“I bet you and Max’ll have fun.”
“Yeah, he’s a barrel of laughs,” I say, and then, like I’ve stepped through a magical portal, I’m transported to the night of The Kiss. I experience it all over again—the fluttering in my chest, the tingles on my skin, the heat coursing through my blood. How right it felt to be in his arms, despite all the reasons it was wrong. I recall the morning after: the fountain soda, Max’s joke about his sister’s tree-trunk ankles, the way he touched my hair like it was spun silk.
Why can’t I let it go?
“Jelly Bean,” Kyle says, bumping my knee. “Something’s bugging you. What’s up?”
I wish I could tell him, then absorb his insight and soak up his guidance. Keeping secrets from him makes me feel ill, but admitting that I was the trite other woman is freaking shameful. More than that, though, I can’t find the words necessary for expressing the weirdness I feel when I think about Max now. It’s like this door—a door I didn’t even know existed—has swung open, giving me a fleeting glimpse of a remote possibility.
Nope.
Not a possibility.
An impossibility.
“It’s nothing,” I tell Kyle, throwing off a blanket of longing. “We should get back to work, don’t you think?”
We do, and when we’re finished, he kisses my cheek and takes off, probably worried he’ll end up roped into Bunco, too.
I drag myself down the hall to shower, then consider my closet’s offerings. I pick my best jeans, dark denim that hugs my butt, and the shimmery sleeveless top Meredith gave me for my last birthday. It’s unsuitable for the November chill, but hey, Max is apparently playing Bunco because I am. Why not be a sparklier version of myself while taking part in a game I hate with a boy I’m suddenly hot-and-cold for?
When I’m dressed, I blow my hair out and curl it into soft waves. Then I tackle my makeup, finishing with gloss that leaves my lips with an objectionable sticky feeling.
Anti-kissing gloss.
Tucking the tube into the pocket of my jeans, I take a deep breath and attempt to get my shit together before Max and his family arrive.
8
I’M SURPRISED TO FIND MY DAD ON A kitchen bar stool when I descend the stairs. He’s not on time for Bunco; he’s early. He’s using a toothpick to spear a Swedish meatball from the Crock-Pot, but he pauses to let out a low whistle as I walk into the room. “Dressed up for Bunco, I see.”
“Don’t start,” I say, but there’s no denying I’m pleased. Over the last several months—since Meredith announced her pregnancy and Bill suffered his stroke—our once indestructible bond has weakened. Since he’s barely spared me a glance since that horrible Halloween lecture, a compliment aimed my way feels special.
He pops a steaming meatball in his mouth. He’s a foodie, but he’s cool with bar snacks, too, so long as they fit the occasion. “These aren’t bad.”
“One of Meredith’s specialties,” I say, taking stock of the kitchen. All of the counter space is occupied by warming hors d’oeuvres, and the air is heavy with the scents of sourdough bread, melted cheese, and caramelized onions. “Frozen meatballs that’ve spent hours marinating in their own grease.”
“In other words, gourmet,” he says with a wink.
Dad met my mother at a chef’s tasting just as he was beginning to practice real estate law. They married, Beth further cultivated his love of fancy cuisine, I was born, and then she had an existential crisis and flew the coop, leaving them bitterly estranged. Even after she left, though, Dad hung on to his passion for fine fare. Once I was old enough to behave myself, he and I started spending Saturday evenings dining at the best restaurants in Western Washington, critiquing flavor and texture and presentation. I’ve never shied away from trying new foods with unique ingredients, though dessert’s always been my favorite course. Dad’s partial to expensive cuts of steak and stoutly brewed beer.
Saturday night dinners ceased when Meredith pranced into our lives.
Dad tweaks one of my curls. “I hope you didn’t get gussied up for the Holden kid.”
My cheeks warm. Tonight’ll be the first time he and Max share space since Dad caught the two of us groping each other. “He’s only playing because Meredith asked him to,” I say. “Same reason I’m playing.”
“Hopefully he’ll be able to keep his hands to himself.”
I become very involved adjusting cookies on their platter. “Dad, Halloween—what you saw—that was a one-time thing. A mistake. Remember? Max has a girlfriend.”
“I could give a damn. That kid can have a whole harem of girls waiting to fulfill his every need, so long as none of them is my daughter. Understood?”
“Yeah. Understood.” I’ll acquiesce to pretty much anything if he’ll shut up about harems and hands and fulfilling needs.
He’s watching me, his expression serious. “Try to remember, Jill. You deserve better.”
The compulsion to defend Max is strong—we’ve got too significant a history for me to tolerate his name being dragged through muck—but contesting my dad is pointless; he argues for a living. I roll my neck to ease the tightness this exchange has caused.
Dad points the end of his toothpick at me. “I don’t want him in your room—not tonight, not ever. Got it?”
“Got it.”
I watch as he pops another meatball into his mouth. His hair’s chestnut like mine, though his is beginning to gray at the temples, and his eyes are deep brown, a reflection of my own. He’s like whole wheat bread, sturdy and steadfast, and I try not to hold his dislike of Max against him. I know he’s got my best interests in mind. At the moment, though, a change in topic seems like a brilliant idea.
“I baked a veritable banquet of desserts for tonight,” I tell him, and then I go on to list the confections I spent all afternoon perfecting.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Dad says. “You’re already making a name for yourself in McAlder. You know, I actually heard someone refer to you as Master of All Things Delectable the other day?”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did. And I thought, ‘That’s my girl!’”
I smile. “Just wait until I learn all there is to know from the International Culinary Institute. I’ll blow this town away with my treats.”
Meredith breezes into the kitchen. She’s wearing a coral sweaterdress, and her flaxen hair, freshly trimmed, grazes her shoulders. Her eyes are bigger than a Disney princess’s. “The International Culinary Institute?” she says. “I thought that wasn’t happening.”
I laugh, a terse sound. “Of course it’s happening.”
“But … the money.”
“What about the money?”
My dad gives the front of his hair a nervous tug. “I, uh—”
“Dad, what’s she talking about?”
Meredith smooths her dress, plainly apprehensive. “Oh, Jake. You haven’t told her?”