Max becomes my center again, his stormy eyes, his warm palms, the persistent thudding of his heart against my ribs. He’s my quiet place, my well of happiness.
I reach up to cover his hands with mine. “Tonight, Max. I’ll tell my dad everything.”
***
The coffee shop is quiet when I walk in. Kyle’s mom, who looks up only briefly to smile in greeting, is counting out her cash drawer. Kyle’s restocking the small front refrigerator with dairy products. He doesn’t turn around as I tie on my apron and apologize for being a few minutes late. It isn’t until his mom’s headed out the door that he kicks the fridge closed and pivots to face me. He puts his hands on his hips and widens his stance, the way he does when he addresses his teammates on the football field. “You’re making Max miserable.”
“You talked to him?”
“I’ve been talking to him all week.” He pulls a broom out of the utility closet and whips it around our workspace. “You’re not being fair. Everyone has shit they keep quiet, but I thought you were beyond senseless drama.” He coaxes a pile of coffee grounds and dust bunnies into a dustpan. “I don’t know how much longer he’s gonna put up with you.”
I’m coming apart at the seams. My shift’s over in a couple of hours, and soon I’ll be face-to-face with my dad, admitting that I’ve done exactly what he told me to avoid, confessing that I’ve lied for months. He’s going to besopissed, and who knows how he’ll cope? He could yell. He could threaten. He could pick a fight with Meredith.
Or he could call the Other Woman.
Bleakness sloshes over me. Kyle pushes the broom back into the closet, then comes my way, reaching out to steady me as I wobble on Jell-O legs.
“Jesus, Jill. What is it?”
I blurt out, “My dad’s been cheating on Meredith.”
He shakes his flaxen hair out of his face. His eyes are wide as pie plates. “Oh, shit.”
“She doesn’t know—not for sure—but still. Things at home are kind of awful.”
“I guess,” he says. “I’m really sorry, Jelly Bean. Wish I would’ve known.”
“Doesn’t matter—it’s no excuse for how unfair I’ve been to Max.”
He wraps an arm around me. “Why didn’t you tell me about your parents?”
“I don’t know. It’s not fun-to-share news. I didn’t want to bug you with my problems.”
“That’s bananas. The only thing you do that bugs me is hold your cards close. I want you to tell me what’s going on in your world. The goodandthe bad. That’s what friends do—confide, and support each other when things get rough.”
“In that case, there’s more,” I say, because it’s clear now: I need to be straightforward with the people I care about. I need to lean on them in the same ways I expect them to lean on me. And so, I tell Kyle, “I’m not going to the International Culinary Institute after I graduate. There’s no money for it. Meredith and her fertility treatments, the pregnancy, the baby… My school money paid for other things. More important things.” Saying this—meaning it sincerely—is like breaking the surface after being underwater too long. “But don’t worry—my True Brew paychecks will get me to New York eventually.”
Kyle kisses my cheek. “I have no doubt.”
A couple comes through the shop door, pushing a toddler in a stroller. She whines, straining against the buckle that keeps her seated while her parents stand opposite the counter, perusing the menu board like they don’t hear their child squealing. Kyle gives me anoh, helleye roll, and despite the general crappiness of today, I smile.
“After work,” I tell him over the kid’s yowls, “I’m going to set things straight with my dad, and then when I get to Leo’s, I’m going to find Max, and everything will be perfect.”
34
KYLE SENDS ME ON MY WAY EARLY,promising to take care of closing duties so I’ll have plenty of time to talk to my dad. The evening’s dark, appropriate in its dreariness. It’s not far from True Brew to Dad’s office, and I have only a few minutes to rehearse my confession before I’ve arrived. Drawing a deep breath, I kill the engine and climb out of the car, giving myself zero time to rethink my reason for being here.
This is it—time to take control of my life.
I cross my arms as I hurry toward the office. I let myself into the reception area, expecting to see Natalie. She’s not at her desk, though, and I’m not sure why; business hours aren’t over for another thirty minutes. Also weird: The heavy oak door leading to Dad’s personal office is closed.
I walk a slow circle around the small space. The air’s thick with perfume, heavier and muskier than Meredith’s signature scent, but oddly familiar. Trying to place it, I step up to Natalie’s workspace. On her desk, there’s a blotter covered in doodles (butterflies and hearts and stars—how trite) and a tube of lipstick (deep, deep red—I’ve never seen her in anything else), but otherwise there are no personal touches. No pictures of family or boyfriends or pets, no day planner, no potted plants or dish of candy. It hits me then, how little I know of Dad’s perky blond secretary, this girl who fetches his cappuccinos, and who’s also really pretty.
What if…?
No. Natalie’s only a few years older than me, and my dad’s not a secretary-screwing cliché. I’m shaking that thought right out of my head when I hear laughter coming from behind his office door: a coy, feminine giggle, and a deeper chuckle.
My stomach lurches.
