DAD LEAVES THE HOUSE BEFORE DAWN, AN attempt at beating traffic on his way to a meeting in Seattle, and this morning Meredith has an appointment with her doctor—one she doesn’t mention until just before it’s time for her to drive me to school.
“Catch a ride with Max,” she says, hitching a thumb toward the window where his truck sits in full view, warming up in the driveway across the street.
Meredith is perfectly put together, sitting at the kitchen table with her feet up on the chair across from her, sipping green tea from a travel mug. Meanwhile, I bustle around, wiping down counters, collecting stray mail, dumping my dad’s breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. There’s been a complete role reversal in the six months she’s been pregnant, and I don’t love it.
“Dad said to stay away from Max.”
“Then ride the bus.”
“Never.”
“What about Ivy?”
I wrinkle my nose, downing the last of my cooling coffee as I hitch the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Riding with Ivy is to risk a Becky run-in—no, thank you—and anyway, I have nothing in common with Max’s big sister. She’s crème brûlée: fancy and feminine and double-take gorgeous, with a hard outer shell I’ve never cared to crack. Besides, her car’s already gone.
“Jill, just go with Max,” Meredith says wearily, resting a palm on her stomach. She does that a lot now—shields the leech baby with her manicured hand—and it’s strange. Not that I relate to most of what Meredith does. She and my dad started dating when I was ten, she moved into our house when I was twelve, and there was a wedding a year later. It’s not that I dislike her; I just don’t get her. She’s so … pristine.
She slips her feet into the patent-leather flats beneath her chair. “I have to go if I’m going to get to my appointment on time, and you can’t let what happened last night make you late for school. It’ll be a ten-minute ride. You’ll survive, and your father will, too.”
Damn it.
Back when she was on bed rest, Meredith often let me take her Saturn to school, and on the occasions she needed it, my dad would drop me off. But I’ve had to ride with Max a few times, too, on mornings when Meredith’s had errands and Dad was tied up with early meetings, and it sucks. Max’s truck is cluttered, he insists that every morning begin with twangy riffs courtesy of the Highwaymen, and he’s almost always grumpy. But today the horror that was last night clamors around in my head.… Max and I kissed, and my dad walked in on us, and that’s seven shades of screwed up.
Begrudgingly, I shoot him a text to let him know he gets to play chauffeur, then hurry across the street, littered with a blend of pine needles and pinecones and fallen leaves, to the Holdens’ driveway. I pass the truck, exhaust streaming from its tailpipe, and give the front door two knocks before letting myself in, same as I always have.
I find Marcy and Bill in the kitchen. She’s still in her bathrobe, pouring steaming water from a teakettle into an oversize mug. He’s in his wheelchair, sporting a royal-blue tracksuit and immaculate sneakers that’ll probably never touch pavement.
“Morning, sweetie,” Marcy says, wrapping me in a hug. She’s warm and soft and homey, like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. She welcomed me into her family’s fold the moment my dad and I moved onto the street. She used to do her fair share of babysitting where I was concerned, and she taught me almost everything I know about baking.
When she releases me to tend to her tea, I stretch my mouth into a big smile and walk to where Bill sits. His eyes are on the small kitchen TV, tuned to ESPN as usual, but they move to follow me as I come closer. I assume the louder, livelier tone that comes inherently when I address him now. “Morning, stranger. How’s it going?”
He replies with a wobbly grin and jerky nod. He’s too thin, birdlike in his fragility, nothing like the indestructible man I used to know. Still, he’s Bill; his eyes gleam with familiar amiability. I squeeze his shoulder and move to where Marcy’s washing dishes.
She bumps her hip against mine. “Catching a ride with Max?”
“How’d you know?”
“He may have grumbled something about it while wolfing down his omelet. He’s upstairs brushing his teeth, but he should be ready soon. How’re Jake and Mer?”
“Busy,” I say. “Dad with work. Meredith with baby stuff.”
“And you? We hardly see you anymore. Find yourself a nice boy to date?”
I swallow back the snicker that comes with that ridiculous question. The boys in my circle are hardly datable … Jesse’s blissfully spoken for, Leo’s up front about his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude, and Kyle’s not interested in girls. Max … he couldn’t be less datable.
“Nope,” I say, casual. “School and work keep me too busy.”
“Good girl,” Marcy says, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I wish Max shared your priorities—any idea what’s going on with him?”
My face practically ignites. God—is she baiting me? “Uh, no … Why?”
“He’s in the foulest mood. Almost insufferable. Isn’t that right, Bill?”
