“Probably the Holdens,” Meredith says, eyeing Dad. She looks like she’s seconds from laying into him—because he didn’t tell me about the money, or because her party’s in danger of being ruined? “Marcy said they’d come a few minutes early. Would you let them in, Jill?”
I balk, huffing out a petulant breath.
“Please,” Meredith says.
I only do as she asks because I can’t stand to look at her or my father another second.
I march toward the foyer in a daze of dashed aspirations. I’m tempted to veer off course, to detour to my room, to blow this stupid party off completely—it’s not like commitments mean anything in this household—but then it occurs to me that Max is likely standing on the front porch, and the prospect of seeing him keeps my feet moving in the direction of the foyer. If anyone can distract me from what just happened in the kitchen, it’s him. I swallow past the brick of disappointment lodged in my throat and swing the front door open.
Most of the Holden clan stands before me. Marcy’s all smiles; she hired a nurse to sit with Bill while she spends the evening at our house, a rare reprieve from her husband’s care. Ivy’s filling in as her date, and it’s entirely possible Marcy bribed her for the privilege of her company. The oldest Holden offspring, Zoe, who acts fifty-six instead of twenty-six and lives an hour north, stands with her husband, Brett, whose parents are watching Oliver while they get their Bunco on. And then there’s Max.
“Hey,” I whisper, feeling raw and exposed.
There’s a weird moment of silence during which they all just stand there, staring at me, and I wonder if they can see, somehow, my life’s goals lying in fragments at my feet.
Marcy passes Ivy the bottle of wine she’s holding and reaches out to hug me. “Jill! You look lovely, sweetie.”
I return her hug, savoring its momentary comfort, then greet the others in turn, forcing a wooden smile. Brett, carrying a casserole dish with pot holders, bends to kiss my cheek and says, “I hope you were in charge of desserts.” Zoe, in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, sweeps my hair over my shoulder and says, “You really do look nice.” Ivy, wearing a ruby-red bustier and skinny jeans, dark hair mirror-shiny, gives me a quick once-over before saying, “Who’re you trying to impress?”
I lift my chin indignantly. “No one.”
She glances at Max, then back to me. “Whatever.”
I’m glad when she brushes by, taking her superiority with her, but now Max and I are on our own. He hangs back, dressed in jeans and a blue cotton button-down. Hatless, with a five o’clock shadow, he looks… good. His mouth bobs open, like he has something to say but can’t retrieve the words. He closes it after all, letting his eyes travel over me—my made-up face, my loose hair, my cuter-than-average outfit—and my heart loses its footing.
When I’m sure I can’t survive his scrutiny another second, he says, “Your dad’s not hiding around the corner, waiting to kick my ass, is he?”
My dad.God.
I shake it off—the loss, the hurt, the anger, the confusion. I’ll deal with it, think about it,feelit tomorrow, when I’m alone, but tonight maybe I don’t have to—not if I’m with Max.
He leans closer and whispers, “Really, is he cool with me being here?”
“It’s fine. Meredith wouldn’t have invited you if it wasn’t. Still, it might be best if we steer clear of him.”
“Oh, believe me,” he says, stepping into the house, “I plan to.”
Bunches of neighbors roll in shortly after the Holdens, until the kitchen and the living room are packed with people. Max and I hang back, hugging a wall. He takes a surprising stab at chitchat, but it’s halted and uncomfortable, probably because of me, and I’m pretty sure this is going to be the longest night ever.
“How was Thanksgiving at the Eldridge house?” he asks, clearly grasping at straws.
“Lame. How was Thanksgiving at the Holden house?”
“Shitty. My mom bought a soggy, precooked turkey, then insisted we sit at the table and express our gratitude even though no one was feeling all that thankful. After dinner, Ivy sulked in her room, and Zoe bitched at Brett for sharing whisky with me while we watched football. My dad just sat there, staring at us like he barely knew us—like he didn’twantto know us.”
A moment of clarity forces my perspective to shift; lost college money is very, very bad, but Max’s dad almostdied, and even though he didn’t, he’s forever changed—all of the Holdens are. “God, Max. I’m sorry.”
“Life blows,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, think I could snag a beer?”
I arch a brow. “Is that a good idea?”
“Yes,Mom, it is. It’s Bunco Night—we’re gonna liven things up.” He grins and I’m wavering. It must be obvious, because he adds, “Come on, Jill. You and me.”
It’s not like he has to get behind the wheel later, and tonight of all nights, I could use something to dull the ache of my drained account. Besides, my dad said to keep Max out of my room. Never once did he say to keep him away from the booze.
“Coolers are downstairs,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
He follows me to the basement. Back when my dad was working with an architect on the plans for our house, he’d been all about the party basement, a room that could accommodate his pool table and a fully stocked bar and the biggest TV on the market. Before Bill’s stroke, he and Dad used to spendCollege GameDaySaturdays andMonday Night Footballevenings down here, drinking and shouting obscenities at the refs. It’s been a while since this room has been used for its intended purpose—socializing—but tonight it’s crowded with people, card tables, and folding chairs. The lights are low, and flickering candles that smell of vanilla and spruce are scattered across the bar. Dad and Meredith mill around, faking it, I assume, making sure newcomers have drinks and are clear on the oh-so-complicated rules of Bunco.
