With a sigh, I follow him to Ally’s nursery. He situates her on the changing table. “Okay, step up there,” he says, rubbing his hands together like he’s a sideline coach or something.
I do, and draw a complete blank.
He rolls his eyes. “Unwrap the blanket and unsnap her onesie.”
I’m tempted to make a joke about Mr. Football knowing what a onesie is, but the truth is, I’d be lost without his help. I bite my lip and follow his directions. “What now?”
“Get the wipes and the new diaper ready before you take the old one off. You don’t want her diaperless for longer than a second.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” I say, unfolding a clean diaper.
“Oh, yeah. Oli peed on me more than once. Not cool.”
I giggle at the mental image. “Ready with the new diaper.”
“Okay, hold her feet like this.” He shows me how to corrall Ally’s wriggling ankles, then says, “You’ll unfasten the old diaper, use the wipe, and slip the fresh diaper underneath.”
I follow his directions, fastening the tabs of the clean diaper, feeling accomplished. “Now I snap the onesie back up?”
He nods. “Simple as that.”
I finish dressing my sister, my heart filling with hope. This amiable rapport Max and I’ve got going feels good—like it could bemorethan good.
I carry Ally back to the living room and sit down on the couch. She rests contentedly across my lap, focusing on the slowly rotating ceiling fan above.
Max joins me, this time leaving a good foot of space between us. “You did good,” he says. “Nowyou’re a kick-ass big sister.”
“Thanks for teaching me.”
He shrugs. “It was nice to have you talking to me again.” He tilts his head, looking over at me. “Kyle told you, didn’t he? About Becky and me?”
“He might’ve mentioned it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure if I should say I’m sorry, or congratulate you.”
His smile’s like a pinch of salt—minuscule, but enough to affect me. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that she’s not a factor anymore. Not at all, okay?”
I nod, and as an offering of peace, I pick up the remote and turnSportsCenterup.
He grins his Max grin, wide and open, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I feel a rush of emotion so intense I can’t dismiss it—I don’twantto dismiss it. He stretches his hand in my direction, letting it rest on the couch cushion, palm up, and my hesitancy melts away.
Holding his gaze, I slide my hand into the warmth of his, and his fingers find their way into the space between each of mine in this deliberate, intimate way that erases the last of my doubt. Without the darkness of Becky’s shadow, without the difficulty of the last several months clouding my vision, Max is what I see.
Max isallI see.
25
AFTER DINNER AT HOME WITH MEREDITH ANDAlly, I sit at my desk with my computer, a notepad, and a pen. The more I think about the International Culinary Institute and its meager smattering of scholarship options, the less likely my Grand Diplôme of Professional Pastry Arts seems. Even if I’m awarded all the money I apply for, and even if I save every penny I make at True Brew, I’ll just barely have enough to cover tuition. Short of taking out a gigantic loan (what’s that my dad said about debt being no way to live?), I’ll have nothing left to pay for housing and food and transportation—essentials. That means…
New York isn’t going to happen for me.
The realization is like lemon juice in a fresh wound, and I’m doing my very best not to wallow in self-pity. Diversion number one: research Seattle culinary schools.
There are some good ones, but the International Culinary Institute’s been my dream for so long, anything else feels like settling. Still, I take halfhearted notes on a few possibilities—programs at the Art Institute of Seattle, the Seattle Culinary Academy, and Le Cordon Bleu—but the more I scribble stats and figures, the less stock I put in my future pâtisserie. Without the International Culinary Institute, I’ll probably end up baking at the local doughnut shop.
I’m distracted by a slam of the front door. Dad’s home, and he and Meredith get right into it. I toss my pen down; if they knew how much I can hear, they’d shut up.
