EVEN AFTER WHAT TURNED OUT TO BE a construction delay, Max gets us to school in plenty of time, yammering about another party at Linebacker Leo’s this weekend. I’m not sure if it’s the Red Bull he downed in a few noisy gulps, or his once-insatiable need to fill silence reemerging like the sun from behind a cloud, but he doesn’t shut up until he pulls into his parking space at McAlder High School.
I catch a glimpse of his letterman-jacket-clad teammates hovering in the traffic lanes. Kyle (a junior like Max, Leah, and me) is tossing a football back and forth with Jesse and Leo even though it’s misty and forty degrees. They conduct this ridiculous makeshift parking lot practice most mornings, and their combined sense of oblivious entitlement and affable nonchalance always makes me smile. They’re hard not to like.
“Thanks for the Coke,” I tell Max, winding the cord of my earbuds.
“No problem.” He cuts the truck’s engine, then watches while I fish a tie from the back pocket of my jeans and gather my hair into a ponytail.
“Why do you do that?” he asks when I’ve finished twisting the elastic.
“Do what?”
“Wear ponytails all the time.”
I check the side mirror to be sure my hair is smooth and, at the same time, dodge what I suspect might be a too-intense expression on his face. “I don’t know. I like it out of my way.”
He’s quiet, expectant, his attention like a weight atop my shoulders, and it feels rude to continue staring quasi-ignorantly at my reflection. Despite the warning bells clanging in my subconscious, I turn to face him.
Big mistake.
His gaze is too intense, and now I’m trapped. His eyes hold mine until time extends long and taut. A voice in my head shouts, Look away! But I can’t—he’s trying to communicate using those expressive eyes of his, and something in me, something rebellious and exasperating, is committed to receiving his message.
He leans forward, reaching out. At first I think he’s going to touch my cheek and I suppress an anticipatory shiver, but his fingers extend beyond my face to my hair. He wraps the end of my ponytail around his hand in this deliberate, reverent way that whips up a frenzy of questions, the most urgent of which are: Why is he touching my hair? and What the hell is he thinking?
He moves closer and suddenly we’re in a vacuum, Max and me, cocooned in the warmth of his truck, the sounds outside distant and insignificant. This intimacy, this spark of connection, is familiar. Last night … there were good parts, sweet parts, tucked among the chaos.
I’m tempted to lean into him, but this isn’t me—I don’t swoon over boys. I don’t swoon over Max. And yet my heart thuds so forcefully, the truck’s likely shaking. His attention falls to my mouth and for a brief, terrifying second I wonder if he might kiss me. Again. Because that worked out so well last time.
Still, my breath catches.
The corners of his mouth lift in a smug smile. And then he levels me with the most awkward question ever: “You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”
Despite the recent strain that’s plagued our friendship, he knows me well.
“No!”
“Yeah, you are.” He pulls back, giving my ponytail a little tug before releasing it. His distance is a relief, and a disappointment. “You didn’t get in trouble with your dad, did you?”
“No,” I lie again.
“’Cause it was no big deal, right?”
My shoulders rise, then drop.
“I mean, I know I acted like an ass,” he goes on—at least he can speak the truth. “But things between us aren’t gonna be weird, are they?”
Not weirder, I guess.
My palms have gone clammy, and eye contact is nearly impossible. I gather the wee bit of poise I’ve managed to preserve in the wake of this hellish exchange and use it to strengthen my voice. “Please, Max. Give me a little credit.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, sounding uncertain. “Me stopping by, the kissing, all of it … It’s gonna stay between us, right? I mean, it’d suck if Becky found out because”—he glances at me briefly, uncomfortably—“well, you know.”
Becky’s the last person I want to talk about. The last person I want to think about. She and I aren’t friends, but I feel like a jerk for letting Max kiss me while they’re together. He may’ve been drunk, but I wasn’t, and I’m hardly going to go blabbing about the indiscretion I helped facilitate. It’s freaking embarrassing.
“I’m not proud of what happened,” I tell him in a chilly tone. “So don’t worry. Becky won’t find out.”
“Hey, don’t get all angsty. It’s just—”
“I’m not angsty, and you don’t have to explain. She’s your girlfriend—I get it. Besides, it was no big deal. You said so yourself.”
“Oh, come on. I didn’t mean it like that.”
The last few minutes catch up to me in a rush of anger, and I swivel in my seat to face him squarely. “God, Max! Just let it go, okay?”
I’m expecting him to counter, and I’m hoping he’ll apologize, but he doesn’t respond at all; he just stares out the windshield, unaffected, and I’d like to strangle him. Instead, I follow his gaze. Leo uses a giant hand to snatch Kyle’s pass from the foggy air. He’s laughing, as usual.
Max checks his watch, then retrieves his bag. “You need a ride home?”
“I’ll ask Leah to take me.”
He stills, one hand gripping the door handle. “Jilly.”
I meet his gaze and his expression, now the opposite of unaffected, startles me. It’s identical to the one he wore last night, when our kiss met its abrupt end. Frustrated, contrite, yet not entirely regretful. He holds it—mouth tight, brows drawn, eyes swimming with emotion—ensuring that I bear its full weight. Then he shutters all those feelings inside and graces me with a cool smile. “See you around.”
He slams the truck’s door and heads toward the guys. Jesse launches a pass in his direction and he leaps, snagging the ball from the air like an NFL all-star, graceful and agile, and I almost forget about his mention of Becky and his insensitive reminder that she remain in the dark. I almost forget about the asshole comment he made regarding my so-called angst. And I almost forget about the chills I felt when he twined my hair around his hand, and the warmth that erupted in my chest when I thought he might kiss me.
Almost.