MAX AND I DON’T SEE MUCH OF each other at school in the following few weeks, but we make plans to hang out after: coffee (for me) and soda (for him), long drives in the truck he recently earned back, and homework sessions spent at the library (because I’m laying the groundwork for future scholarship applications and he’s playing catch-up). We don’t talk so much as absorb each other’s company, but that feels okay because it’s not a strain on our fledgling friendship. Also, I meant what I said about him and Becky: He should think about what he wants without my influence serving as a distraction.
Things haven’t been great between them, according to gossip courtesy of Leah and Kyle. Becky decided Max should quit hanging out with the guys so much, and Max decided Becky didn’t get to dictate his social calendar. Other tidbits I’ve heard: Her parents hate him (a legit possibility), his mother hates her (despite Becky’s friendship with Ivy, that’s likely now true), and recently, after a particularly ferocious fight on the quad, the two of them had make-up sex in an empty biology classroom (God—gross).
When I’m not hanging out with Max, busting my ass in class, or tacking extra hours onto my shifts at work, I’m helping Meredith with baby preparations; she can’t lift anything heavier than a grocery bag, which means I get to assemble the crib when it’s delivered on a rainy Saturday morning, the last day of January. In the nursery, she sits in this special chair she bought—she calls it a glider—and tries to make sense of the multiple pages of instructions, pointing out pieces of whitewashed wood that need to be fitted together.
Later, after the leech baby’s crib is standing straight and sturdy and Meredith’s shown me an app she recently downloaded—a contraction timer, of all things—Max rescues me with a text: Movie at my house tonight?
Somehow, this proposed activity strikes me as more intimate than anything else we’ve done lately. I mean, it’s not sex in a biology classroom, but me plus Max plus a movie viewed in a dark space seems more like an equation equaling trouble than two friends hanging out.
I call Kyle for his opinion.
“But Max told me he was going out tonight,” he says. “Couple of guys on the basketball team are having a rager, and Becky’s dragging him along.”
“Not anymore,” I say, wondering at the catalyst for his change in plans. “He just texted me.… Do you think I should watch a movie with him? I mean, it could potentially get … weird.”
“Jelly Bean, surely you two can sit through a ninety-minute film without your libidos getting the best of you.”
I roll my eyes. “You should come.”
“Third wheel? Hard pass. Unless…”
And that’s how Leah ends up invited to the Holdens’. She insists on bringing Jesse, and he calls Leo and tells him to stop by, and before I know it, the evening has turned into an official Movie Night.
My friends and I used to gather in the Holdens’ big bonus room often, vegging in front of comedies we’d seen dozens of times. Even Ivy joined us when she wasn’t in the midst of social calls and dance team obligations. Last year she came pretty regularly, in fact, and then she started inviting Becky. Seemingly all of a sudden, Becky and Max were a couple. That was right around the time I began to dread the get-togethers. Then Bill had his stroke and the Holden household became a place of sickness and sadness, and Max and Ivy stopped asking friends over.
I’ve got mixed emotions about this whole Movie Night thing—the notion carries a lot of baggage, and tonight will be Max’s and my first attempt at our newly resumed friendship in the company of others. I do my best to relax by making a treat, lemon coconut truffles, which I have to wrestle from my freakishly strong, delicacy-demanding stepmother before heading out the door.
With every step across the dark street, my nerves multiply. Kyle’s car has replaced Ivy’s in the Holdens’ driveway, and Jesse’s and Leo’s are bumper-to-bumper on the street. Seems I’m the last to arrive.
Normally, I’d give my double knock, then walk right in, but tonight feels formal. I was invited, after all, and I’ve brought a dessert. So I knock three times, and wait.
Max answers the door. He’s smiling, and then I am, too.
I gather my wits, sort of, and after saying a quick hello to Marcy and Bill, who are watching Wheel of Fortune in the living room, I follow Max up to the bonus room, where our friends are waiting. Leah has dressed up for our night in because that’s the sort of girl she is—an ostentatious chocolate sculpture, showy but sweet—and the guys are lounging in jeans and sweatshirts with various sports logos plastered on them. I give a general wave and place my platter of truffles on the ottoman. While Kyle, Jesse, and Leo descend on them with alarming zeal, I allow myself a two-second peek at Max, who’s loitering to my left. He’s wearing a University of Washington hoodie, and his hair’s sticking up in unruly spikes, and I’m pretty sure he couldn’t look better if he tried.
