“Good, because it isn’t for you,” Max says, and raises an eyebrow at me. “I’ll be right back.” Without explanation, he exits the room and I hear the sounds of voices and forks scraping plates increase and then decrease in volume as he opens and shuts a door.
Finding myself unsupervised, I use the opportunity to take in my surroundings, which, apart from the tasteful décor, mostly consists of photographs. They are everywhere: lining the mantel in polished silver frames, hanging from the walls in perfectly curated rows. The images are mostly of a woman I assume to be Max’s mother, because of her brown hair and large almond-shaped eyes, with some people I know (government figures, a few celebrities), and a lot of people I don’t know. There are also a lot of Max—one in his soccer jersey, sweaty after a game, a man I assume is his dad with a hand on his shoulder. One looking dirty but happy on the side of a mountain with some Nepalese guides, and one proudly brandishing a silver plaque that must be some kind of honor or award.
“Bet he didn’t get that for hula-hooping,” I say.
Then I’m glancing at the lushly carpeted staircase out in the front hall, and before I can help it, I’m wondering what Max’s bedroom looks like. I bet it’s classic and adult, with dark wood furniture and a well-organized closet. An immaculate desk with his textbooks on one side and a smudgeless computer on the other. Max is not the kind of guy who still has his old racecar bed. The idea of being inside it makes me even more nervous than I feel right now. A space that’s wholly his, where everything is all Max. I shiver.
“Are you cold?” Max asks, walking back into the room, looking confused. “You still have your coat on.”
“Nope,” I say, quickly changing the subject. I turn to the first thing I see, a silver and black device set into the wall with a glass pane at the center, displaying a keypad. “Is this your intercom?” I ask. “We have one in our house, too! I just learned how to use it.”
“That’s the alarm system,” Max replies from across the room, hands in his pockets. His face twitches as though he wants to smile, but is being polite about it.
“Oh,” I say, pursing my lips together seriously. “Did you know that in ancient China, an emperor’s last line of defense against an intruder was a tiny Pekingese dog hidden up the sleeve of his kimono? Maybe you should get one of those.” I read about that the other day on one of my animal-lover blogs, designed solely for weirdos like me. “You know, if you’re worried about security . . .” I trail off.
Max shakes his head, but now he finally does smile, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “I didn’t know that,” he replies. “But I’m not surprised that you do.”
“What’s going on in there?” I nod to the doorway he just came out of, with the symphony of clanking plates.
“Just the millionth dinner party of the season. My parents have a lot of friends,” Max answers, sitting down next to me at the island. He sounds exhausted. “So what is this, Alice. Twenty questions? What are you doing here?” He folds his arms across his chest, then places them on the countertop, before ultimately letting them rest in his lap.
I give him a look. “I have your phone,” I say. “Relax. Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” Max says, in a voice that’s uncharacteristically high and squeaky. “You have my phone?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I reply coolly.
“So, can I have it?” he asks impatiently.
“You know what?” I reply, sliding the phone across the marble countertop so fast I think it might fly off the other side, and I sort of hope it does. “I came here tonight to do you a favor. And I’m getting kind of tired of your manic behavior.”
“What do you mean?” Max asks, looking genuinely confused. He snatches the phone with ease before it can shatter on the floor. Of course.
“I mean one minute you’re a jerk at Oliver’s party. The next you’re apologizing to me in an elevator, then you’re coming to my rescue when I think I might suffocate in the MRI machine, and now you’re acting like I’m some stalker who just showed up at your home. I mean really? Pick a side, Max. I feel like I’m living through some vampire romance where you can’t be near me because my blood smells delicious.”
I’m obviously kidding, but Max suddenly looks more uncomfortable than ever. He stares awkwardly down at his hands.
“What?” I ask, watching him. Then my mouth falls open slightly. “Is that it? You’re afraid to be alone with me?”
Max still doesn’t say anything, and his jaw clenches. “Kind of,” he admits.
It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it comes out small and unsure. “Why . . . what is it you’re afraid will happen?”
Max finally meets my eyes with a look that says, What do you think? And I think I might actually pass out.