I reach toward him, brushing my fingertips along smudged charcoal liner. He exhales, but stays still. There’s beer on his breath. Something warm and spicy, too—cinnamon—and it’s inexplicably appealing. I have the briefest, most inappropriate thought ever:I wonder what he tastes like?, before I remember how damaged he is. Tonight he needs a friend, not a neighbor with indiscriminate hormones.
My fingers shake as they skim the kohl line of his eye. Touching him tangles my emotions—surprise snarled with self-awareness, embarrassment twisted with wonder. We’ve barely had physical contact over the last couple of years, but I committed the velvety quality of his skin to memory long ago.
He sighs, and I come to my senses. The last thing I want is to disrupt the trust he’s instilling in me, but there’s only so far I’m willing to go. Max has a girlfriend, one who’d breathe fire if she knew I was touching him. Besides, in the morning, after hours spent anxiously obsessing, this whole experience will seem dreadfully bizarre.
As my fingers drop away, he opens his eyes, catching my hand as it falls. I try not to fidget as he stretches it open, holds it close to his face, and studies my palm like he’s reading my fate. My fingertips are stained an odd carrot color because I spent Halloween the same way I spend most evenings: baking. The orange food tint I used to color marzipan for pumpkin cupcakes is evidence. Layered over the orange, accentuating the dips and valleys of my fingerprints, is the black liner I lifted from his pirate makeup.
He folds my palm into the web of his and drops our knotted fingers to his lap, like the two of us holding hands is the most ordinary thing in the world. “Why are you being nice?”
“I’m always nice,” I say, distracted by the heat of his hand against mine.
“Remember when we were friends?”
“Max. We’re still friends.”
“Not like we used to be.”
“Nothing’s like it used to be.” The admission makes my chest ache.
“Remember when you used to hang out with me, not Kyle?” There’s a sharpness to his voice that’s alien, not to mention confusing. There’s no reason to be jealous of Kyle, and Max knows as much. But if Kyle’s not the issue, what is? Is he trying to provoke me? Has his never-ending series of fights with Becky turned him mean?
Whether he intends to or not, he’s proving my point—nothingis like it used to be.
“Remember when you used to hang out with me, not your teammates?” I counter, tossing my ponytail over my shoulder. “NotBecky?”
Predictably, he ignores my rebuttal. “Why don’t I ever see you anymore?”
Because you’re always playing football, or partying, or out with your girlfriend, I want to say, but I sense those words won’t help. Instead, I tell him a different truth. “We grew up.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
All at once, I regret letting him into my room. I tug my hand out of his. The lost connection combined with the bite of his tone make my stomach roil. “Don’t put this on me,” I say. “A lot has happened, stuff I’ve had no control over.”
“What? You mean Becky?”
I mean his father, but the hurt he wore a few minutes ago flashes in my mind and I can’t bring myself to mention Bill, who’s had to leave his half of the Hatz-Holden Logging management responsibilities to Marcy. Bill, who’s confined to a wheelchair, who needs help eating, dressing, using the bathroom. Bill, who has a hard time communicating a simplehello.
I stand. The ghost of Max’s touch makes my palm tingle, but I feel better now that I’ve put some distance between us. I’ll go to my desk, littered with cookbooks and recipe cards. I’ll read my latest issue ofBon Appétit. I’ll get ahead on my English lit assignment. I’ll ignore Max until he sobers up, and then I’ll send him on his way. I’ll pay for these late hours tomorrow, but there’s no way I can get comfy in bed with Blackbeard acting all wasted on my floor.
I’m stepping high over his legs, fuming at his audacity—hisidiocy—when he grabs the hem of my pants. I lose my balance, wobbling on one foot like a dizzy flamingo, until I’m forced to give in to the inertia of his pull. I drop into his lap, landing with an embarrassingoof. Judging by the look on his face—chagrin swirled with a generous dash of unadulterated amusement—he’s more shocked by my new seat than I am.
I’m mortified beyond words—beyond recovery, apparently—while he stares at me, biting his lip against what must be hysterics. “Jesus, Jill. What’dyoudrink tonight?”
I struggle to right myself. “Nothing, thank you very much.”
He’s snickering, and I want to smack him. “Really? Because that was—”
“You pulled me down! And shut up, would you? You’ll wake my dad.”
His laughter quiets. “Jake’s cool. Remember when we were in middle school and he caught us smoking the cigarettes we stole from Zoe? All he did was toss the pack and sit us down in front of a documentary about lung cancer.”
“Yeah, and neither of us smoked ever again.”
“My point is, he didn’t freak out. And I did not pull you down.”
“I was walking and you grabbed my pants!”
“I didn’t want you to leave.”
