“And now you’re living pop culture amazingness!” she squeals. “My sister is literal pop culture. Who would’ve ever thought? I liked the way you wore your hair on that date. It looked good on you.”
“Callie found me a stylist who was able to come over before we went out. They brought options for me to pick out my outfit and did my makeup and hair. There was nothing authentic about that night,” I admit.
“I beg to differ, sister. You two looked stupid into each other,” Belle croons. “I mean, geez. I barely got hitched and you’re making us look like we’ve been married a decade already. It’s time you spill.”
“Spill what?”
“How’d you get him to look at you like that? This is all still a sham, isn’t it?” Belle has known from the get-go our marriage is what it is, and my parents don’t understand how I’ve worked my way into such a ruse when rule-following is my drug in life, but they’ve met Max on more than one occasion since coming home from their trip and they love him. He makes everybody love him, which will make everything hard.
“Of course it is.”
“Sure, sure,” she mocks me.
“What are you talking about?” I try to sound inquiring, but if Belle, who knows this is all fake, is seeing something more than meets the eye, I’m all ears. It’s fun talking about the possibility of Max liking me. It gives me the same butterflies I used to get in high school . . . a feeling that’s been missing in my life for way too long.
“Take that picture I sent you, for example,” she starts. “He’s got his arm around you but his eyes are closed while you’re leaning on one another. He’s comfortable with you.”
This proves nothing. “So?”
“I thought you told me he was grumpy.”
“He is. Well, mostly.” I think about the times it is just Max and me, or Max with Emma and me and he lets down his walls. The moments when he smiles more and is softer spoken.
“Take it with a grain of salt but I think he’s not completely faking his feelings for you—at least he wasn’t in that moment.”
“Mom?” My ears perk up. The music has stopped down the hall. Something about the stress in her voice makes me miss whatever Belle continues to say as I stick my head out of the closet.
“I’m right here, Em.” My smile quickly drops as I take her in. Somewhere in the course of this morning, she’s gone from happy-go-lucky to sweaty and tinged green. “Oh, monkey.”
“I don’t feel so good,” she says, running into my bathroom and emptying the contents of her stomach.
“Belle, I gotta go.”
A couple of hours later,Max’s familiar footsteps make their way from the garage into the kitchen. He’s whistling. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so much as hum along with a song but it sounds like he’s got a pep in his step and a tune for the world. I hear him stop at the fridge and pull out a drink, drop his keys on the counter, and put his bags down. He’s been out of town, looking at properties with a realtor between the holidays. “Who’s ready to ring in the new year?” he sings before skidding to a stop halfway into the living room.
“Oh, Nola,” he says with concern. “What’s going on here?” He assesses us from a safe distance. Emma’s lying on the couch, trapped under half the household’s blankets, unable to warm herself in spite of the various layers and the roaring fire. I’m draped across an air mattress on the floor in front of Emma, the largest mixing bowl I could find tucked under my arm.
“Welcome back,” I sigh. My throat is raw after the afternoon I’ve had. “You might want to go home for a few days.”
He kicks off his shoes and goes to Emma first. With the back of his hand on her forehead, he shakes his head. “How long has she had a fever?”
“A few hours. It came out of nowhere and took her down before it got me. I’ve got this, Maxford. You can go.”
He gives me side-eye.“I’m choosing to think you’re saying crazy things because you feel awful, but there’s no way I’m leaving my girls.” With that, he bends down and brushes the mop of sweaty hair out of my face. “Thisis my home. Got it, Adler?”
My nod is weak but enough of an answer for him, and hestraightens up, whipping out his phone like he means business and goes down the hall to his room.
“Why’d he call us his girls?” Emma’s little voice asks.
I’ve been dozing off and on between needing the bowl, and my eyelids feel heavy again. I’m too tired to give an explanation beyond, “I don’t know, Em.”
“I like it,” she admits quietly.
I can’t help but smile in agreement as I fall asleep.
When I wake,I’m not sure what time it is. I roll toward the couch, where Emma seems content. She has even shed a few blankets and is sipping on a green Gatorade. I turn again and find Max on the corduroy chair, laptop open, furiously typing away. He’s changed out of his jeans and button-down into a hoodie and sweats. I stretch and push the heavy quilt off me, attempting to sit up.
“How are you feeling?” Max looks my way.
