Becky. I’m intrigued by this knowledge that he bowed out despite her disapproval. Kind of makes me want to raise my arms in victory.
“I stayed home, too,” I tell him. “I baked soft pretzels. Meredith ate four, positively drenched in mustard.”
He gives me a tentative smile. “Sounds like a good time. What about your dad?”
“He was out of town. A work thing.” Dad and I are still up and down, but that didn’t keep me from feeling for him, all alone in some stark hotel room as the clock struck midnight. Made me sad.
Stillmakes me sad.
“Jill,” Max says, sliding a step closer. “You okay?”
I nod because, yeah, of course I’m okay. My dad went away on business. He’s back now, and everything’s fine.
Except, Max is standing right beside me, and we’re in his empty house, and my hands are shaking even as they clutch my Coke can. How on God’s green earth did I think this was a good idea? How can Max and I be friends when I’m hyperaware of the energy crackling between us? When I know how his kisses make my skin sing?
I hate this panicky, quivering thing my stomach does in his proximity now.
Heat inches up my neck as he watches me, concerned, and I know—I’ve got to let him in on the truth about why I’m here. I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that the other day when I was watching Oliver… Well, things got weird and that sucks, and I think it might’ve been my fault because I made your nephew puke.” At this, I get a genuine grin. Encouraged, I press on. “Then there was that night with the desserts, when Officer Tate… Yeah. I shouldn’t have left you hanging the way I did. We’ve been friends too long, and that was so uncool of me.”
He blinks and for a second, I worry I’ve splashed lighter fluid on the embers of his frustration. Then his eyes go soft. He puts his soda down and touches my arm. “You’re not apologizing, are you?”
“I’m—”
“Because you’ve been nothing but good to me, so don’t, okay?”
I smooth my ponytail and will myself to stop blushing. “Okay.”
The muffled sound of his phone’s ringtone comes from the pocket of his jeans. He ignores it and says, “I think we should talk. Like, for real.”
“Your phone’s ringing.”
“It can wait.”
“Is it Becky?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
I step away because,hello, reality check, but Max reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist assertively enough to still me. His warmth, his presence, surround me like a cocoon. His phone rings, and rings again.
“Max,” I caution. “You have a girlfriend.”
“I’ll end it.”
I sputter a few false starts before asking, “You’d do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Whyhaven’tyou?”
He must be out of retorts, because he bites down on his bottom lip. His phone finally shuts up; Becky’s probably pulling on her fiery locks, exasperated by her boyfriend’s unavailability.
“Jill, we’re friends, right?”
I nod and shake my head at the same time, spastic.
“Friends hear each other out, right?”
He’s still holding my wrist and the contact’s making pudding of my thoughts. I’m hazy with his evergreen scent, the sincerity of his tone, and I take an involuntary step back, until the marble countertop presses into the small of my back. He lets me go, and I can breathe easier now that there’s distance between us. “Yes,” I say. “Friends hear each other out.”
