Bunches of neighbors roll in shortly after the Holdens, until the kitchen and the living room are packed with people. Max and I hang back, hugging a wall. He takes a surprising stab at chitchat, but it’s halted and uncomfortable, probably because of me, and I’m pretty sure this is going to be the longest night ever.
“How was Thanksgiving at the Eldridge house?” he asks, clearly grasping at straws.
“Lame. How was Thanksgiving at the Holden house?”
“Shitty. My mom bought a soggy, precooked turkey, then insisted we sit at the table and express our gratitude even though no one was feeling all that thankful. After dinner, Ivy sulked in her room, and Zoe bitched at Brett for sharing whisky with me while we watched football. My dad just sat there, staring at us like he barely knew us—like he didn’t want to know us.”
A moment of clarity forces my perspective to shift; lost college money is very, very bad, but Max’s dad almost died, and even though he didn’t, he’s forever changed—all of the Holdens are. “God, Max. I’m sorry.”
“Life blows,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, think I could snag a beer?”
I arch a brow. “Is that a good idea?”
“Yes, Mom, it is. It’s Bunco Night—we’re gonna liven things up.” He grins and I’m wavering. It must be obvious, because he adds, “Come on, Jill. You and me.”
It’s not like he has to get behind the wheel later, and tonight of all nights, I could use something to dull the ache of my drained account. Besides, my dad said to keep Max out of my room. Never once did he say to keep him away from the booze.
“Coolers are downstairs,” I say. “I’ll show you.”
He follows me to the basement. Back when my dad was working with an architect on the plans for our house, he’d been all about the party basement, a room that could accommodate his pool table and a fully stocked bar and the biggest TV on the market. Before Bill’s stroke, he and Dad used to spend College GameDay Saturdays and Monday Night Football evenings down here, drinking and shouting obscenities at the refs. It’s been a while since this room has been used for its intended purpose—socializing—but tonight it’s crowded with people, card tables, and folding chairs. The lights are low, and flickering candles that smell of vanilla and spruce are scattered across the bar. Dad and Meredith mill around, faking it, I assume, making sure newcomers have drinks and are clear on the oh-so-complicated rules of Bunco.
They avoid eye contact with me. I oblige.
I lead Max to the row of coolers Kyle and I lined up earlier. I keep watch while he stoops and paws around in the ice until he finds the brand he prefers—cheap and light—then pulls a red plastic cup from the stack teetering on the bar. He tilts it and pours expertly.
“What about you?” he asks, dropping the empty bottle into the recycling bin.
“Um…”
“Oh, come on, Jilly,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Let’s get crazy.”
My knees nearly buckle as I imagine a series of very crazy scenarios.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head: I expect better from you. But guess what—I expected better from him.
Besides, what’s so wrong with getting a little crazy?
“Fine,” I tell Max, “but I don’t like beer.”
“How ’bout I mix you a drink?”
I scan the room again. Marcy’s chatting with Ivy, Meredith’s wrapped up in a conversation with Zoe and Brett, and Dad’s talking with Meredith’s friend, Mrs. Tate. She’s got him good and occupied, sharing all sorts of juicy dirt, I bet.
I nod at Max, who quickly and surreptitiously grabs another cup and fills it with ice, a generous splash of rum, and Coke. I take the cup from his outstretched hand and sample. The rum burns my throat, but combined with the sugary soda, it’s not bad.
He flashes me a smile, the smile, the one that makes me feel far less inhibited than I should. “Well?”
“Yum,” I say after a second sip.
Meredith calls my name from the other side of the basement, and I pick my way through the crowd. She’s all lit up, entrenched in her role as sparkling hostess, but once I’m standing in front of her, she drops the act. Softly, she says, “Jill, I really am sorry. Your dad … I had no idea he hadn’t—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say brusquely. I take a swig of my drink, practically daring her to ask if it’s spiked. She doesn’t.
Instead, defeated, she asks, “Will you go over the rules with Max? We’ll start soon.”
I turn away to retrieve him from a football-centric conversation and sit him down at the head table. I give him an overview of the game, the four rounds, the luck necessary in rolling three dice for specified numbers, the point system for which he’ll use his own scorecard, and the number of chances he’ll have to roll. I keep my attention on our tutorial, but I feel his fixed stare, as if the ins and outs of Bunco aren’t mind-numbingly boring.
When I’m done, he takes a long drink of his beer, watching me over the rim of his cup, then says, “I like your hair that way.”
Before I can give what will almost certainly be an awkward response, I spot Ivy on the other side of the room. She’s standing with Zoe and Brett, but she’s not paying attention to what they’re saying. She’s watching Max and me, her eyes darkened with suspicion. Because I’m sitting with her brother—her best friend’s boyfriend.
I scoot my chair away from Max’s as my dad holds up a hand to quiet the room. “Let’s get started,” he says when the buzz of voices has faded. “Refresh your drinks and find a seat.”
I remain at the head table. Max doesn’t make any effort to move either, and it’s not long before Meredith and Marcy join us, rounding out our quartet. Meredith seems to have recovered from our non-conversation; she shines like a lightbulb while Marcy quizzes her on baby names. Max takes another gulp from his cup. I fidget in my chair like a kindergartner who needs a bathroom break. What a delightful picture the four of us must make.
“Jill,” Meredith murmurs as we wait for stragglers to find seats. “Really. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“But you look flushed.”
“Well, I feel great.” I sip from my cup and inspect my scorecard, hoping she’ll shut up. Easily sidetracked, she begins to discuss nursery colors with Marcy, paint names like Rosy Cheeks, Sassy Lilac, and Lush Meadow.
Max plucks a mini candy cane from the dish in the center of our table and tears the cellophane. He snaps the peppermint in half and passes me the curved piece. “You do look flushed,” he whispers with fake concern and a shit-eating grin.
I slip the candy into my mouth as Meredith rings a bell to begin the game.
As the first round gets under way, my age-old theory about Max Holden being incredibly lucky is confirmed. On his first turn, he racks up eight points. Alternatively, my first turn earns two. He catches my eye often as we roll and pass, roll and pass. For a moment, I entertain the notion that he’s watching me, which is absurd. Sure, I’m a polished version of my usual self, and generationally we’re outnumbered, but Max has little reason to pay me attention.