THE EVENING PASSES, DICE ARE ROLLED, DRINKS are downed.
At halftime, I escape up the stairs, buzzed and oddly buoyant.
Behind the locked door of the powder room, I assess my reflection in the mirror. My hair holds the curl I coaxed into it, but I’m critical of my scarlet cheeks and the longing that shines too bright in my eyes. There’s no denying that Max’s attention makes me feel good, but it makes me edgy, too. He’s going through a rocky time and as of tonight, I am, too. Plus there’s his girlfriend, who’d explode in a ball of fiery rage if she caught her boyfriend and me flirting.
I take a long swallow of my drink, then a few deep breaths, trying to break up the knot of worry that’s landed in my stomach. The girl in the mirror stares at me, wild-eyed and wanting.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and I remember: there’s a party in full swing downstairs. I wash my hands, comb my fingers through my hair, and smooth on a fresh layer of lip gloss. As I’m slipping the tube back into my pocket, the door clatters with another knock. I yank it open, ready to give whoever so obviously lacks patience a piece of my mind, but it’s Max who stands in the hall. He gives me a discomfited smile and steps aside so I can join him.
“Took you long enough,” he says. “What the hell were you doing in there?”
I give a cryptic raise of my eyebrows.
He chuckles and lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay, never mind.”
“What are you doing up here?”
“I’m ready for another,” he says, showing me his empty cup. “Your dad gave me a look last time I went near the coolers. There’s beer in the kitchen, right?”
“Yep. Come on.”
He follows me into the empty kitchen, where I take a beer from the fridge and hand it to him. He twists the top and takes a long pull. I watch with interest as he swallows, his throat bobbing in a way that’s far sexier than anything I’ve seen in my seventeen years.
He sets his bottle on the counter. “Headed back down?”
“In a few minutes.”
“Avoiding the crowd?”
“Something like that.”
He hoists himself up to sit on the countertop, the spot where Kyle and I mixed brownie batter this afternoon. “Mind if I hang out till the break’s over?”
My heart, the mutinous thing, dances a two-step. “Yeah. Okay.”
He takes another swig of beer, then asks, “So? You having fun?”
For a nanosecond, I consider telling him about my lost money, the pastry-chef piece of my heart that’s been ripped out and stomped on. But then, “Uh, I guess.”
“I am. I always have fun when you’re around, Jilly.”
I guzzle my drink, his breathy words replaying in my head. My face is so hot. Because of him? The rum?
“We should hang out more often,” he says. “You and me. It’s never just you and me anymore.”
“Yeah, well, your friends keep you busy. So does your girlfriend.”
He shrugs. I try to get a handle on his expression, which is a lot like attempting to read hieroglyphics. “Still,” he says. “I miss you.”
My stomach takes a nosedive, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my toes. “What am I supposed to say to that, Max?”
“Nothing. It’s cool.”
Clearly it isn’t. I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry.
He saves me from the probable humiliation of jamming my foot into my mouth. “So, Bunco … I had no idea this game was so cutthroat.”
“Right?” I say, glad for the change of subject. “You’d think we were playing for blood instead of cash.”
He hops down from the counter and gestures for my cup. I pass it to him and he fills it three-quarters with ice and Coke. “I’ll fix this for you downstairs,” he says. “You ready?”
I nod, then trail behind him, through the kitchen and into the living room. But he stops suddenly, just short of the stairs, and I almost crash into him as he pivots to face me. “Listen,” he says, pushing a hand through his hair. “What happened on the quad a few weeks ago, Becky being Becky, treating you like shit…”
“Max, I’ve forgotten all about that.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t.”
“You don’t—”
He holds up a hand. “Just let me, okay? I’m not excusing her, but she has her reasons for acting the way she does, which mostly have to do with me. Ivy’s not helping, either, but none of that matters because my point is, I was a dick for not stepping in. I should’ve told her to shut up.” He runs a palm over his face; he looks supremely uncomfortable—a lot like how I feel. “Anyway, I just … I wish it hadn’t gone down like that, and I’m sorry.”
His admission of fault is stunning—I can’t remember the last time he accepted culpability for anything. But I don’t want to talk about Becky. Not tonight. Not ever. “It’s fine,” I manage.
“You sure?”
“Of course. I’ve let it go.” I mean it—I’m going to forget my frustrations concerning him and Becky. Him and me.
He’s standing, motionless, in the warm glow of the living room lamps, gazing down at me. His enormous ego appears to have withered; he’s almost reticent. “Jill,” he says, low and tentative, “do you ever think about what happened on Halloween?”
“Um…?” The conversation? The kiss? The revulsion splashed across my dad’s face when he discovered us?
“Because I do, sometimes.” He smiles, adorably sheepish. “Is that weird?”
My eyes find the floor, to which I say, “No. I think about it. Occasionally.”
“I know I was a mess. And I know your dad was pissed—hell, he’s probably still pissed. But…” He hooks his fingers with mine, a charming, innocent gesture. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It wasn’t bad. It was—”
From the basement, my dad’s jolly voice: “One minute until game time! Tables, people!”
Max yanks his fingers back. His gaze darts around the living room. We’re alone. I’m relieved, but sour, too, because I think what we were about to have was a moment—a moment we need to figure out what’s going on between us—and it was interrupted. Again.
“Jillian? Max!” Dad, not so jolly anymore.
“Come on,” Max says. “Jake’ll strangle me if he catches us together, and we still need to top off your drink.”
