He’s standing, motionless, in the warm glow of the living room lamps, gazing down at me. His enormous ego appears to have withered; he’s almost reticent. “Jill,” he says, low and tentative, “do you ever think about what happened on Halloween?”
“Um…?” The conversation? The kiss? The revulsion splashed across my dad’s face when he discovered us?
“Because I do, sometimes.” He smiles, adorably sheepish. “Is that weird?”
My eyes find the floor, to which I say, “No. I think about it. Occasionally.”
“I know I was a mess. And I know your dad was pissed—hell, he’s probably still pissed. But…” He hooks his fingers with mine, a charming, innocent gesture. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It wasn’t bad. It was—”
From the basement, my dad’s jolly voice: “One minute until game time! Tables, people!”
Max yanks his fingers back. His gaze darts around the living room. We’re alone. I’m relieved, but sour, too, because I think what we were about to have was a moment—a moment we need to figure out what’s going on between us—and it was interrupted. Again.
“Jillian? Max!” Dad, not so jolly anymore.
“Come on,” Max says. “Jake’ll strangle me if he catches us together, and we still need to top off your drink.”
I have the presence of mind to keep a respectable distance from Max as we descend the stairs, but my dad still slaps me with a look of irritation, which I ignore. I take my seat and sneak peeks at Max as he wanders with practiced nonchalance to the bar. He pours the beer he’s kept tucked behind his back into a more discreet cup, then doctors my Coke with a splash of liquor. There’s a lucky disturbance in the corner of the basement—it seems Mrs. Rolon has knocked her glass of red wine onto the alabaster carpet; Meredith’s comforting her while Dad sops up the mess—and Max is able to return my full cup without half the town watching.
The game begins again, more uproarious than before, and it isn’t long before Max and I find ourselves back at the same table. He weasels his way into the chair to my left while busybody Mrs. Tate and her husband, Officer Tate, round out our foursome. Officer Tate gives Max’s cup a curious look but must think better of raising concern. This is a party, after all, and he’s off duty. Besides, the Tates don’t have kids—her job as a hospice nurse and his commitment to law enforcement are their life’s purpose. Maybe Officer Tate assumes Max isn’t stupid enough to drink in a roomful of adults.
Max isn’t stupid; he’s fearless. He used to use pieces of scrap lumber to build bike jumps in the street. He used to climb out of his second-story window, then launch himself off the roof, landing on the trampoline below. He used to wade into the river with nothing but an inner tube and a heap of gumption, and let the current carry him a mile downstream. After, he’d hoof it back up the bank for another run.
I love his courage, and sometimes I really hate it.
When the round begins, Mrs. Tate rolls the dice with a focus that makes me want to laugh out loud. I swallow my drink in an effort to suppress my giggles, while Max gapes at her antics. Her face is bright red, clashing with her strawberry-blond hair—and her movements are sloppy, like she’s had one glass of chardonnay too many. Still, she’s racked up some points by the time she’s finished. “Your turn, Jill,” she laments, passing me the dice.
I sweep them up and roll. Two fours and a three, a near Bunco. Officer Tate claps politely. I roll again and watch as the dice tumble to the table. Two more fours. Huh … Is it possible I’ve found a groove?
There’s a bump against my ankle as I pick the dice up for another turn. I ignore it, but it happens again. Subtly, I glance to my left. Max is waiting for me to roll. His mouth quirks into a smile as he nudges my calf, gently but deliberately. I curb the impulse to gawp, but I’m floored that even he has the balls to play footsie within spitting distance of my dad.
“Jillian, it’s still your turn,” Mrs. Tate prods.
I dump the dice. They hit the tabletop with a clatter: two fives and a one. So much for my groove.
The game continues in a blur. My mind hops back and forth, agonizing over my dad’s mandates regarding Max and my compulsion to let loose—with Max.
I ask myself, Why not raise some hell?
My cup seems to possess a bafflingly bottomless quality. How many times has Max refilled it? I’ve lost count, but that’s mostly because I’ve been so busy marveling at him. Against all odds, he’s become the life of the party, cheering with neighbors, fist-bumping people three times his age, and laughing, loud and jovial. His liveliness fills me with affection so acute, my mouth stretches into an irrepressible grin.
When the final round of the game comes to a close, my lips are pleasantly numb, my shoulders are loose, and my mind is free of worry.… Bunco is fun!
I spot Max drifting toward me. In a feeble attempt to look occupied, I count the wins on my scorecard, a task that takes all of a half second because I’ve only won three of sixteen games.
He sidles up next to me and counts aloud, “… eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Plus a couple of Buncos. Pretty good, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say with a disbelieving shake of my head.
He takes my card and turns it and his own in to Meredith, who’s tallying scores and divvying prize money. Our fellow Bunco players swarm the bar, waiting for the announcement of winners. Max returns to my side, standing brazenly close, his warmth running the length of my arm. “If I win,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna use the cash to take you to dinner.”
I’m unquestionably drunk, but even so, that strikes me as a terrible idea. The specific reasons why are scattered around in my head, and I work hard to sort them out. Dad and Becky are obvious roadblocks, but even if I momentarily discount them, there’s still a problem.…
What if Max and I give dating a shot, and it doesn’t work out? Our families are already cracking under the weight of inescapable change; we hardly need to toss the drama of a failed romance into the mix.
I look up to speak of reason and responsibility, but I become distracted by the shape of his jaw, angular and unyielding, as if carved from stone. His eyes flicker and flash in the candlelight. A flirtatious voice—my voice?—says, “Dinner? I’m going to hold you to that.”
Somewhere, someone taps a glass, and I seek out the sound. My dad, holding a pilsner and a spoon, watching us with unconcealed exasperation. Max shifts away as Dad’s gaze zeros in on me—Watch it!—before he transitions into his host persona. “First, the booby prize,” he says. Low laughter rumbles through the room. Everyone knows it’s the lowest scorer who receives the booby. “This year, the booby goes to … our very own Jillian!”