Her statement lands odd—why would her daughter be at her parents’ without her right now? A random week in summer? Sure. Spring break? Fair game. But Thanksgiving is the epitome of family time, even if my family takes the unorthodox route. Her lips may be pursed in a don’t-ask-further-questions kind of way but she’s seen my grandma in a vulnerable state. It’s only fair she spills the secret that she doesn’t get along with her parents or whatever it may be. “You didn’t want to see your parents?”
“My parents live in town,” is all she says.
“Oh, they took her to Seattle for the holidays?”
“No. She’s visiting my in-laws.”
The next sequence of events happens so fast, it feels surreal. I’m about to ask Nola what that could possibly mean when one of the co-eds from the high-top table comes up to our booth. I look up at her to offer my obligatory ‘Hello, do you want a photo? Would you like an autograph?’ pitch when she thrusts herself onto my bench, grabs my face, and yells, “Maxford Hutchings, I love you! Marry me!”
What she says barely has time to register when my hands go up to push her away. The woman reeks of tequila and she uses her uninhibited momentum to roll us flat onto my bench, my elbow cracking on the side of the table as we go down. Her shiny eyes tell me she’s determined to get her kiss. I turn my head and prepare to push her up, just as I feel her lifted off me. Expecting to see Tom taking care of business, I’m treated to an enraged Nola, both hands on the woman’s shirt, tossing her away from our booth.
I sit up and notice half the bar has stopped what they’re doing to watch this play out. Tom’s on guard, in the middle of the floor, ready to toss the woman and her friends when Nola’s hand goes up to stop him, ready to take on the woman herself. The drunk coed stumbles a bit before gaining her footing and looks at Nola. With a heady attitude and eyes half-closed, the co-ed sputters, “And who are you?”
Nola’s short like Violet, probably under five foot five, sonot really intimidating by most standards, especially tonight in joggers and paint. But at this moment, she looks fierce. With the glare of death, she takes a step toward the woman and calmly announces, “Nobody, and I meannobody, kisses my husband.”
11
NOLA
Of all the titles I should’ve gone with.
‘Boyfriend’ would’ve been a much better option, though still a lie. I drill into Emma the importance of always telling the truth, and I’d been presented the perfect opportunity to do just that. All I had to say was, “Nobody kisses my daughter’s P.E. teacher.” Totally terrifying and a perfectly honest threat.
Instead I went forhusband.
The second that flew out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. In my mind, I rewind back to the moment the woman approached our table. Why did I even step in and feel the need to take over? For all I knew, Max was enjoying the attention and wanted the impending kiss. This whole situation is the pot calling the kettle black. I literally did the exact same thing to him six weeks ago. In this bar. Geez, women make really brash choices in this establishment.
Except, when I kissed him, he seemed amused by it. Willing. We’d flirted a little in the hallway before I got brave. When Gen Z went in for the kill a moment ago, he had thelook of a deer trapped against a rock wall as the mountain lion lunges. But still . . . to call him my husband?
When I snap out of my temporary blackout, patrons have their phones out, the bar’s owner is escorting that group of women from the bar, and our server is bringing Max and me to-go boxes of fresh nachos.
Max grabs the food and takes my hand, leading me from the bar. His hand is calloused, strong, and protective. I follow him in a fog of embarrassment from what I did and uncertain feelings about how much I’m enjoyingthis.Our fingers intertwined, holding on for dear life. We reach his ostentatious green Land Cruiser before I can decide anything and he opens the passenger door.
“I drove myself.” My eyes shift toward where my SUV is parked.
“Get in. Please,” he says quietly.
I do as he asks, and he hands me the food before going around and opening the driver’s door. He doesn’t say anything as he maneuvers through downtown and around Fort Park Boise before pulling into the school’s drop-off and pickup lane, where he idles the car.
Max fixates on something straight out the windshield instead of glancing over at me as he speaks. “Where do you live?” Then he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’ve waited, expecting him to be mad, to have questions, but instead, he seems tired.
I plug my address into his GPS and a few more quiet minutes later, we’re in my driveway. We sit for a second longer, and when I reach for the door, he asks, “Can I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.” With an app on my phone, I open the garage door and let us in. I’m quick to take stock of the stateof my house. When Emma’s gone, that laminated to-do list that keeps our lives functioning all week long goes to the wayside. Add in the recent opportunity to land a large commission and my house is not ready to host company.
We enter from the garage into the kitchen, and I set both boxes of nachos on the bar. Max goes around the bar and takes a seat on a stool. Blush rushes up my neck knowing he’s facing discarded mugs and bowls that litter my counter, never quite making it into the sink. Two pizza boxes sit on the stovetop and I swipe them, placing them on my floor by my feet out of sight. It’s a second too late, though, and as he pretends to fiddle with the food in front of him, I catch his smirk from my actions.
Behind him the dining room table is lost under a million paints and palettes.
I’m winning.
He looks up, scooping a chip into his mouth, and raises a brow. “So. Many. Questions. Nola.” Still, he’s calm and collected. It’s been at least twenty minutes since the incident happened. Tables reversed, I’d be reading him the riot act and telling him how far over the line he’d stepped. I’d make sure he knew how I didn’t need to be saved, feminism ranting in full swing.
I wrinkle my face and internally brace myself. I cross the kitchen and grab two cans of Diet Pepsi from the fridge before taking my spot again and handing him one. Tentatively, I swallow my pride and play coy as I start the conversation. With my forefinger wrapping itself around a strand of hair, I ask, “What are you thinking, Max?”
The first thing he does is nod to the lightbulb over the sink. “What’s happening there?”
“It burned out.” He’s judging me and my ability to care for Emma and myself. I can feel it.
