Max

I name it The Kiss That Ruined Victoria’s Secret. By the time we finally say goodnight in the frigid early morning air, my slicked undies tell the tale of my yearning.

It feels like my first kiss, but a hundred times better. That’s exactly the kind of flutters Stoner gives me: like he’s my first kiss.

I want him to kiss me more, longer, harder. I want to stay in his arms all night long. Or, all morning long, as the case may be. God, the way he grabs hold of me, it’s as if his life depends on it.

His stubble on my cheeks reminds me that we are indeed not high schoolers anymore.

He leaves, even though neither of us want him to leave. As I watch him make his way down the street, I want to go with him so badly I could weep.

As I creep upstairs, I feel the ache between my legs pulsating.

Nobody has ever produced an ache so deep before.

I crawl into bed and cover myself with my mother’s handmade quilt.

I drift off to sleep, and my mind wanders to the past. Now knowing everything that Stoner and his mother went through, it breaks my heart into a thousand pieces.

I wish I could go back in time and be there for him. I silently resolve to make it up to him, somehow.

Starting with the visit to his mother.

The martini and dessert hangover have me sleeping in on Wednesday morning.

Finally my dad rouses me about nine a.m. “Your mom’s got the whole family pitching in to do the prep work for tomorrow.’’

I rise a little grouchily, for Dad had awakened me from a very nice dream in which I was sitting on Stoner’s lap, wearing a red silk teddy, telling him what I want for Christmas. And Stoner’s stubble was tickling my face and neck as I whispered to him my very short wish list that was comprised of one very big, hard, long thing.

Dad simply gestures me into the kitchen as I pull on my robe.

Before I have my coffee, Mom has me at the stove, cooking down cranberries. Mom is baking pumpkin and butternut squash for pies.

Dad is chopping celery and mushrooms for the stuffing, and that’s when I notice someone is missing.

“Where’s Sam?”

Mom waves me off. “You know, she’s sleeping in. She was up late talking to her sponsor.”

I sigh as I stir the cranberries. I have my doubts about this particular sponsor.

“That woman seems to give Sam any excuse to ‘take care of herself,’ which in this house translates to, ‘not helping with diddly shit.’”

“Maxine!” Mom scolds.

“It’s true,” I say, squeezing the oranges in the juicer. “Nobody ever makes her pull her weight around here because we’re all just afraid we’re going to be the one to trigger her next freakout.”

“Did someone say ‘weight’?”

We all turn and see Sam sanding in the doorway of the kitchen, throwing daggers at me with her eyes.

“Yes, I did,” I say.

Sam steps in and breezily pours herself a cup of coffee without offering me any.

“Oh, is that right, Pumpkin? And you just know everything there is to know about me and what I do around here, with the one weekend a year you deign to show up.”

“That’s not fair, Sam.”

“And it’s fair that you judge me?” she retorts.

“I think it’s fair that I judge you for using your recovery to get out of helping.”

Dad finally steps in. “All right, that’s enough,” he says. “Both of you help in your own way. Sam is helping herself by being in recovery. Max, as always, you’re helping with less…esoteric things.”

“Dependable Max,” Mom says.

I’ve had enough. I pour the sugar and orange juice into the cranberries, crank up the heat and stir like a madwoman to get those little fuckers good and cooked as quickly as possible.

Then I pour a selfishly huge mug of coffee and text Stoner. Ready when you are.

I hope he gets the message and comes to get me out of here as soon as possible.

As I sip my coffee on the stairs in my leggings and oversized sweater and boots, he texts me back. On my way. Can’t stop thinking about that mouth of yours.