“Officially.”
He lifts the center console out of the way. “Then get over here.”
Blissfully, I scoot into the middle seat and rebuckle. I lean into him as I say, “In case you’re unaware, our fellow freeway travelers probably think we’re a couple of rednecks.”
“I could give two shits,” he says, taking my hand.
***
I’m glad I let Max plan our Seattle adventures. First activity on the itinerary? Forty-three seconds spent shooting five hundred twenty feet into the air.
In all the years I’ve lived in Washington, I’ve never been to the top of the Space Needle, so this first excursion is well received. Max grips my hand as the glass elevator rockets into the cloudless sky, and up on the observation deck, we walk a slow circle, pointing out landmarks: the Cascade Range, the downtown skyline, Mount Rainier, the Puget Sound, and the Olympic Mountains.
We stop walking when we’re facing north. Though the sun’s shining, it’s freezing. The wind whips my hair into a snarl. I smooth it out of my face, shivering, and lean against the rail to gaze at Queen Anne Hill. A seaplane touches down on the sparkling waters of Lake Union while silent, toy-sized traffic zips about directly below. Farther in the distance lies the University of Washington, Max’s first choice in institutes of higher education.
He wraps his arms around me, blocking me from the relentless wind, and rests his chin on my shoulder. Quietly, he looks out upon Seattle, then nuzzles his nose against my neck. “Are you gonna apply to the U next year?”
“Maybe as a fallback.”
“Still got your eye on NYC, huh?”
My stomach drops. New York City. The International Culinary Institute. A lot like my parents’ marital issues, talk of higher education and its challenges feels personal and embarrassing and just… off-limits. But I want to trust Max like he’s starting to trust me. I want to be honest about what’s goodandbad. “I’ve kind of let New York go, actually.”
“What?Why?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. “Too expensive.”
“But the International Culinary Institute’s your dream school.”
“There’s no money for it. Not after Meredith’s fertility treatments. Not after Ally.” I feel a blast of residual guilt; I spent a long time resenting my unborn sister for stealing culinary school from me, but the fact is, none of this is her fault. It’s not Meredith’s fault, or my dad’s, either. It just is.
Max squeezes me close. I feel his sympathy, his solace, as plain as I see the sun’s light. “Sorry, Jill,” he says, and then, tentatively, he broaches the topic I’ve spent the last couple of weeks musing. “Couldn’t you go to one of the culinary schools in Seattle?”
“I could. There are a few good ones. But I want to go to thebestculinary school.”
“There’ve gotta be scholarships, then. Loans, even, right?”
“I’ve looked into financial aid. I’m pretty sure I could get close to covering tuition with scholarships, but living expenses are astronomical, and I don’t want to finish school with a mountain of debt. There’s no way, Max. New York’s out of my league.”
“Then put it on hold. Go to school around here for a couple of years, then see where you’re at.”
I consider, leaning into him as I say, “That’s… not a bad idea.” I don’t know why this hasn’t occurred to me—attending a Seattle culinary school doesn’t have to mean giving up on New York; I’d only be tabling it. “I could get my associate’s locally,” I say, thinking aloud. “I could keep working at True Brew while I live at home and save up. For a couple of years, I could focus on general culinary arts and the business side of restaurant ownership. When I get to New York, I could concentrate on pastry arts.”
“By then,” Max says, “you’ll have made such a reputation for yourself, the International Culinary Institute will be begging you to study with them.”
I smile; his faith is endearing. “It’d be nice to stay close to my family, at least for a while. I’d see Ally grow up a little. Plus,” I say, letting uncertainty lower my voice, “I’d be near you.”
His eyes flash, more warm pewter than cool silver. “Let’s assume you do it—school here for a year or two, then you go to New York to finish. By the time you graduate, you’re a baking superstar. What’s next?”
“I’ll get an apprenticeship somewhere fantastic, hopefully. I’d love to study under Ansel Badon or Jacquelyn Montfort. One day, I’ll open a pâtisserie and spend my days baking. That’s a long way off, though.”
“Won’t you miss me when you’re trotting the globe, baking cookies and cakes for strange men?”
“Aww, Max. You know you’re the only strange man I associate with. Besides, you’ll be too busy tearing up the football field at the U to miss me.”
He grunts, like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “It’s gonna be a while before I know if I’m going to UW. Besides, no matter how far down the line, living thousands of miles away from you is gonna blow.”
I twist in his arms to see if his expression is as intense as his words and it is, which thrills and terrifies me equally. He’s making big assumptions—life is unpredictable. I’m not trying to be cynical or negative or even doubtful, but after listening to Dad and Meredith tear into each other night after night, after seeing Bill cut down by a stroke nobody could ever have predicted… Shit happens, and I’m not so naive as to assume that now that I’ve got Max, I get to keep him forever.
