“I never thought I’d see you make such irresponsible decisions,” he says, his voice roughened with anger. “I don’t like the person you’re becoming. Not at all.”
His declaration strikes me in the gut. I close my eyes against a bout of dizziness.
“Go to bed,” he says. He shakes his head, disgusted, as I turn for the hall.
I will not stagger.
I will not stumble.
I willnotcry.
It’s on occasions like this that I wish for a mother—not faraway Beth, and not preoccupied Meredith. Arealmother, who might take my side, who might step in to temper my father’s rashness.
Just before I close my bedroom door, he calls, “I hope Max is worth it, Jillian.”
Is he?
I collapse on my bed, unnervingly drunk and thoroughly confused.
He’s just a guy, I remind myself.He’s the boy across the street. He’s a friend.
He’sjusta guy.
But I don’t think he is. Not anymore.
12
AFTER A NIGHT OF FITFUL SLEEP, Iget to endure ten minutes in the car with my still-furious father. He’s on his way to the office, where he’ll probably spend the better part of the weekend. His overtime works out well, though, since he’s insisted on shuttling me to work—I might still have alcohol in my system, he speculates, which means I’m not driving myself anywhere. And besides, Ican’t be trusted.
Kyle’s beaten me to True Brew, as usual. He’s whistling a cheerful rendition of “Jingle Bells” and running shots of espresso through the machine, seasoning it, when I stagger through the door. His well-rested grin and a gust of toasty, coffee-scented air greet me.
Kyle’s parents opened True Brew ages ago, and it’s the only independently owned coffee shop in our Starbucks-saturated county to survive the highs and lows of being a small business. There’s almost always a line of cars in the drive-through, and the shop is usually busy with some combination of grocery-getter moms, khaki-pantsed businessmen, students lugging armloads of textbooks, couples on quiet dates, and passionate Bible study groups.
This morning, customers of any sort strike me as daunting.
I tie on my apron and go about writing today’s special (Frosty’s Favorite: Cool Mint Mocha) on each of two display chalkboards. When I’ve finished, I stock the pastry case with this morning’s bakery delivery. The yeasty-sweet aromas of muffins and coffee cake and bagels turn my stomach. Kyle checks the tills, mumbling quietly as he counts bills and coins. When our preopening tasks are complete, we have a little time before we need to unlock the glass-paneled door. I take advantage by propping my elbows on the counter and dropping my heavy head into my hands.
“Aren’t we bright-eyed?” Kyle says.
“Long night.” I’ve been rehashing it, fuming over my dad’s assertions, dissecting Max’s behavior, excusing mine away. And then there’s the matter of my New York money, gone forever. My stomach cramps; I need to spill before I give myself an ulcer.
Kyle fills two cups with drip coffee and slides one to me. “So? Bunco treated you well?”
“Bunco sucked,” I say, tearing open a sugar packet. I dump it into my coffee and add a splash of half-and-half, stirring until my drink’s a deep caramel color.
Kyle smiles. He has a sneaky way of advancing conversation with a flash of his golden-boy grin. “Game got a little too wild for ya?”
I sip my coffee, avoiding his eyes. “Actually, yes.”
“Well? Let’s hear it.”
I debate which secret to divulge. I’m not cool with telling Kyle about my spent culinary school fund—at least, not until I come to terms with the sad fact that my life’s aspirations have gone up in fertility flames. And then there’s Max, who’s Kyle’s friend, too, and disclosing what happened last night would just be way too weird. But then my stomach does that gross cramping thing again, and I let the words fly fast, before I have a chance to overthink them. “Max and I kissed.”
He blanches. “Uh, okay. Wait—what?”
“We kissed,” I repeat. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
“Wow. Really?”
