“Me? No way.” I laugh, walking over to the scattered papers.
Max thinks for a second. “Then maybe it’s us.” Our eyes meet, and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment. His hair has been blown a little out of place from the file cabinet gust, all fluffy like a baby chick, and I can’t help but think that even imperfect looks perfect on him. I reach out and run my hands through the front piece, smoothing it down against his head, suddenly very aware of the way Max is breathing, his chest heaving in and out. But then I think about Celeste’s hair, falling over his face as she kissed him on the bench at school, and I stop myself.
“This could take a while,” I say, clearing my throat and kneeling down on the paper-covered floor. “Why don’t you keep looking in some of the other rooms while I try and get this organized?”
“Are you sure?” Max asks, kneeling next to me to begin gathering documents of his own. We accidentally grab the same stack, and when I look up at him, he’s so close I can smell him. I want to make a pillow out of his sweater.
“I’m sure,” I say.
Max replies with a nod, before getting up and strolling into the next room. I’m creating piles by last name when I hear him whisper-shout my name from the next room. I find him standing in the circular space below the old observatory dome. The opening for the telescope has been permanently removed and replaced with glass, so you can see the stars above.
“Wow,” I say as the sky sparkles down on us. “This is just like—”
“The Met,” Max finishes my sentence. We look at each other. I can almost hear the symphony music in the background, and suddenly I’m craving Oreos. “You looked good that night,” Max says slowly, subtle emphasis on the good, and even though his words send me into a state of sheer bliss, I still roll my eyes.
“You’ve always sucked at taking a compliment,” he observes, trying not to smile.
“I know,” is all I can think to say, because he’s right.
Max puts his hands in his pockets. “I went there once. To the Met. We took a train down from Boston as a family. I dared my sister to touch a Rothko and she actually did it.” He laughs. “Needless to say, it was a short trip to the museum.”
Sister? I open my mouth to ask—she’s never been in any of our dreams—but Dr. Petermann’s voice rings out instead of mine, and the overhead lights flick on.
“What is this?” Petermann asks. He’s standing in the doorway in shockingly small white athletic shorts with a canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a sweatband in his hair.
“Dr. Petermann.” I falter. “What are you doing here?”
“I have squash doubles on Wednesday nights, and saw the light on as I was heading home,” he says. “And now I’m calling security.” Miraculously, he manages to pull a cell phone out of his tiny shorts.
“Go ahead,” I say. “But it will be a complete waste of your time. I’ll just keep coming back.” I can feel my nerves start to stand on end and a flush rise to my cheeks. He can’t take this away from me. Not when we are so close.
“I don’t appreciate your tone, Alice,” Petermann says.
“And I don’t care.” I’m trying to control the level of my voice, but it’s not going well. This always happens when I feel cornered. All my manners go right out the window. “I’m not giving up. If I have to set up camp outside the building or burn this whole operation to the ground.” I don’t mean it, of course. I just get carried away sometimes, the words come out before I have a chance to think about what they mean.
“Hang on,” Max jumps in. “Nobody is burning anything.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell him.
Max ignores me. “Dr. Petermann, please excuse Alice. She gets fired up sometimes. My name is Max Wolfe.” He walks over to Petermann and extends a hand, which Petermann shakes reluctantly. “I’m not sure if you’d remember, but I was a patient at CDD about ten years ago, at the same time as Alice. I promise we aren’t looking to complicate things. We’re just looking for answers, about what happened to us, and why we dream the way we do—of each other.” I don’t know how he does it. So self-assured and charming. It’s impossible to say no to him.
Nevertheless, Petermann looks stunned. “You really dream about each other?” The smoothest person on Earth couldn’t soften the news that two of his former patients know each other from their subconscious. He slowly returns the phone to his pocket, glances from one of us to the other, and his mind seems to go elsewhere. “It was a very long time ago,” he says, lost in thought. “But I might have an idea. Come . . . have a seat.”
As we follow Petermann to his office, I mutter in Max’s ear. “Of course he listens to you.”
10
For Normal People