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 andme.
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’tsobad, 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.
