“Kyle and Leah convinced me to go to Leo’s party. Are you going?”
“Planning on it.” And then he asks the question he’s asked every afternoon for the duration of this week: “Talk to your dad yet?”
“Max—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Look, Jill. I’m trying to be patient, like you asked. I played along with your game at the Yellow Door. I’ve given you space at school. I’ve crawled through your window instead of walking through the front door like an actual human being. All week I’ve waited, hoping you’d follow through, hoping you’d own up, because I’ve gotta tell you: The way you’re handling this sucks.”
“But I told your parents. And Meredith knows.”
“Yet here we are, arguing in an alcove because you refuse to tell the person who matters most. Your dad’s this huge part of your life. He’s got his reasons for not liking me, and you’re giving them weight. You’re turning me into the villain he thinks I am.”
“It’s just such a bad time.” Stupid—I know as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Max throws up his hands. “Jesus, Jillian, you keep making excuses to let yourself off the hook. That’s probably the same thing your dad did every time he lied to Meredith and climbed into bed with his girlfriend.”
He might as well have socked me in the gut; oxygen rushes from my lungs, leaving me empty. I’d forgotten how utterly excruciating fighting with Max Holden can be.
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I tell him quietly.
His gaze shifts, like the sight of me leaves him cold—a heartbreaking thought. His scowl is a brutal reminder of how he used to be, before we were us.
“Please, Max. Tell me how to fix this.”
He bristles. “You know how to fix it.”
I reach for his hand. My fingers skim the band of his father’s watch, working their way into his tightened fist. When our palms align, the contact—my skin on his—is unhinging. A dizzying sensation takes me, like the undertow that would’ve dragged me under at the beach a few years ago, had it not been for him. All I can focus on is the sudden, stomach-churning realization that I could lose him over my unwillingness to openly defy my dad, who’s raised me lovingly but disappointed me unequivocally.
Max pulls his hand away, burying it in the pocket of his sweatshirt. I’m at a loss, and I’m agitated, and I’m scheduled for a closing shift at True Brew. It’s almost comical, the idea of serving coffee and conversation when my life’s so screwed up.
“I need to get to work,” I tell him.
His eyes find mine, immobilizing me with their deep discontentment. “Before you go…” He hesitates, uncertainty slogging across his face before he says, “I want normal, you know? And I’m looking for it with you.” He steps nearer, bringing his evergreen scent with him, and I wonder when he’ll he grow tired of having this discussion. He clutches my waist and pulls me against him, so I can’t help but look at him and feel him and breathe him in. He’s strong enough to hold me in this space forever, if he wants to, but I’m relaxing in his arms, drowning in his sad, sad eyes. “I want you, Jill,” he murmurs, “but I don’t understand why you’d choose lying over the truth. Overme.”
He squeezes me to him, burying his face in my hair. My arms wind instinctively around his neck. Warmth blooms in my chest, trickling through my arms and into my hands, all the way to the tips of my fingers. He hasn’t initiated contact for days, and I can’t help but think…
This feels like a good-bye.
I have to fix this. My dad’s been there for me from the very beginning, but it’s Max who I can’t live without.
The realization sends my head spinning, as if the earth is tilting on its axis. I shiver.
He pulls back, eyeing me warily.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, blinking back tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to my dad. I’ll go to his office after work, before I come to Leo’s. I’ll tell him about us.”
“Really?”
“Really, Max. I’m done with secrets.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me, a long press of his mouth to mine. The tears that were tickling my throat a moment ago recede. I’ve missed this; I’ve missedhim. When he pulls back, he’s wearing a hint of a smile, and I feel better than I have all week.
He strokes his calloused hands down my neck, his thumbs resting atop my pulse points, the heat of his palms bleeding into my skin. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and thanks to his slight movement, I catch sight of Ivy over his shoulder.
She’s standing ten feet away, watching us from beneath the fringe of her bangs. Her granite gaze meets mine. For an excruciating second, I think she’s going to confront us—confrontme—but then her face unfurls, opening in comprehension, in a way I’ve never seen. It only lasts a second, our shared stare, and then she’s gathering her emotions and stowing them away, scurrying down the nearly empty hallway.
To find Becky, I suppose. To tell her everything.
I don’t even care.