From his place at the table, Bill nods.
Marcy rubs the gold cross pendant she wears on a fine chain around her neck, as if shining it with her fingertips. She waits, hoping I’ll share some nugget of wisdom, some brilliant insight into her son’s petulance, I guess. The thing is, I do have a rather foggy idea as to why Max might be especially ill-tempered—less than twelve hours ago, he drank too much, fought with his girlfriend, then kissed me, the very last person he should be kissing. There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to discuss traitorous, drunken hookups with his mom, though.
“Huh … Not sure.”
“I wish there was something I could do for him.” She lowers her voice, leaning in close. “He’s taken Bill’s stroke so hard—harder than both my girls. I just don’t want him to do anything stupid.”
I recall the throwaway comment he made last night, about how he could’ve hopped behind the wheel of his truck after getting pirate-drunk. “None of us do, Marcy.”
With that, Max comes thumping down the stairs. He’s wearing his letterman’s jacket, and a black knit beanie covers his dark hair. He gives me a cursory nod of acknowledgment, mumbles good-bye to his parents, and saunters out the front door.
I hurry to follow.
By the time I reach the F-150, Max has closed himself inside. The unmistakable strumming of classic country leaks from the cab, and a shudder of annoyance ripples through me. I silently curse the automobile gods, because if I had a car of my own, I wouldn’t be forced to endure what’s sure to be a torturous ride with the most miserable person in all of McAlder.
Still, Max isn’t completely ill-mannered; he throws the truck’s passenger door open for me. I’m greeted by a gust of heated air and Willie Nelson’s nasal voice wailing nonsense about heartache. As I step onto the running board, he murmurs, “Hey.”
My foot slips.
“Shit!” I shriek, fumbling for the door handle, barely managing to catch my balance. I heave myself gracelessly into the truck, glaring at my dew-wetted shoes. Nothing like a narrowly avoided crash landing to foil feigned indifference. Max is watching me, I know he is, but my bruised ego won’t let me meet his eyes. I buckle up, my cheeks flaming.
“So,” he says, backing down the driveway.
“So,” I return.
“Sleep well?”
“Fine. You?”
“Eh … Got any tests today?”
“Um,” I say, thrown by his attempt at conversation. “In French.”
“I’ve got a quiz in civics. Forgot to study.”
Shocking.
He doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t, either. A decade of friendship, and this is what we’re reduced to.
Daunted by the prospect of ten minutes of meaningless staccato chitchat followed by cumbersome silences, I fish earbuds out of my backpack and scroll through the music on my phone, searching for something to drown Willie out. Max drums the steering wheel, effectively ignoring me, and I feel a jolt of frustration. What right does he have to be nonchalant? He was the one who came to my window. He was the one who initiated the kissing. He was the one who cheated on his girlfriend. Why am I stressing out?
I make myself a promise: I will stop worrying about the sharp-edged dynamic that is my relationship with Max Holden. He doesn’t care. Why should I?
He swings the truck out of our neighborhood and onto one of the two main roads in our tiny town—McAlder is, quite literally, a map dot on the fringes of suburbs that’ve cropped up under Washington’s perpetually overcast sky. We live in the shadow of Mount Rainier, among countless evergreens, between two runoff rivers that swell with melted snow and salmon every spring. McAlder’s the sort of town where people move to escape the bustle of city life: quaint, but close enough to civilization for an easy commute, which is why my dad chose it after he and my mother, Beth, split up. Career-driven, she moved halfway around the world to cook fine cuisine. Dad, on the other hand, settled in the most family-friendly community he could find (first in a condo, then in the house where we live now), and hired a secretary to lessen his workload so he could spend time with me.
I chance a peek as Max straightens the steering wheel and guns it. He’s in his typical driving posture—slightly slouched, one hand hanging at twelve o’clock—wearing his jacket, plus a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans. He’s probably nursing a hangover, and he’s sporting his semipermanent scowl, but still. He looks good.
I smother a sigh as he brakes behind a line of traffic. The corners of his mouth turn up and, lightning fast, he snatches my phone from my lap and turns my music off.
I pull my earbuds out, intent on retaliation, and lunge for the dash. I spin the volume dial, silencing Willie. “How do you listen to that crap anyway?”
Max shrugs in his annoyingly offhanded way, refocusing on the traffic, which is at a standstill in front of us. “It’s better than the emo shit you listen to. And since you’re set on a music-free car ride, we can talk.”
