“Jilly. Your dad.”
I struggle to my feet, then trudge across the room as if through deep sand. I follow Max into the hallway and to the front door like I’m tethered to him. It’s frigid on the porch, and very quiet. The air smells metallic, wintry, and the sky is clear, filled with tiny pinprick stars. I get woozy looking up at them, but not the pleasurable, drunken woozy of earlier. This is a confused, rueful sort of woozy, one that leaves me nauseated.
Max leans against the rail. “You’re freaking out.”
I chafe my hands against my arms and nod.
“Don’t, okay? Ivy didn’t see anything, and even if she did, she’ll forget by morning ’cause she’ll be back to thinking about herself.”
“She hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She’s jealous.”
Gorgeous, confident Ivy, jealous of me? “You’re nuts,” I scoff.
He gives me a solemn smile. “You and your dad. Think about it.”
“But I—”
“Hey, I’m not saying her bullshit makes sense, but it is what it is. Ivy’s a daddy’s girl. Things are different now, and she’s messed up because of it.” He pauses, looking up at the star-speckled sky. “We all are.”
Ivy never used to care about me one way or the other, but since Bill’s stroke, she has been catty and mean. My brain is sloshy, and it’s taking a century to draw a simple conclusion, but maybe Max is right. Even though things are rough between my dad and me, a debilitating health condition on his part would change my temperament. Nasty or not, I feel bad for Ivy.
Still, she could be inside, telling Dad what she just walked in on.
I’m bubbling over with regret, but admitting as much to Max feels wrong, like I’m trivializing what happened between us. Though maybe I should be trivializing it. I mean, we made out. Big deal. He has a girlfriend, one he has no apparent plan to break up with. A few drinks, a few laughs, a few kisses. It is trivial, all of it.
I cross my arms and slide a step away, letting distance cement the idea in my head. His posture turns rigid and his eyes go shifty, like my protective stance makes him unsure of where to look. The cold air is a thick, solid thing.
“Anyway,” he says. “Thanks for, uh, hanging out.”
“Yeah. It was fun.” Lame. So lame.
He moves to the steps, his shoes shuffling across the wooden planks of the porch. He pauses, giving me a long once-over. “Jill … You okay?”
I force a smile. “Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough going on as it is.” There’s a sharpness to my voice I didn’t intend, a serration I wish I’d smoothed.
He doesn’t say anything else—no see you later, no hug or peck on the cheek—though that’s undoubtedly for the best, because the magic of the evening is wrecked. He lopes down the walkway, and I watch until he disappears behind the Holdens’ front door.
My entrance into my own house is far less graceful. Too bad, because my dad’s standing in the foyer, witness to my unfortunate stumble. His fists are glued to his hips. His face … Oh God.
“You’re drunk,” he spits.
I imagine a thread attached to the top of my head. It pulls me upright, tall. I push my shoulders back, too, and swallow, though thickly. All of this feels very necessary, but takes far too long. At last, I respond. “No, I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is quiet and scary-calm. “This is Max’s influence, isn’t it? You were outside with him just now, and alone with him while we cleaned up the basement.”
I put a hand on the door to keep from swaying. “I was … walking him out.”
“I knew it was a bad idea to have him here. Drinking under my roof, and with Officer Tate in the house. Drinking with you.”
“Don’t blame Max, Dad. I knew exactly what I was doing.” Staging a mutiny, basically, because a few hours ago, my world was turned upside down. Did he honestly expect me to grin and bear the loss of culinary school and New York?
The hurt I spent all night trying to drown rushes to the surface, and I blink back tears.
“Look at yourself,” my dad says. “You’re barely on your feet. You can hardly maintain eye contact. You reek of rum.” He tugs at his hair, heaving a sigh. “I know you’re upset about the money, and I don’t blame you. I’m sorry—you have no idea how sorry I am. But no amount of bad news excuses drinking at seventeen. You’re grounded, Jillian. With the exception of school and work, you’re not to leave this house.”
I don’t trust my voice to remain steady, so I shrug, a move my dad must read as disrespectful, because he becomes a volcano, red and dangerous and ready to erupt.
“I never thought I’d see you make such irresponsible decisions,” he says, his voice roughened with anger. “I don’t like the person you’re becoming. Not at all.”
His declaration strikes me in the gut. I close my eyes against a bout of dizziness.
“Go to bed,” he says. He shakes his head, disgusted, as I turn for the hall.
I will not stagger.
I will not stumble.
I will not cry.
It’s on occasions like this that I wish for a mother—not faraway Beth, and not preoccupied Meredith. A real mother, who might take my side, who might step in to temper my father’s rashness.
Just before I close my bedroom door, he calls, “I hope Max is worth it, Jillian.”
Is he?
I collapse on my bed, unnervingly drunk and thoroughly confused.
He’s just a guy, I remind myself. He’s the boy across the street. He’s a friend.
He’s just a guy.
But I don’t think he is. Not anymore.
12
AFTER A NIGHT OF FITFUL SLEEP, I get to endure ten minutes in the car with my still-furious father. He’s on his way to the office, where he’ll probably spend the better part of the weekend. His overtime works out well, though, since he’s insisted on shuttling me to work—I might still have alcohol in my system, he speculates, which means I’m not driving myself anywhere. And besides, I can’t be trusted.
Kyle’s beaten me to True Brew, as usual. He’s whistling a cheerful rendition of “Jingle Bells” and running shots of espresso through the machine, seasoning it, when I stagger through the door. His well-rested grin and a gust of toasty, coffee-scented air greet me.
Kyle’s parents opened True Brew ages ago, and it’s the only independently owned coffee shop in our Starbucks-saturated county to survive the highs and lows of being a small business. There’s almost always a line of cars in the drive-through, and the shop is usually busy with some combination of grocery-getter moms, khaki-pantsed businessmen, students lugging armloads of textbooks, couples on quiet dates, and passionate Bible study groups.