, in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, sweeps my hair over my shoulder and says, “You really do look nice.” Ivy, wearing a ruby-red bustier and skinny jeans, dark hair mirror-shiny, gives me a quick once-over before saying, “Who’re you trying to impress?”
I lift my chin indignantly. “No one.”
She glances at Max, then back to me. “Whatever.”
I’m glad when she brushes by, taking her superiority with her, but now Max and I are on our own. He hangs back, dressed in jeans and a blue cotton button-down. Hatless, with a five o’clock shadow, he looks … good. His mouth bobs open, like he has something to say but can’t retrieve the words. He closes it after all, letting his eyes travel over me—my made-up face, my loose hair, my cuter-than-average outfit—and my heart loses its footing.
When I’m sure I can’t survive his scrutiny another second, he says, “Your dad’s not hiding around the corner, waiting to kick my ass, is he?”
My dad. God.
I shake it off—the loss, the hurt, the anger, the confusion. I’ll deal with it, think about it, feel it tomorrow, when I’m alone, but tonight maybe I don’t have to—not if I’m with Max.
He leans closer and whispers, “Really, is he cool with me being here?”
“It’s fine. Meredith wouldn’t have invited you if it wasn’t. Still, it might be best if we steer clear of him.”
“Oh, believe me,” he says, stepping into the house, “I plan to.”
Bunches of neighbors roll in shortly after the Holdens, until the kitchen and the living room are packed with people. Max and I hang back, hugging a wall. He takes a surprising stab at chitchat, but it’s halted and uncomfortable, probably because of me, and I’m pretty sure this is going to be the longest night ever.
“How was Thanksgiving at the Eldridge house?” he asks, clearly grasping at straws.
“Lame. How was Thanksgiving at the Holden house?”
“Shitty. My mom bought a soggy, precooked turkey, then insisted we sit at the table and express our gratitude even though no one was feeling all that thankful. After dinner, Ivy sulked in her room, and Zoe bitched at Brett for sharing whisky with me while we watched football. My dad just sat there, staring at us like he barely knew us—like he didn’t want to know us.”
A moment of clarity forces my perspective to shift; lost college money is very, very bad, but Max’s dad almost died, and even though he didn’t, he’s forever changed—all of the Holdens are. “God, Max. I’m sorry.”
“Life blows,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, think I could snag a beer?”
I arch a brow. “Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, Mom, it is. It’s Bunco Night—we’re gonna liven things up.” He grins and I’m wavering. It must be obvious, because he adds, “Come on, Jill. You and me.”
It’s not like he has to get behind the wheel later, and tonight of all nights, I could use something to dull the ache of my drained account. Besides, my dad said to keep Max out of my room. Never once did he say to keep him away from the booze.
“Coolers are downstairs,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
He follows me to the basement. Back when my dad was working with an architect on the plans for our house, he’d been all about the party basement, a room that could accommodate his pool table and a fully stocked bar and the biggest TV on the market. Before Bill’s stroke, he and Dad used to spend College GameDay Saturdays and Monday Night Football evenings down here, drinking and shouting obscenities at the refs. It’s been a while since this room has been used for its intended purpose—socializing—but tonight it’s crowded with people, card tables, and folding chairs. The lights are low, and flickering candles that smell of vanilla and spruce are scattered across the bar. Dad and Meredith mill around, faking it, I assume, making sure newcomers have drinks and are clear on the oh-so-complicated rules of Bunco.
They avoid eye contact with me. I oblige.
I lead Max to the row of coolers Kyle and I lined up earlier. I keep watch while he stoops and paws around in the ice until he finds the brand he prefers—cheap and light—then pulls a red plastic cup from the stack teetering on the bar. He tilts it and pours expertly.
“What about you?” he asks, dropping the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
“Um…”
“Oh, come on, Jilly,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Let’s get crazy.”
My knees nearly buckle as I imagine a series of very crazy scenarios.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head: I expect better from you. But guess what—I expected better from him.
Besides, what’s so wrong with getting a little crazy?
“Fine,” I tell Max, “but I don’t like beer.”
“How ’bout I mix you a drink?”
I scan the room again. Marcy’s chatting with Ivy, Meredith’s wrapped up in a conversation with Zoe and Brett, and Dad’s talking with Meredith’s friend, Mrs. Tate. She’s got him good and occupied, sharing all sorts of juicy dirt, I bet.
I nod at Max, who quickly and surreptitiously grabs another cup and fills it with ice, a generous splash of rum, and Coke. I take the cup from his outstretched hand and sample. The rum burns my throat, but combined with the sugary soda, it’s not bad.