Talking feels like an enormous undertaking, especially in the aftermath of the slop-tastic kiss that never should’ve been. “Talk about what?”
He gestures to the line of cars idling in front of us. “Maybe you can tell me why traffic’s so backed up.”
“I have no idea. Accident? Construction?” I reach for my phone, certain our conversational quota for November’s been met.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Max swats my hand—the swift reflexes of an athlete. “I thought we were gonna talk?”
I rub the spot where our skin made contact. Tingles. Undeniable, unwelcome tingles. “Fine,” I say. “Talk.”
“How’s Meredith? You know, with the baby?”
Not my favorite topic, but better than a certain alternative.
“Okay, I guess. She still gets sick, and her blood pressure’s high. Apparently that’s a bad thing when you’re pregnant. Her ankles look like gigantic sausages. It’s disgusting.”
“Zoe’s looked like tree trunks before Oli was born.” He shifts the truck into park, since we’re basically gridlocked. He’s wearing the adoring expression that always finds its way onto his face when he talks about Oliver, his two-year-old nephew. “I bet your parents can’t wait for the baby to get here.”
Meredith can’t. She won’t quit talking about the pregnancy, the nursery, her miles-long list of possible names. It’s my dad who’s complicating things. One would think he’d be overcome with joy at having another child, especially after Bill’s tragedy, but he’s anxious about money and work and Meredith’s health—sometimes I hear them arguing late at night. And secretary or not, he’s never home anymore, which sucks. I’m starting to think he should erect a cot in the corner of his downtown McAlder office.
“Meredith is thrilled,” I tell Max.
He turns a mischievous half smile on me. “How weird is it to have solid confirmation that your parents are doin’ it?”
I frown. “Not that I’ve asked or even care to know, but I’m pretty sure this baby was conceived in a petri dish.”
He appears confused, but then a lightbulb flickers behind his eyes. “Oh. Jesus. Sorry.”
I cringe at the thought of my dad and Meredith “doin’ it.” Then I wonder … Would I be equally revolted by the thought of Dad with my mother, had they remained married? Beth is a celebrated Parisian chef now, distant, save snail-mailed birthday cards and the occasional e-mail. I have no grounds on which to base this presumption, but I doubt she was a frail, sickly pregnant woman like my stepmother. I imagine her with a big, rounded belly, standing before a stainless-steel stove, stirring a stockpot filled with steaming bisque. The notion makes me wistful.
I turn to Max. In my sternest voice, I say, “Let’s never discuss Jake and Meredith’s sex life again, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, wearing the shadow of a smile. Then, randomly, he asks, “Hey, you thirsty?”
“I don’t know … I guess.”
“I’ll be right back.” He opens his door, letting in a gust of damp air as he slips out of the truck. He slams it before I have a chance to question him. With my mouth hanging open, I watch him trot across the street and down the block, toward McAlder’s only 7-Eleven.
He’s been gone ten seconds when, of course, traffic starts to snake forward. I fidget, embarrassed, as a few horns trumpet. It’s not long before there’s a block of empty road between the front bumper of Max’s truck and the car up ahead. I turn around and give the driver behind me a raise of my shoulders and an apologetic smile. He glares, pointing to his watch.
Damn Max and his impulsivity.
Car horns begin to bellow in earnest, discordant as a flock of tone-deaf geese. I sit, helpless and embarrassed, until I spot Max’s keys dangling from the ignition—the truck’s still running. I unbuckle my seat belt and slide across the bench, then shift into gear and, gripping the big steering wheel, ease my foot off the brake. I’ve driven plenty of times, but nothing as burdensome as the F-150. I let it coast slowly down the block, appeasing the impatient drivers behind me while keeping an eye out for Max. I can’t very well ditch him in the cold, but that doesn’t mean I’m not entertaining the fantasy.
And then I spot him, jogging toward me and his barely rolling truck. He’s got a huge lidded cup in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. I brake and, to a cacophony of horn blasts, shift into park. He opens the driver’s-side door and jumps into the seat I’m frantically scooting out of.
I’m a breath from yelling at him for leaving me stranded when he shoves the enormous cup into my hands. “I brought you a soda.”
“Oh. Uh, thank you,” I say, flustered by his considerate, if ill-timed gesture. Fountain Coke’s my favorite—always has been—and he knows as much. Is this his idea of a peace offering?
He pops the top of his Red Bull and revs the truck’s engine. Another horn cuts through the fog, blaring far longer than what might be considered polite. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he mutters, “Keep your pants on, asshole,” and then we’re off.