Bunco moves quickly; it’s a game without strategy, which makes it perfect for socializing. The first round’s over before I know it. Max takes my cup and mixes me a refill while I switch seats for the second round. I’ve found my spot by the time he returns with my cup. He has to lean over me to place it on the table, and as he does, his arm brushes my bare shoulder. I’m almost positive it’s intentional, and my skin erupts in a flurry of goose bumps.
“Thanks,” I say, tipping my head to look at him. His eyes are dark as rain clouds; the wordbroodingpops into my head. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve won four of six. I think that’s pretty good.” He peeks at my card, sees my one measly win, then laughs, dropping a hand to my shoulder. “Bunco’s not your thing, huh?”
The warmth of his palm seeps into my skin and wit fails me. I scan the basement for my dad and find him at the bar with Marcy and Mrs. Rolon, the bottle blond who lives down the street. He’s refilling their wineglasses, laughing at something Marcy’s just said, oblivious to the fact that the neighbor kid is giving his daughter heart palpitations with a shoulder squeeze.
“It’s cool,” Max tells me. “I’m doing well enough for the both of us.”
I try to recall the last time he and I wereus.
Dad’s voice carries over the clamor of conversation: “Tables, everyone!”
I turn to find him staring at me. He doesn’t look happy. Maybe because of our earlier discussion, or maybe because I’m with the very boy he expressly told me to stay away from. I don’t care either way, but apparently Max does.
He snatches his hand away. “I should, uh, find my seat.”
“Okay,” I say, sorry to see him go.
I try to appear useful and collected, not flustered and tipsy. I rearrange the dice. I reposition the snack bowl. I make needless marks on my scorecard. My pulse resumes a seminormal pace as the three empty seats at my table fill.
Time for round two.
9
THE EVENING PASSES, DICE ARE ROLLED, DRINKSare 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?”
