Instead we’re interrupted by a voice from the hall. “Max? Could you bring a bottle of red as well?” Max’s mother appears in the hallway between the dining room and living area. She’s immaculate with a friendly, open face. “Oh,” she says when she sees me.
“Mom, this is my friend Alice. She was just leaving,” Max says quickly, standing up from the table.
I can take a hint. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Not so fast,” Max’s mother says. “Alice, first of all, it’s lovely to meet you. And please call me Katherine! Secondly, I’m sorry Max is in such a foul mood. He hates our dinner parties. Why don’t you come in and join us for dessert? Someone canceled at the last minute and we have an empty seat.”
I look to Max, but he’s intentionally not meeting my gaze.
“I—I’m not sure . . .” I stammer.
“Well, I am,” Katherine says, putting a sparkling diamond-clad hand on my back. “Besides, we have a flourless chocolate torte for dessert, and if more people aren’t here to eat it, I’ll do it all myself.” She winks.
The chocolate torte is what dreams are made of. Like a brownie that’s been cooked just right, warm and gooey at the center, with a deliciously crisp crust. I would swim in it if I could. Or just dig a hole and sit inside it with a spoon and eat my way out. Maybe tonight when I fall asleep, I’ll dream about this cake.
“So, Alice,” Jacob Wolfe says. Over the course of dessert I learned Max’s dad is the head of pediatric surgery at Mass General Hospital, a few blocks away. His mother, meanwhile, works for the largest philanthropic foundation in the city. No pressure or anything. “How come we’ve never seen you before? Where have you been hiding?”
I put my spoon down, embarrassed to realize it hasn’t left my hand since I sat down. “I just moved here, actually.”
“Alice is in one of my classes at school,” Max says. He’s acting different, like he’s playing a version of himself. His speaking is more formal and enunciated, his posture more rigid. Like the way you speak to someone who is hard of hearing. Not the way you talk to your father.
“Yes, psychology,” I add. I was only trying to participate, but immediately I see Max wince.
“Psychology?” Jacob asks. But he’s not speaking to me anymore, he’s speaking to Max. “I thought you decided not to take that this semester?”
Max takes a deep inhale, nodding, and I realize I’ve made an error. “We did discuss that, yes, but this is the only semester Mr. Levy teaches Psych 201, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Especially if I want to get into his three-hundred level next year.”
Jacob clears his throat, his posture still like stone. “I just thought we agreed you’d wait until your senior spring to take the fluffier courses,” he says.
“He just said it wasn’t offered in the spring, dear,” Katherine says in that same soothing tone. A tone that says, I’m putting out this fire, and don’t bother trying to light it again. She brushes a strand of Max’s hair out of his eye. “And besides, you have such a great relationship with Levy. It will look even better on your transcript to show a continued interest in a specific subject.”
This conversation stuns me. In my house we talk about the things we saw or learned that day. The new bicycle share in Harvard Square, or the coffee shop that just opened on Marlborough Street. Max’s parents seem to know every detail of his life, and everything they don’t know yet, they seem to have planned for.
“Max is by far the smartest in the class,” I chime in. “I swear he knows the questions Levy will ask before Levy does.”
In response to this Jacob beams. “That’s great to hear. Good work,” he says to Max.
“And he doesn’t hesitate to make sure we all know it, either,” I tease, and the whole table erupts in laughter, including Max, whose eyes shine at me gratefully from the other end.
After I thank Max’s parents for dessert, Max walks me to the door. I am just turning to give him a wave when I see him putting on his own coat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Walking you home.” He shrugs. “It’s late.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be alone with me?” I tease him.
“I think I can handle myself,” he says with a laugh, playing along. But I notice he missed one of the buttons on his coat, and without thinking I reach over to fix it. Suddenly, a moment too late, I am aware of how close he is, and even though I refuse to look up and meet his eyes, something crackles between us.
“I’ll be fine, really,” I say, taking a step back. “I like to walk alone. It clears my head. Besides, my dad makes me use one of those apps where he can locate me whenever he wants.” I sigh and wish I were kidding.
Max actually looks a little hurt. And a little silly, standing there in his brown waxed-cotton coat with a plaid scarf that’s less wrapped around his neck than draped over it, where it won’t do any good. “Oh,” he says. “That’s cool.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Okay, so . . . I’ll see you at school.” I turn to leave.
“Alice,” Max calls out.
“Yeah?” I say.