“Shit!” I shriek, fumbling for the door handle, barely managing to catch my balance. I heave myself gracelessly into the truck, glaring at my dew-wetted shoes. Nothing like a narrowly avoided crash landing to foil feigned indifference. Max is watching me, I know he is, but my bruised ego won’t let me meet his eyes. I buckle up, my cheeks flaming.
“So,” he says, backing down the driveway.
“So,” I return.
“Sleep well?”
“Fine. You?”
“Eh… Got any tests today?”
“Um,” I say, thrown by his attempt at conversation. “In French.”
“I’ve got a quiz in civics. Forgot to study.”
Shocking.
He doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t, either. A decade of friendship, and this is what we’re reduced to.
Daunted by the prospect of ten minutes of meaningless staccato chitchat followed by cumbersome silences, I fish earbuds out of my backpack and scroll through the music on my phone, searching for something to drown Willie out. Max drums the steering wheel, effectively ignoring me, and I feel a jolt of frustration. What right does he have to be nonchalant? He was the one who came to my window. He was the one who initiated the kissing. He was the one who cheated on his girlfriend. Why amIstressing out?
I make myself a promise: I will stop worrying about the sharp-edged dynamic that is my relationship with Max Holden. He doesn’t care. Why should I?
He swings the truck out of our neighborhood and onto one of the two main roads in our tiny town—McAlder is, quite literally, a map dot on the fringes of suburbs that’ve cropped up under Washington’s perpetually overcast sky. We live in the shadow of Mount Rainier, among countless evergreens, between two runoff rivers that swell with melted snow and salmon every spring. McAlder’s the sort of town where people move to escape the bustle of city life: quaint, but close enough to civilization for an easy commute, which is why my dad chose it after he and my mother, Beth, split up. Career-driven, she moved halfway around the world to cook fine cuisine. Dad, on the other hand, settled in the most family-friendly community he could find (first in a condo, then in the house where we live now), and hired a secretary to lessen his workload so he could spend time with me.
I chance a peek as Max straightens the steering wheel and guns it. He’s in his typical driving posture—slightly slouched, one hand hanging at twelve o’clock—wearing his jacket, plus a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans. He’s probably nursing a hangover, and he’s sporting his semipermanent scowl, but still. He looks good.
I smother a sigh as he brakes behind a line of traffic. The corners of his mouth turn up and, lightning fast, he snatches my phone from my lap and turns my music off.
I pull my earbuds out, intent on retaliation, and lunge for the dash. I spin the volume dial, silencing Willie. “How do you listen to that crap anyway?”
Max shrugs in his annoyingly offhanded way, refocusing on the traffic, which is at a standstill in front of us. “It’s better than the emo shit you listen to. And since you’re set on a music-free car ride, we can talk.”
Talking feels like an enormous undertaking, especially in the aftermath of the slop-tastic kiss that never should’ve been. “Talk about what?”
He gestures to the line of cars idling in front of us. “Maybe you can tell me why traffic’s so backed up.”
“I have no idea. Accident? Construction?” I reach for my phone, certain our conversational quota for November’s been met.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Max swats my hand—the swift reflexes of an athlete. “I thought we were gonna talk?”
I rub the spot where our skin made contact. Tingles. Undeniable,unwelcometingles. “Fine,” I say. “Talk.”
“How’s Meredith? You know, with the baby?”
Not my favorite topic, but better than a certain alternative.
“Okay, I guess. She still gets sick, and her blood pressure’s high. Apparently that’s a bad thing when you’re pregnant. Her ankles look like gigantic sausages. It’s disgusting.”
“Zoe’s looked like tree trunks before Oli was born.” He shifts the truck into park, since we’re basically gridlocked. He’s wearing the adoring expression that always finds its way onto his face when he talks about Oliver, his two-year-old nephew. “I bet your parents can’t wait for the baby to get here.”
Meredith can’t. She won’t quit talking about the pregnancy, the nursery, her miles-long list of possible names. It’s my dad who’s complicating things. One would think he’d be overcome with joy at having another child, especially after Bill’s tragedy, but he’s anxious about money and work and Meredith’s health—sometimes I hear them arguing late at night. And secretary or not, he’s never home anymore, which sucks. I’m starting to think he should erect a cot in the corner of his downtown McAlder office.
“Meredith is thrilled,” I tell Max.
He turns a mischievous half smile on me. “How weird is it to have solid confirmation that your parents are doin’ it?”
I frown. “Not that I’ve asked or even care to know, but I’m pretty sure this baby was conceived in a petri dish.”