He catches me checking him out—of course he does—and I turn away to assess the viable seating options, instantly regretting my leisurely mosey across the street. Kyle, Leah, and Jesse are lined up on the couch, Leo’s taken over the recliner, and Max … He crosses the room to the oversize beanbag chair, prime real estate, and flops down, taking up well over half the surface area. Before Bunco—before Halloween—I might’ve shoved him over and made him share. Tonight, I stay on my feet, unsure of what to do and where to go.
“Jilly,” he says, patting the barely there space beside him. “Come sit.”
I glance at Kyle, who hitches a hubba-hubba eyebrow. I head for the beanbag with the sole purpose of proving his silent but ridiculous assumption wrong. “Scoot over,” I tell Max.
He does, but when I sit down, we both sort of sink into the center, until our shoulders-hips-thighs bump up against each other. I’m tempted to rocket right back up, but Max doesn’t bat an eye, and honestly, what’s the big deal? We’ve been sitting side by side at True Brew and the library, not to mention within the confines of the truck, and it’s been fine. Because we’re friends—we agreed—and so far neither of us has done anything to upset the balance we found when we shook hands.
Jesse hops up to dim the lights and Max uses the remote to start the movie. It’s one I’ve seen before, a shame because I could use something other than the many points of contact between my body and Max’s to focus on. But alas, I spend much of the film alternately wondering at and freaking out about his apparent lack of distress.
Halfway through the movie, Marcy appears with three bowls of popcorn. She gives one to Kyle, Leah, and Jesse, one to Leo (because his size dictates an individual serving), and one to Max and me. She smiles when she notices us together, yet she doesn’t look all that surprised. After letting us know that she and Bill are turning in for the night, she heads back downstairs.
Max shifts, planting the bowl of popcorn between us. He angles his head toward mine and whispers, “Comfortable?”
I nod. “You?”
“I’m good.”
I wiggle deeper into my spot, bending my knees to bring my feet up. The movie’s nearing its climax and it’s funny—it really is—but I’m struggling to pay attention. I’m struggling to get comfortable, too, because I feel like I can’t move, lest I rock our beanbag boat.
“Jill,” Max says, hooking an arm around my legs, “I can’t see.” He tugs my knees down until they’re resting against his thighs, then leaves his arm flung across, effectively pinning them there—not that I have a superstrong urge to move away.
Even in the meager light, I catch Kyle smirking.
And then, over the theatrics onscreen, I hear car doors slamming in the driveway, followed by commotion downstairs. Max sits up a little, cocking his head. Not five seconds later, the bonus room door bangs open and the lights blaze on. Becky stands in the doorway, and judging by her disheveled appearance, she’s having a wild night. Her ringlets are frizzy, her face is patchy with redness, and her mouth is a tight line. She’s in a minidress and tall, tall boots, with pale swaths of bare thigh glowing in the lamplight.
I jerk away from Max, but it’s too late. She sees us—how close we’re sitting, Max’s arm draped across my legs, the way I’ve subconsciously inclined myself toward him.
“This is why you skipped out on the party?” she accuses, thrusting a finger at me.
“I was just—”
“Becky.” Ivy comes into view behind her, also dressed for a night out—though not as outrageously. “He wasn’t feeling well, I told you.”
“He looks fine!” She’s wasted—it’s so obvious. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she keeps rocking back on her heels. She looks careless and cutthroat—practically possessed.
Max rises from the beanbag, standing at his full height. “I am fine,” he declares in the same frank tone he might use to say the sky’s blue. “I just didn’t feel like partying.”
If I’m taken aback by his admission, Becky’s flabbergasted. Her eyes dart from him to me, drilling holes straight through my soul. She’s questioning what Max sees in me, as a friend or otherwise, and her expression is so anguished, so bitter, my cheeks become circles of heat. I sink into the beanbag, wishing myself anywhere but here.