He flashes me a smile, the smile, the one that makes me feel far less inhibited than I should. “Well?”
“Yum,” I say after a second sip.
Meredith calls my name from the other side of the basement, and I pick my way through the crowd. She’s all lit up, entrenched in her role as sparkling hostess, but once I’m standing in front of her, she drops the act. Softly, she says, “Jill, I really am sorry. Your dad … I had no idea he hadn’t—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say brusquely. I take a swig of my drink, practically daring her to ask if it’s spiked. She doesn’t.
Instead, defeated, she asks, “Will you go over the rules with Max? We’ll start soon.”
I turn away to retrieve him from a football-centric conversation and sit him down at the head table. I give him an overview of the game, the four rounds, the luck necessary in rolling three dice for specified numbers, the point system for which he’ll use his own scorecard, and the number of chances he’ll have to roll. I keep my attention on our tutorial, but I feel his fixed stare, as if the ins and outs of Bunco aren’t mind-numbingly boring.
When I’m done, he takes a long drink of his beer, watching me over the rim of his cup, then says, “I like your hair that way.”
Before I can give what will almost certainly be an awkward response, I spot Ivy on the other side of the room. She’s standing with Zoe and Brett, but she’s not paying attention to what they’re saying. She’s watching Max and me, her eyes darkened with suspicion. Because I’m sitting with her brother—her best friend’s boyfriend.
I scoot my chair away from Max’s as my dad holds up a hand to quiet the room. “Let’s get started,” he says when the buzz of voices has faded. “Refresh your drinks and find a seat.”
I remain at the head table. Max doesn’t make any effort to move either, and it’s not long before Meredith and Marcy join us, rounding out our quartet. Meredith seems to have recovered from our non-conversation; she shines like a lightbulb while Marcy quizzes her on baby names. Max takes another gulp from his cup. I fidget in my chair like a kindergartner who needs a bathroom break. What a delightful picture the four of us must make.
“Jill,” Meredith murmurs as we wait for stragglers to find seats. “Really. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“But you look flushed.”
“Well, I feel great.” I sip from my cup and inspect my scorecard, hoping she’ll shut up. Easily sidetracked, she begins to discuss nursery colors with Marcy, paint names like Rosy Cheeks, Sassy Lilac, and Lush Meadow.
Max plucks a mini candy cane from the dish in the center of our table and tears the cellophane. He snaps the peppermint in half and passes me the curved piece. “You do look flushed,” he whispers with fake concern and a shit-eating grin.
I slip the candy into my mouth as Meredith rings a bell to begin the game.
As the first round gets under way, my age-old theory about Max Holden being incredibly lucky is confirmed. On his first turn, he racks up eight points. Alternatively, my first turn earns two. He catches my eye often as we roll and pass, roll and pass. For a moment, I entertain the notion that he’s watching me, which is absurd. Sure, I’m a polished version of my usual self, and generationally we’re outnumbered, but Max has little reason to pay me attention.
He has Becky.
Bunco moves quickly; it’s a game without strategy, which makes it perfect for socializing. The first round’s over before I know it. Max takes my cup and mixes me a refill while I switch seats for the second round. I’ve found my spot by the time he returns with my cup. He has to lean over me to place it on the table, and as he does, his arm brushes my bare shoulder. I’m almost positive it’s intentional, and my skin erupts in a flurry of goose bumps.
“Thanks,” I say, tipping my head to look at him. His eyes are dark as rain clouds; the word brooding pops into my head. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve won four of six. I think that’s pretty good.” He peeks at my card, sees my one measly win, then laughs, dropping a hand to my shoulder. “Bunco’s not your thing, huh?”
The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin and wit fails me. I scan the basement for my dad and find him at the bar with Marcy and Mrs. Rolon, the bottle blond who lives down the street. He’s refilling their wineglasses, laughing at something Marcy’s just said, oblivious to the fact that the neighbor kid is giving his daughter heart palpitations with a shoulder squeeze.
“It’s cool,” Max tells me. “I’m doing well enough for the both of us.”
I try to recall the last time he and I were us.
Dad’s voice carries over the clamor of conversation: “Tables, everyone!”
I turn to find him staring at me. He doesn’t look happy. Maybe because of our earlier discussion, or maybe because I’m with the very boy he expressly told me to stay away from. I don’t care either way, but apparently Max does.
He snatches his hand away. “I should, uh, find my seat.”
“Okay,” I say, sorry to see him go.
I try to appear useful and collected, not flustered and tipsy. I rearrange the dice. I reposition the snack bowl. I make needless marks on my scorecard. My pulse resumes a seminormal pace as the three empty seats at my table fill.
Time for round two.