“Nothing,” Max says with a sigh. “Just read the journal, Alice.”
I open my notebook and start from the beginning of the dream, describing the sparkling champagne, the fancy dress, and the elegant crowd, until I get to, “And that’s where Max finds me, standing in front of the Degas ballerinas, in the Impressionist section.”
I swallow at the next part, but press onward. “And this is where you say—”
“I know what I say,” Max interrupts, his voice low, his eyes gentle. “You know, I can dance, too.” He slips an arm around my waist. How I have missed this arm.
“Right, good.” I flip a page. “And my whole body—let’s just skip that part.” I glance up at Max’s face, which is way too close, and find him barely containing a smirk. It’s like he’s enjoying the fact that this is torturing me.
“And I say, ‘Prove it.’ And now you . . .”
Without hesitating, Max gives me a twirl. As I spin, I swear I see twinkle lights flying past, like little fireflies zooming around me. But when I steady myself again, it’s just the glow of the candelabras.
“Good, good,” I manage after the twirl, smoothing my skirt down in the back to make sure it hasn’t flown up. So I’m already off balance when Max pulls me tightly to him, and I smell his neck and close my eyes for a second.
“And now you say . . .” Max’s voice comes from far away, and I open my eyes again.
“You look good in a tux,” I barely whisper, having sort of given up. I want to nuzzle my nose just below his ear.
“Thanks. It’s the one Beyoncé wore to the Grammys.” He says the line like he’s tired, like he’s given up, too, and I can feel his heart hammering in his rib cage. This time we don’t laugh. We just stand there, because we both know what’s next, and it obviously can’t come next, we know that, because he has a girlfriend, and also because this is real life and not a dream, and because it would mean something more than maybe we are ready for. I swear from somewhere I can hear the hum of low chatter and symphony music, which makes negative sense since we are at a high-security museum after hours and the only people here are us and Emmet upstairs in a nineteenth-century tub and the security guard, who must think we are complete and utter mental patients.
“Okay, great!” I announce, way too loud, and use all my energy to pull away from Max. But just as I’m at a safe distance, I realize he hasn’t let go. And firmly, almost forcefully, Max has pulled me back into his arms and tipped me backward.
And Max kisses me.
And his lips taste like Oreos. But the Oreos are an afterthought. I know somewhere deep within my brain that when a woman finds herself on the receiving end of a gallant kiss, she should let herself just be kissed. Isn’t that how it always works in the movies? But I’m unable to play the part. Nothing can stop my hands from reaching up and tangling themselves in Max’s hair, my arms from pulling me to him and him to me, closer than we already were. As though I’ve never been kissed before. As though I’m devouring him. As though we’re the last two people left on the planet and kissing is the one thing that can keep us alive.
Max pulls away far enough to lean his forehead against mine. “I missed you,” he says. And I can’t tell if we’re on script anymore.
As the security guard, whose name I learn is Igor, lets Max and me out of the locked front door of the Gardner, I feel as though I didn’t just talk about sipping the champagne in my dream. I feel as though I had it. Maybe more than one glass. Maybe more like twelve. When Max takes my hand, I think, And there goes one more, and I look back at the museum door to see Igor standing behind the glass.
He gives me a wink.
We drive back to the lab in mostly silence, because I can’t think of anything to say. I stare out the window and wonder if he’s regretting it all, except for one thing. Once again, there are two hands on my knee, and one of them is Max’s.
“Where’d you tell your dad you were staying tonight?” Max asks.
“I told him the junior class had a lock-in.” I laugh. “I could’ve told him I was going to Portugal and he would’ve barely heard me. What did you tell yours?”
“They’re out of town,” Max says. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, as long as I keep my cell phone on.”
I know we need to talk about it, but truthfully I’m afraid to ruin it. Right now, just the two of us driving, dressed up in ridiculously fancy clothes, we could actually be in a dream. We wouldn’t even know. Who is here to tell us otherwise?
Turns out Lillian is, when she greets us in the circular foyer of CDD by the staircase, holding two sets of blue cotton PJ’s—CDD standard issue—two toothbrushes, and two travel-sized bars of soap. It feels like summer camp. A really bad summer camp where you never get to go outside.