Becky turns her glare on Max. “How could you do this to me?!”
“We were watching a movie.” He waves a hand toward Leo, Jesse, Kyle, and Leah, looking on with assorted expressions of discomfort. “It’s not like this is a private party.”
“Isn’t it? Because you two looked pretty fucking cozy!”
I expect Max to go all humble, to waver under her allegations like he has in the past. But instead of trying to wheedle his way back into her good graces, he says, “Becky, if I’d wanted to see you, I would’ve gone with you to the party. If I’d wanted you to stop by, I would’ve invited you.”
Her eyes are bright with tears. God, this is awful.
Ivy drops a sympathetic hand onto her shoulder. To her brother, she says, “You don’t have to be a dick.”
“And you didn’t have to bring her here.”
“What would you have had me do? Let her leave by herself?” Ivy scoffs. “You of all people should know what can happen if the cops catch you driving drunk.”
Max’s hands curl into fists. “I wish you’d mind your own business.”
“I wish you’d quit screwing up!”
He ignores his sister and takes a purposeful step toward Becky. “It’s time for you to go,” he says, though not unkindly. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” She lunges, planting her palms on his chest and shoving hard. He doesn’t move—doesn’t even sway—but I’m done. I can’t watch her put her hands on him, and I can’t watch him try to tend to her, even though I know it’s exactly what he should be doing. She’s in shambles, and Ivy’s not doing her any favors; where usually I’ve got nothing but ill will when it comes to Becky, now all I feel is pity.
She’s crying, sloppy sobs that serve as a perfect diversion. I stand, catching Kyle’s eye. He gets up, too, and we’re nearly clear of the bonus room when Max says, “Jill, wait.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, waving a hand like, deal with your shit. I want him and Becky to be over more than I want my next breath, but I’m not interested in standing around, waiting to see if he’ll make a clean break.
“I’ll walk Jill across the street,” Kyle tells him.
Max nods, and that’s it—Movie Night’s over.
Leah, Jesse, and Leo are up as well, gathering their things and slinging on their jackets. Ivy’s comforting Becky, wearing a look of utter helplessness, and I feel an unexpected pang of sympathy. It’s not like she expected a scene like this, and I know a little something about trying to push logical decisions on someone who’s determined to dig their hole as deep as possible.
Kyle loops his arm through mine. We head for the door together, listening to Becky snivel as we make our escape. I look back one last time to see her cross-legged on the floor, her head resting on Ivy’s shoulder. Max is hunched over the two of them. He’s murmuring something, his voice tight with consternation, with commiseration, and it doesn’t take a scholar to figure out that this was Becky’s intention—she’s trying to win his attention, his affection, by acting all bat-shit.
I wonder if it’ll work.
Once we’ve waved Leah, Jesse, and Leo off, Kyle and I cross the street to my house, tomblike in its tranquil darkness. He walks me all the way to the porch, quiet until he’s not. “So, what’s going on with you two?”
“Who?” I ask dumbly.
He flashes his patent don’t bullshit me scowl. “You and Max.”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing. I know we talked about being there for him, but did we mean be there for him?”
“I’m not in the mood for riddles, Kyle. Just say what you want to say.”
“Okay,” he says in this smart-alecky way that makes me steady myself against the porch railing even before he gets started. “I think you like Max more than you’re letting on, and I think he likes you. I think he’s relaxed when he’s with you—content when he’s with you. I think Becky’s a spoiled fuckup. And I think you’re standing in your own way.”
“There are a lot of things standing in my way.”
“Her? No competition.”
“Kyle. On the off chance Max and I one day got together, she’d make hell of my life at school. Ivy would, too. Besides, it’s not just Becky. My dad hates Max.”
“Because he’s been acting like a dipshit. But he won’t always.” Kyle squeezes my hand, gazing down at me like a sage old owl. “Your dad loves Max’s family, and he loves you. If you guys got together one day, he’d get over it—I’m certain. He wants you to be happy, Jelly Bean, just like me.”