MAX’S TRUCK IDLES AT THE CURB, ENGINE rumbling.
When I throw the passenger door open, I find Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” blasting from the stereo—a fitting soundtrack for the last few minutes.
“Go!” I say, and he does.
When we’re safely on the freeway, I tell him everything.
“You have every right to be pissed,” he says when I’ve finished.
“I’m not pissed.”
“Then you’re in shock.”
I sit quietly, breathing in and out, watching the freeway fly by. My emotions sink and settle, silt in a creek bed. How do I feel? Dazed, certainly. Sad for Meredith, and sad for Ally. And I’m filled to bursting with hate—I can hardly think of anything but hate, hate, hate.
How could my dad be so selfish, and lie so blatantly? How could he jeopardize our family in the name of getting a piece? Because that’s what’s happening—he’s sleeping with that woman, the woman with the rose-gold hair. There’s not a doubt in my mind.
“Okay, maybe I’m pissed,” I admit, “but I’m not going to freak out and scream and cry.”
“That would be okay,” Max says.
“I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
“Are you one hundred percent sure about what you saw?”
I turn to give him an incredulous look. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Jilly … I’m really sorry.”
I am too, I think, scooting across the seat to assume the position of redneck girlfriend. Max uses his free hand to rub my shoulders, and as his fingers knead away clusters of tension, I think about Bill. He’s facing a lifetime of immobility and dependence, yet he’s indomitable in spirit. He would never cheat on Marcy.
Why is my dad such an asshole?
Max exits the freeway. “Do you have any idea who she was?”
“I only saw her from behind, and at a distance. Young, old, pretty, hideous … who knows? She could’ve been a work associate. A friend of a friend. Someone he met pumping gas. Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s screwing around on Meredith.”
“Are you gonna tell her?”
I don’t answer right away—I hadn’t considered that breaking the bad news might fall on my shoulders. “God, I have no idea what to do.…”
“You can talk to my mom,” he offers. “Or Zoe.”
“Thanks, but I feel like Meredith should know before anyone else.”
He nods and drives on. He doesn’t head straight for our neighborhood. Instead, he cruises around town, twisting and turning up and down hills, touring neighborhoods and our quiet river road. He’s stalling, which is fine with me. I have zero desire to be at home.
“Jill?” he says after a long space of silence. “Maybe I’m a jerk bringing this up now, but has it occurred to you that we’re kind of doing the same thing your dad’s doing?”
I sit back so I can see his face. “Having an extramarital affair? Not exactly.”
“No, but I cheated on Becky with you, and I’m not proud of it. We’ve been sneaking around. Hiding out. Keeping secrets.”
“Max—”
“No, hear me out. I go along with our little arrangement because it’s what you want, but I don’t like it. I’ve got enough going on with my family, and now you do, too.” His words puncture my deceit-filled bubble. It sputters and hisses, disillusion leaking out, evaporating into the truck’s artificially balmy air. I find myself listening, really listening.
“Keeping something this huge from my parents sucks,” he says, gentle but persuasive. “What’s the worst that’ll happen if your dad finds out? He’ll be mad, but who gives a shit? Better than holing up in my truck every time we want to hang out. Better than creeping around like we’re doing something wrong.”
It hits me hard, how unfair I’ve been.
“Okay,” I say softly.
“Okay … what?”
“No more secrets.”
He looks from the road to me, eyes wide with surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
He pulls me toward him again, and I nestle beneath his arm, closing my eyes. I feel good about my decision; the more dishonesty I can expel from my life, the better.
The truck rumbles onward, eventually into our neighborhood. Max pulls into his driveway and kills the engine. I lift my head to look into his uncertain eyes.
“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” he whispers, brushing my hair back. We glance at my house at the same time, a cloud of foreboding suspended over the truck. My dad’s Durango’s still gone, but all the same, I hate the thought of walking across the street.
“Do you have to go home?” Max asks as I say, “Can I stay with you awhile longer?”
He flashes me a smile, amusement and mischief and arrogance squished into one. “You can stay with me all night if you like.”
It’s late, and the Holdens’ house is quiet as we make our way up the stairs. Bill and Marcy are likely in bed, and Ivy’s probably celebrating single-girl status with Becky and a box of wine.
Max closes his bedroom door while I slip my shoes off and make myself comfortable on his bed. He turns and stalks toward me all threateningly, but I know better. His jaw drops when I laugh, and he charges the bed like he’s on his way to the end zone. He hovers over me and kisses me, a hot, needy kiss that leaves me breathless. When it’s over, his face is a fascinating mix of desire and restraint. He asks, “Do you want me to put on a movie?”
“Um, no. Not unless you want to.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d feel like … you know. We can just hang out.”
“Aren’t you considerate?”
He smiles. “Only on my best days.”
“Thanks, but I think too much when I’m just hanging out.”
I pull him close and kiss him hard, and he quits being chivalrous and gallant and starts acting like the lustful teenage boy I need him to be. I sneak my hands under the hem of his button-down and the T-shirt he wears beneath. His skin is on fire, and smooth, like satin stretched over stone. I trail my hands up his torso, as far as I can within the confines of his shirts.
He sits up, suddenly, and yanks them both over his head.
I might be hyperventilating.
“Hey,” he says, resting his palm on my cheek. “You okay?”
I nod, leaning into his hand.
He stretches out next to me and I reach for his arm, trailing the tips of my fingers over his skin. He’s watching me, and his expression … It’s awed and adoring and completely disarming. No one’s ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me now, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by the intense physicality of my feelings for him. I’ve heard love talked about a million times, in a million different ways, but I’ve never imagined it would feel like this, so raw and powerful.
His hand wanders to my stomach. His fingertips drift under my shirt and trace circles over my skin, slowly, higher and higher. His touch is torture, and it’s bliss. It makes me shiver, and wonder how far he’ll go, and hope he’ll never, ever stop. But then, like the gentleman he’s been raised to be, he smooths the hem of my shirt down. “I won’t push.”
“I know.”
He pulls me against him, until we’re a lace of limbs.
We lay perfectly still for what might be the very best minutes of our day.