MONDAY MORNING, I SIT ON OUR LIVING ROOM couch with my school bag and a saran-wrapped loaf of chocolate chip banana, waiting. I might not be ready for a grand gesture, but after a night spent twisting and turning, racking my brain for a way to fix things with Max, I’m certain I can pull off a medium gesture. I hope it’ll be enough.
“Do you need to take my car today?” Meredith asks, surprising me. She’s standing under the living room’s archway, where a sprig of mistletoe once hung, and she’s holding Ally, who’s racked out—naturally, because no one else in the house is currently asleep. Mer’s wearing jeans and an emerald sweater, and she looks pretty in the morning light.
“No, thanks. Max will take me. I’m just waiting for Ivy to leave before I head over. I’ve got to talk to Bill and Marcy, and I don’t want her skulking around, acting like a she-devil.”
Meredith smiles. “She’s not so bad, is she?”
“Oh, she’s pretty bad.” I say this lightly, like it doesn’t bother me that Ivy takes Becky’s side in battles I don’t even want to be a part of, but it does. It bothers me a lot, because even though she and I have never shared a bond like the one I have with her brother, I assumed she cared in her own aloof way.
“What do you need to talk to Bill and Marcy about?”
“Max and me.”
She smiles. “Going public, finally?”
“To a select few.”
“I’m glad. Max obviously adores you.”
“But Dad…”
Meredith rolls her eyes, folding the hem of Ally’s blanket under. “Your dad’s hardly an authority on character these days.” She presses her lips together, then draws a breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“No,” I tell her. “It really wasn’t.”
Our shared gaze holds. She looks both mystified and melancholy, like she’s trying to figure out how her life reached this juncture while at the same time yearning to move beyond it.
“I’m going to lay this girl down.” she says, squinting at Ally. “Have a good day, okay?”
I nod. I’d return the sentiment, but I suspect the words will sound hollow; from what I can tell, Meredith’s good days have been few and far between lately. Dad may have ended it with the Other Woman, but he’s got a long way to go if he’s going to make the last several months up to his wife.
Through the rain-streaked window, I catch sight of Ivy walking briskly down the Holdens’ driveway, umbrella overhead. As soon as she backs her car out and heads for school, I spring from my seat and sling my bag over my shoulder. Then I head into the rain, hustling across the sodden lawn, shielding my hair and my bread as best I can.
At the Holdens’ front door, I give a double knock and slip inside, wiping my wet shoes on the woven mat before making my way to the kitchen, where Marcy and Bill are seated at the table. She’s got a cup of coffee, and there’s a protein shake with a thick plastic straw sitting in front of him.
“Jillian!” Marcy says, patting the bench beside her. “What a nice surprise. Come sit.”
Leaving my bag on the floor by the fridge, I pull a knife from the butcher block and carry my loaf to the table. “I brought breakfast,” I say, taking the seat Marcy offered.
She unwraps the banana bread and inhales. “Smells amazing,” she says, holding the loaf out to Bill. He sniffs, and smiles his approval. “Coffee?” she says, taking the knife and slicing the bread into even pieces, which she places on napkins and divvies out.
“No, thanks. Max is still upstairs?”
She nods, helping Bill with a bite. “He should be down in a few minutes. You need a ride, sweetie?”
“I do, actually, but that’s not the reason I’m here. I kind of need to talk to you guys.”
Marcy brushes crumbs from her fingertips and folds her hands. I’ve got her full attention—Bill’s, too—and I’m nervous. I’m trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea when the conversation Max and I had last night bounces through my head: his dismay, his thousand-pound sigh, his lack of farewell.
Of all the people in my life, he’s the last I want to disappoint.
“So,” I say, wishing I’d accepted that offer of coffee after all. “You might’ve noticed that Max and I have been hanging out a lot lately. For a while we were just friends, but then we realized it was more than that, and now…”
Bill’s nodding. Marcy’s smiling auspiciously. “Now, what?”
