Apparently he does, too.
I drive fast, imagining the very worst: Officer Tate and a fleet of squad cars, Max stuck in a cinder-block cell.
When I arrive, I’m relieved to see that the F-150 is the only other vehicle on the road. I park behind it. The rush of river water rages in my ears as I walk to the driver’s-side door and throw it open. There’s Max, clutching a nearly empty bottle of Maker’s Mark by its red, waxy neck.
“Jilly!”
I shake my head, sickened by the slovenly sight of him. I point to the whisky. “Where did you get that?”
“My dad’s liquor cabinet.” He swirls the contents of the bottle before taking a gulp, swallowing noisily. “I don’t think he’ll miss it.”
I flinch at his derisiveness. I hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
He looks at the bottle, then back at me. A challenge.
“Give it to me, right now, or I swear to God I’ll leave. With your keys.”
He shoves the booze at me. I dump what’s left on the side of the road, then hurl the empty bottle toward the river. It arcs like a football, landing with a barely audible splash.
I turn back to Max; he’s unquestionably irate, and I don’t care. “Do you have more?”
“I wish.”
“Lock your truck. You can come back for it tomorrow. I’m taking you home.”
“But I’d rather go to Leo’s.”
“Too bad. I’m not a freaking shuttle service. Let’s go.”
I march to my car, rolling my eyes at the pitiful scuffle of his feet as he trails behind me. It’s maddening that he’s backslid so far. Maddening that I have to play designated driver on a Monday afternoon because he makes the world’s most moronic choices.
“Put your seat belt on,” I say after he’s collapsed into the passenger seat.
“Don’t treat me like a fucking child,” he retorts with a glare.
I’ve half a mind to shove him out of the car. “Don’t act like a fucking child!”
He buckles his seat belt, then yanks the lever that reclines his seat. He falls backward until he lands, horizontal, with a thud. “Get going,” he says, closing his eyes.
My anger simmers all the way to our neighborhood. I meant what I said: Today, I really and truly hate him. Still, I can’t fault him for calling for a ride—at least a responsible decision followed the careless footsteps before it. But he shouldn’t have calledme. Becky would’ve been a more suitable choice. Ivy would’ve come for him. Kyle, or Leo, or Jesse would’ve picked his ass up.
Why me?
Why today?
Why the river?
Why, why, why?
When we reach his house, I have to shake him awake. “Go to your room and lie down,” I instruct as he groggily straightens his hat. Marcy’s car isn’t in the driveway, and then I remember: “Meredith told me your parents are visiting a specialist in Seattle. You’re off the hook, but for God’s sake, don’t talk to anyone until you sober up.”
He stares at me, vacant and unmoving.
“Max?”
Still… nothing.
His withdrawal into hollowness dashes my anger away, replacing it with a heap of fear. And just like that, the ingrained and unrelenting desire to take his pain away returns.