I have the presence of mind to keep a respectable distance from Max as we descend the stairs, but my dad still slaps me with a look of irritation, which I ignore. I take my seat and sneak peeks at Max as he wanders with practiced nonchalance to the bar. He pours the beer he’s kept tucked behind his back into a more discreet cup, then doctors my Coke with a splash of liquor. There’s a lucky disturbance in the corner of the basement—it seems Mrs. Rolon has knocked her glass of red wine onto the alabaster carpet; Meredith’s comforting her while Dad sops up the mess—and Max is able to return my full cup without half the town watching.
The game begins again, more uproarious than before, and it isn’t long before Max and I find ourselves back at the same table. He weasels his way into the chair to my left while busybody Mrs. Tate and her husband, Officer Tate, round out our foursome. Officer Tate gives Max’s cup a curious look but must think better of raising concern. This is a party, after all, and he’s off duty. Besides, the Tates don’t have kids—her job as a hospice nurse and his commitment to law enforcement are their life’s purpose. Maybe Officer Tate assumes Max isn’t stupid enough to drink in a roomful of adults.
Max isn’t stupid; he’s fearless. He used to use pieces of scrap lumber to build bike jumps in the street. He used to climb out of his second-story window, then launch himself off the roof, landing on the trampoline below. He used to wade into the river with nothing but an inner tube and a heap of gumption, and let the current carry him a mile downstream. After, he’d hoof it back up the bank for another run.
I love his courage, and sometimes I really hate it.
When the round begins, Mrs. Tate rolls the dice with a focus that makes me want to laugh out loud. I swallow my drink in an effort to suppress my giggles, while Max gapes at her antics. Her face is bright red, clashing with her strawberry-blond hair—and her movements are sloppy, like she’s had one glass of chardonnay too many. Still, she’s racked up some points by the time she’s finished. “Your turn, Jill,” she laments, passing me the dice.
I sweep them up and roll. Two fours and a three, a near Bunco. Officer Tate claps politely. I roll again and watch as the dice tumble to the table. Two more fours. Huh … Is it possible I’ve found a groove?
There’s a bump against my ankle as I pick the dice up for another turn. I ignore it, but it happens again. Subtly, I glance to my left. Max is waiting for me to roll. His mouth quirks into a smile as he nudges my calf, gently but deliberately. I curb the impulse to gawp, but I’m floored that even he has the balls to play footsie within spitting distance of my dad.
“Jillian, it’s still your turn,” Mrs. Tate prods.
I dump the dice. They hit the tabletop with a clatter: two fives and a one. So much for my groove.
The game continues in a blur. My mind hops back and forth, agonizing over my dad’s mandates regarding Max and my compulsion to let loose—with Max.
I ask myself, Why not raise some hell?
My cup seems to possess a bafflingly bottomless quality. How many times has Max refilled it? I’ve lost count, but that’s mostly because I’ve been so busy marveling at him. Against all odds, he’s become the life of the party, cheering with neighbors, fist-bumping people three times his age, and laughing, loud and jovial. His liveliness fills me with affection so acute, my mouth stretches into an irrepressible grin.
When the final round of the game comes to a close, my lips are pleasantly numb, my shoulders are loose, and my mind is free of worry.… Bunco is fun!
I spot Max drifting toward me. In a feeble attempt to look occupied, I count the wins on my scorecard, a task that takes all of a half second because I’ve only won three of sixteen games.
He sidles up next to me and counts aloud, “… eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Plus a couple of Buncos. Pretty good, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say with a disbelieving shake of my head.
He takes my card and turns it and his own in to Meredith, who’s tallying scores and divvying prize money. Our fellow Bunco players swarm the bar, waiting for the announcement of winners. Max returns to my side, standing brazenly close, his warmth running the length of my arm. “If I win,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna use the cash to take you to dinner.”
I’m unquestionably drunk, but even so, that strikes me as a terrible idea. The specific reasons why are scattered around in my head, and I work hard to sort them out. Dad and Becky are obvious roadblocks, but even if I momentarily discount them, there’s still a problem.…
What if Max and I give dating a shot, and it doesn’t work out? Our families are already cracking under the weight of inescapable change; we hardly need to toss the drama of a failed romance into the mix.
I look up to speak of reason and responsibility, but I become distracted by the shape of his jaw, angular and unyielding, as if carved from stone. His eyes flicker and flash in the candlelight. A flirtatious voice—my voice?—says, “Dinner? I’m going to hold you to that.”
Somewhere, someone taps a glass, and I seek out the sound. My dad, holding a pilsner and a spoon, watching us with unconcealed exasperation. Max shifts away as Dad’s gaze zeros in on me—Watch it!—before he transitions into his host persona. “First, the booby prize,” he says. Low laughter rumbles through the room. Everyone knows it’s the lowest scorer who receives the booby. “This year, the booby goes to … our very own Jillian!”
I make my way toward him amid a smattering of applause, face flaming, feet clumsy. He gives a phony grin while Meredith hands me an envelope in which two ten-dollar bills are tucked—hardly a prize worth listening to my father use my name and the word booby in the same sentence.
I pass the better part of Max’s family on my way back through the crowd; Marcy squeezes my hand in congratulations, Zoe and Brett give me twin thumbs-up, and Ivy points her nose in the air. Typical. I let her snub roll off my shoulders, listening as the prize for third place is announced: Mrs. Tate, who pumps her fists in the air like she’s just completed a marathon. She hugs Meredith, then my dad, nearly knocking him into the wall as she throws her arms around his neck.
Max muffles a snicker and slides behind me. The crowd hides our closeness, his solid chest pressed flush against my back. He’s gravity, binding my feet to the floor. Lucky, because I’m perilously close to floating into the stars.
“Are we almost done here?” he whispers.
My heart beats loud as thunder. “Mm-hmm.” And then, because I’ve lost my inhibitions and apparently my mind, I say, “Want to hang out after?”
A split second of torturous silence passes before he answers, “Definitely.”