God. This is awkward.
I imagine grabbing the edge of a Band-Aid and tearing it clean off. It’ll be painful for a half second, but that’ll subside, and even though the cut underneath might not be entirely healed, it’ll be on its way.
“Now we’re together,” I say, and suddenly I’m on roller skates, barreling downhill, unable to stop or even slow down. “I like him. He likes me, too. And it’s good between us—I really think so. We were worried about telling you—no, I was worried about telling you—but I’m not even sure why, now, except we just want you to be happy for us. Because my dad, well, he hasn’t been himself lately, and he hasn’t been very supportive. He has his reasons, but they’re stupid, and I just really wish I could be honest with him.” I pause, catch a breath, and tack on a question. “Kind of like I can be honest with you?”
Marcy’s got a hand pressed to her heart. “Of course you can be honest with us.”
I glance at Bill and find him beaming. I remember his years-ago prediction about his son and me, our probable future together. I smile, too.
“So, it’s okay? Max and me?”
Bill’s bobbing his head and Marcy’s wrapping me in a hug and I’m getting a little teary myself. “He’s been better, you know,” she murmurs, pressing her cheek to mine. “Happier. I hoped it was your presence. Your influence.”
“It’s not, though,” I tell her. “He needed time, is all.”
She nods, pulling back as heavy footsteps thud down the stairs. Max plows into the kitchen, pulling up short when he sees me at the table with his parents. “What’s up?” he asks.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say, pointing at the sliced loaf. “Come sit?”
He does, straddling the bench adjacent to me. He helps himself to a piece of bread, taking an unthinkable boy-sized bite. After he’s chewed and swallowed and complimented my baking, I lean in to kiss his cheek. “Good morning, by the way.”
His eyes go wide as he looks from his parents, who are grinning conspiratorially, to me. It’s fun to watch as realization dawns on him. “Wait—you told them?”
I shrug. “That’s okay, right?”
He hooks his arm around my neck and pulls me into his chest. I’m laughing when he says, “You did good, Jilly.”
We spend a little longer with his parents, eating banana bread and filling them in on the highlights of our day in Seattle. Marcy’s practically oozing happiness, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Bill so enlivened. He’s not observing our conversation; he’s participating in all the ways he can. Max keeps glancing at him, smiling slightly, almost bashfully, then looking away. I’m trying—I swear I am, he said the night we went for ice cream. I can see that he is. I can see that he wants to.
The bond he and Bill shared was interrupted—never broken.
Slowly, carefully, it’s being restored.
* * *
When we arrive at school, Max and I make our way through the rain-drenched quad and into the locker bay. Our shoes squeal against the linoleum as we maneuver through the crowd. We stop at his locker first, where he collects books for chem and civics, then head down the corridor to my locker. After I’ve gathered my own books, I face him, thinking about how good, how normal, it is to slog through the mundaneness of preparing for classes with this boy who makes me feel like a colony of butterflies have taken up residence in my stomach.
When he reaches for me, though, I recall the swift, searing pain of Becky’s shoulder clashing with mine, demeaning as the day it happened. It’s instinctual, the way I sidestep his touch. It hurts him, I know it does, because his hand sinks to his side and his face crumples, and all the good I did with his parents this morning is demolished by one impetuous slip.
“We should be careful,” I say. “That’s all.”
As if on cue, Becky emerges from the crowd, copper curls bobbing as she struts in our direction. She stops in front of me, beside Max. Her green eyes roam his face as she glides a possessive hand along his arm. He quickly shrugs her off, but the red-hot bitterness I feel seeing her touch my boyfriend is visceral; I want to knock her down.
“I miss you,” she says to Max, softly, like no one’s around but the two of them.
He moves to my side, slinging an arm over my shoulder, and despite my misgivings, I lean into him. “You haven’t said good morning to Jill,” he tells her.
