“Really?” My tone is part dubious, part dazzled. I want to believe him; I want him to prove he means it.
“Yeah, really. And you’re right—Becky can be a royal pain in the ass, but to be fair, a lot of the time, she was reacting to shit I pulled.”
“Then…why?”
He’s staring out the windshield, into the night, when he says, “She was supposed to go to Italy in the fall, for this semester-abroad program she was accepted into. She deferred a year because she wanted to be around for Ivy and me. I didn’t care whether she stayed or went, which should’ve been a red flag, but she stuck around, and I felt like I owed her. Plus, she’s Ivy’s best friend, and she’s at the house all the time, and tolerating her seemed easier than making waves. Jesus, Jilly, I don’t know. My dad’s stroke… It screwed me up.”
My heart squeezes at the way his voice breaks over those final words. “What happened to your dad had nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”
“It hadeverything to do with me. I was home. I could’ve—should’ve—mowed the lawn. He asked me to, but I was getting ready to go out with Becky—some midday party at a lake an hour outside town. I should’ve told Becky I was bailing on the party. I should’ve helped my dad. At the very least, I should’ve found him sooner. A minute or two might’ve made a difference.”
“God, Max. It wasn’t your fault.” I reach over to touch his arm, wondering if anyone’s ever told him as much.
“He’s just… He’ssodifferent now.”
“But he’s still your dad. He still loves you and your mom and your sisters, and he’s still wild about football. Wheelchair or not, he’d find a way to move mountains if it meant you’d be happy.”
“I know.” He runs a hand over his face. “God, Iknow. I’m trying—I swear I am—but for a long time, I just wanted to be away—anywhere but home. Becky… When I needed an escape, she was there.”
I slip my hand from his arm and say, quietly, “Is that what I am? An escape?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Hardly. Everything’s different with you. Right now, the way you’re asking me to explain myself? Nobody else does that. My mom and my sisters take my crap in stride, like they’ve written me off, but you don’t. After the river and the whisky, I felt guilty as hell about the way I treated you. You… You make me want to get my shit together.”
I ditch my ice cream bowl in the cup holder next to his. Since he’s laying his playbook on the table, for once completely forthcoming, I swallow my hesitation and broach a new topic, one far less appealing than the idea of Max getting his shit together. “I recently heard a rumor about you, Becky, and a biology classroom. True or false?”
He makes a grim sound. “Jill. False. Becky and I haven’t… Well, it’s been awhile. Since before Thanksgiving.” He adjusts his hat, looking tremendously uncomfortable, and I get it. Ice cream followed by talk of Max’s sex life—totally awkward. He says, “There hasn’t been much interest in risky biology hookups, at least not on my part.”
“Huh. I suppose that’s good to hear.”
He smiles, then lifts the center console and takes my hand in his, warm and a little rough, like worn leather. “My parents have never liked me with Becky. Not because of anything she’s done, really, but because she’s not the girl who lives across the street. You know, the moody baker girl who sometimes pretends I don’t exist even though she has this massive crush on me?”
“Oh, yeah? Well,Ilive across the street from a cocky jock who once coerced me into the world’s cheesiest mistletoe kiss.”
He laughs and I move to poke him in the ribs, but he catches my wrist and pulls me into a hug. I breathe him in; his evergreen scent cocoons me, making me feel safe and wanted and really, really happy.
Our linked hands rest on the seat between us the whole way back to our neighborhood, where Max parks in his driveway. “Stay there,” he says, opening his door and hopping out. He circles around to open my door for me.
“Just like a real date,” I joke, standing beside the truck, where it’ll hopefully shield us from the wide-open view of my house and his.
“I owe you dinner, remember?”
“Have you been holding on to your Bunco winnings all this time?”
“I have, actually.” He steps closer, circling his arms around my waist. He’s looking at me like I’m a galaxy of twinkling stars. “So, how ’bout it?”
I can’t believe he thinks I need time to consider. Of course I’m going to let him take me out, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep our outing on the down low, at least until my parents quit it with their nightly blowups. In good conscience, I can’t add another layer of strife to their dynamic. I’ll tell my dad about Max and me when the time’s right—like, when I move out, because I’m not sure he’s ever going to understand these feelings of mine.
“If we go to dinner,” I ask, “will you kiss me good night after?”
Max smiles. “I can probably manage that, although I kind of want to kiss you right now.”
“But there’s no mistletoe,” I say with mock solemnity.
He leans in, letting his nose brush mine, and whispers, “Like I give a shit.” His kiss is sweet and lingering, a pulled-taffy kiss, and when he moves away, he’s grinning, arrogance personified. “You working tomorrow?”
“After lunch.”
“Come over for breakfast?”
