“I don’t mind hanging out, but if you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
I keep my mouth shut. Even greater than my fear of babysitting alone is my often ill-fated desire to spend time with Max Holden.
He snags a bunch of grapes from the platter and pops one into his mouth. “So, what do you want to do?”
“Read, I think. You can watch TV.”
If he’s offended, he doesn’t let on. It’s not like I’m trying to insult him; I just need time to collect myself, to figure out how far I’m willing to let this impromptu bonding session go. It seems like every time Max and I start to make forward progress, we’re blown backward by an outside force or, sometimes, a mess of our own making. My heart winds up bruised, and he does something undoubtedly stupid, and I hesitate to put myself out there, again, when I’m not one hundred percent sure where his head’s at. I want things to be good, for me and for him and forus, and I think they could be, but the very real possibility that they could just as well fall apart terrifies me.
I pluck a Williams-Sonoma catalog from the coffee table and curl up in my chair. I open it, but instead of perusing its pages, I spy on Max. He looks so cozy, stretched out on our couch in that shirt that appears superbly soft.
I miss him. That’s the simple truth of it.
When he clicks on the TV, findsSportsCenter, and gets involved watching a panel of experts discuss Super Bowl odds, it hits me how ridiculously marital this scene is: Max and the remote, me and my cookware catalog, the snoozing baby. But I can’t stop watching him, and I can’t stop thinking about his hug outside True Brew, and the fun we’ve had hanging out over the last few weeks, and the way his mouth feels on mine.
He glances up and catches me looking. He smirks. “How’s the magazine?”
“Fine.”
“Which one is it?”
Why do I suddenly feel out of place in my own house? “Um, what?”
“Never mind,” he says, chuckling.
I’m fumbling for a comeback when Ally startles in her swing. She whimpers, and I look wide-eyed at Max.
He holds his hands up. “I didn’t do anything.”
“They’ve only been gone ten minutes!”
He turns the TV down. “Read your magazine, Jillian Grace. She’ll go back to sleep.”
But the baby’s fusses quickly progress to full-on cries, and I’m becoming increasingly alarmed. “Should I call Meredith?”
“Nah. She probably just wants to be held.” He goes to the swing, turns it off, and lifts Ally into his arms. He hushes her and bounces on his knees a little. It’s endearing, the way this jock of a guy holds a helpless little person with such care. Miraculously, Ally’s cries fizzle, and I find myself envious of Max’s magic touch.
“Maybe she woke up because she wants to eat,” he says.
“It’s nowhere near two o’clock.”
“So she’s not hungry. I don’t think she’s cold. Maybe she needs her diaper changed?”
“Ew.”
“What do you mean, ‘ew’? Don’t tell me you haven’t changed her diaper yet.”
I stare at him.
“Okay, wow. You haven’t changed her diaper yet.”
“Meredith does that stuff.”
“Still, you should know how.”
“Why?”
“Are you kidding? So you can be a kick-ass big sister. Come on,” he says, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ll talk you through it.”