She looks at me like I’m curbside trash. “There’s a reason for that.”
“Get over it, Beck. She had nothing to do with what happened between you and me.”
“Please. We’d still be together if she would’ve stayed on her side of the street.”
“Bullshit,” he says without malice, like he’s just stating a fact.
“Who does that anyway?” Becky barrels on. “Breaks a couple up because she can’t get over her childhood crush?”
Max shakes his head. “You and me were done long before Jill and I started hanging out.”
“We were together when she kissed you.”
Feeling ballsy and aggressive and a little out of control, I step forward. “He kissed me.”
She crosses her arms, not-so-subtly flaunting her chest. “Just like he begged you to let him go to your parents’ stupid party, and forced you to cuddle up next to him while you guys watched that asinine movie? You’ve orchestrated this whole thing because you’re jealous—because you don’t have a life of your own.”
I clench my hands into fists, my fingernails digging into my palms. I want to shove her so bad—I’m desperate to dehumanize her the way she did me that day on the quad—but I refuse to stoop to her level. “I have a life,” I say, quiet and controlled. “And I wish you’d stay out of it.”
“I can’t, because my ex—my best friend’s brother—trails you like a puppy.” She leans forward, sticking her nose in my face like a bona fide bully. “I’ll always be around,” she says, “a reminder of what you did. What you ruined.”
“Becky,” Max says, a low warning. “Shut up.”
She turns on him. “What? You thought I’d disappear so you could have a happily ever after with your trampy neighbor? You thought it’d be that easy?”
“I thought you were better than this,” he says, looking pointedly at the audience we’ve attracted. Dozens of people have stopped to observe us, two cats wrestling over a tom. I’m not this girl; I’ve never wanted to be this girl. I step back, using Max’s height to shield myself from their stares. Callously, he says, “Get the hell out of here, Becky.”
As the warning bell trills, I spin around, intent on making an overdue escape, but Max catches my hand. I pause, but I don’t turn to face him. I don’t want him to see how my cheeks burn, how my lip trembles, how utterly humiliated I am. I wait, staring unseeingly at the floor, clutching his hand, bound to him in all the ways that count as our classmates reanimate, hustling to get to class before the final bell.
When the hallway has mostly cleared out, Max twirls me around and pulls me close.
“She’s mad at me,” he says. “Don’t let her get to you.”
“Do you see, though? Why I don’t want to make a big deal about us at school?”
“Jill, it’s not like things can get any worse.”
I’d like to tell him about Becky knocking into me because, yes, things can get worse, but I don’t want to trigger his anger—not over this, something I should be able to handle on my own. “If I ever see her touch you again,” I tell him, “I’ll have to hurt her.”
His eyes take on a devilish gleam, and he walks me back, until I’m leaning against the cold metal of my locker. He turns his hat around so its bill is out of the way, and I grip the hem of his jacket, tugging him closer, until his mouth is inches from mine. “I like when you get all fiery,” he says.
“Oh, I bet you do.”
The tardy bell rings. The hallway’s empty but for us. I should be in French.
Max places a hand on the locker next to my head and moves closer. He tucks a leg between mine, pressing his body against the length of me. I feel him inhale, slow and shallow. He skims his nose along that place where my collarbone meets my throat, and heat rushes up my neck. God. When did the hallway get so warm? He brushes the side of my face with his prickly cheek, touching his lips to my ear, lingering a moment before easing back. His cinnamon exhale fans my skin. “I’m dying to kiss you.”
My breath hitches. “Then maybe you should.”
He closes the space between us, but at the last second, bluffs and pecks the tip of my nose. “No more kisses for you—not until you’re cool with doing it out in the open, in front of anyone who cares to watch.”
I gasp. “Max Holden, you are the worst kind of mean!”
He takes off down the hall, turning once to look back at me. He’s smiling, but his voice has a serious edge, and it reverberates in the deserted corridor. “That’s the deal, Jillian Eldridge.”