I wrinkle my nose, downing the last of my cooling coffee as I hitch the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Riding with Ivy is to risk a Becky run-in—no, thank you—and anyway, I have nothing in common with Max’s big sister. She’s crème brûlée: fancy and feminine and double-take gorgeous, with a hard outer shell I’ve never cared to crack. Besides, her car’s already gone.
“Jill, just go with Max,” Meredith says wearily, resting a palm on her stomach. She does that a lot now—shields the leech baby with her manicured hand—and it’s strange. Not that I relate to most of what Meredith does. She and my dad started dating when I was ten, she moved into our house when I was twelve, and there was a wedding a year later. It’s not that I dislike her; I just don’t get her. She’s so… pristine.
She slips her feet into the patent-leather flats beneath her chair. “I have to go if I’m going to get to my appointment on time, and you can’t let what happened last night make you late for school. It’ll be a ten-minute ride. You’ll survive, and your father will, too.”
Damn it.
Back when she was on bed rest, Meredith often let me take her Saturn to school, and on the occasions she needed it, my dad would drop me off. But I’ve had to ride with Max a few times, too, on mornings when Meredith’s had errands and Dad was tied up with early meetings, and it sucks. Max’s truck is cluttered, he insists that every morning begin with twangy riffs courtesy of the Highwaymen, and he’s almost always grumpy. But today the horror that was last night clamors around in my head.… Max and I kissed, and my dad walked in on us, and that’s seven shades of screwed up.
Begrudgingly, I shoot him a text to let him know he gets to play chauffeur, then hurry across the street, littered with a blend of pine needles and pinecones and fallen leaves, to the Holdens’ driveway. I pass the truck, exhaust streaming from its tailpipe, and give the front door two knocks before letting myself in, same as I always have.
I find Marcy and Bill in the kitchen. She’s still in her bathrobe, pouring steaming water from a teakettle into an oversize mug. He’s in his wheelchair, sporting a royal-blue tracksuit and immaculate sneakers that’ll probably never touch pavement.
“Morning, sweetie,” Marcy says, wrapping me in a hug. She’s warm and soft and homey, like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. She welcomed me into her family’s fold the moment my dad and I moved onto the street. She used to do her fair share of babysitting where I was concerned, and she taught me almost everything I know about baking.
When she releases me to tend to her tea, I stretch my mouth into a big smile and walk to where Bill sits. His eyes are on the small kitchen TV, tuned to ESPN as usual, but they move to follow me as I come closer. I assume the louder, livelier tone that comes inherently when I address him now. “Morning, stranger. How’s it going?”
He replies with a wobbly grin and jerky nod. He’s too thin, birdlike in his fragility, nothing like the indestructible man I used to know. Still, he’s Bill; his eyes gleam with familiar amiability. I squeeze his shoulder and move to where Marcy’s washing dishes.
She bumps her hip against mine. “Catching a ride with Max?”
“How’d you know?”
“He may have grumbled something about it while wolfing down his omelet. He’s upstairs brushing his teeth, but he should be ready soon. How’re Jake and Mer?”
“Busy,” I say. “Dad with work. Meredith with baby stuff.”
“And you? We hardly see you anymore. Find yourself a nice boy to date?”
I swallow back the snicker that comes with that ridiculous question. The boys in my circle are hardly datable… Jesse’s blissfully spoken for, Leo’s up front about his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude, and Kyle’s not interested in girls. Max… he couldn’t belessdatable.
“Nope,” I say, casual. “School and work keep me too busy.”
“Good girl,” Marcy says, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I wish Max shared your priorities—any idea what’s going on with him?”
My face practically ignites. God—is she baiting me? “Uh, no… Why?”
“He’s in the foulest mood. Almost insufferable. Isn’t that right, Bill?”
From his place at the table, Bill nods.
Marcy rubs the gold cross pendant she wears on a fine chain around her neck, as if shining it with her fingertips. She waits, hoping I’ll share some nugget of wisdom, some brilliant insight into her son’s petulance, I guess. The thing is, I do have a rather foggy idea as to why Max might be especially ill-tempered—less than twelve hours ago, he drank too much, fought with his girlfriend, then kissed me, the verylastperson he should be kissing. There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to discuss traitorous, drunken hookups with his mom, though.
“Huh… Not sure.”
“I wish there was something I could do for him.” She lowers her voice, leaning in close. “He’s taken Bill’s stroke so hard—harder than both my girls. I just don’t want him to do anything stupid.”
I recall the throwaway comment he made last night, about how he could’ve hopped behind the wheel of his truck after getting pirate-drunk. “None of us do, Marcy.”
With that, Max comes thumping down the stairs. He’s wearing his letterman’s jacket, and a black knit beanie covers his dark hair. He gives me a cursory nod of acknowledgment, mumbles good-bye to his parents, and saunters out the front door.
I hurry to follow.
By the time I reach the F-150, Max has closed himself inside. The unmistakable strumming of classic country leaks from the cab, and a shudder of annoyance ripples through me. I silently curse the automobile gods, because if I had a car of my own, I wouldn’t be forced to endure what’s sure to be a torturous ride with the most miserable person in all of McAlder.
Still, Max isn’t completely ill-mannered; he throws the truck’s passenger door open for me. I’m greeted by a gust of heated air and Willie Nelson’s nasal voice wailing nonsense about heartache. As I step onto the running board, he murmurs, “Hey.”
My foot slips.
