He folds my palm into the web of his and drops our knotted fingers to his lap, like the two of us holding hands is the most ordinary thing in the world. “Why are you being nice?”
“I’m always nice,” I say, distracted by the heat of his hand against mine.
“Remember when we were friends?”
“Max. We’re still friends.”
“Not like we used to be.”
“Nothing’s like it used to be.” The admission makes my chest ache.
“Remember when you used to hang out with me, not Kyle?” There’s a sharpness to his voice that’s alien, not to mention confusing. There’s no reason to be jealous of Kyle, and Max knows as much. But if Kyle’s not the issue, what is? Is he trying to provoke me? Has his never-ending series of fights with Becky turned him mean?
Whether he intends to or not, he’s proving my point—nothing is like it used to be.
“Remember when you used to hang out with me, not your teammates?” I counter, tossing my ponytail over my shoulder. “Not Becky?”
Predictably, he ignores my rebuttal. “Why don’t I ever see you anymore?”
Because you’re always playing football, or partying, or out with your girlfriend, I want to say, but I sense those words won’t help. Instead, I tell him a different truth. “We grew up.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
All at once, I regret letting him into my room. I tug my hand out of his. The lost connection combined with the bite of his tone make my stomach roil. “Don’t put this on me,” I say. “A lot has happened, stuff I’ve had no control over.”
“What? You mean Becky?”
I mean his father, but the hurt he wore a few minutes ago flashes in my mind and I can’t bring myself to mention Bill, who’s had to leave his half of the Hatz-Holden Logging management responsibilities to Marcy. Bill, who’s confined to a wheelchair, who needs help eating, dressing, using the bathroom. Bill, who has a hard time communicating a simple hello.
I stand. The ghost of Max’s touch makes my palm tingle, but I feel better now that I’ve put some distance between us. I’ll go to my desk, littered with cookbooks and recipe cards. I’ll read my latest issue of Bon Appétit. I’ll get ahead on my English lit assignment. I’ll ignore Max until he sobers up, and then I’ll send him on his way. I’ll pay for these late hours tomorrow, but there’s no way I can get comfy in bed with Blackbeard acting all wasted on my floor.
I’m stepping high over his legs, fuming at his audacity—his idiocy—when he grabs the hem of my pants. I lose my balance, wobbling on one foot like a dizzy flamingo, until I’m forced to give in to the inertia of his pull. I drop into his lap, landing with an embarrassing oof. Judging by the look on his face—chagrin swirled with a generous dash of unadulterated amusement—he’s more shocked by my new seat than I am.
I’m mortified beyond words—beyond recovery, apparently—while he stares at me, biting his lip against what must be hysterics. “Jesus, Jill. What’d you drink tonight?”
I struggle to right myself. “Nothing, thank you very much.”
He’s snickering, and I want to smack him. “Really? Because that was—”
“You pulled me down! And shut up, would you? You’ll wake my dad.”
His laughter quiets. “Jake’s cool. Remember when we were in middle school and he caught us smoking the cigarettes we stole from Zoe? All he did was toss the pack and sit us down in front of a documentary about lung cancer.”
“Yeah, and neither of us smoked ever again.”
“My point is, he didn’t freak out. And I did not pull you down.”
“I was walking and you grabbed my pants!”
“I didn’t want you to leave.”
I whack his chest. “I was going to my desk, you moron.”
He rubs the spot where I hit him, as if I’m capable of causing him pain. When he’s satisfied there will be no bruising, his hand lands on my leg. It’s inadvertent, I think. A comfortable resting place, although his other arm is looped behind my back thanks to the way he caught me when I fell.
We must notice the position of his hands, my body, the close contact, at the same time because all the oxygen funnels out of the room. His attention flickers to my mouth, and heat floods my face. What the hell am I doing in his lap?
“Yeah…,” he says, shifting. Not such a cocky pirate after all.
I muster the little dignity I’ve managed to retain and prepare to push myself up. “Sorry. You’re okay, ri—?”
He tightens his hold.
“I’m okay.” He’s recovered his swagger—I’m sure the copious amount of beer he consumed earlier is helping—and his voice is low, throaty, familiar. It’s his flirty voice, I realize, the one he uses with Becky during their (infrequent) good moments. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I try again to leave his lap, but his hand glides up my spine, beneath my ponytail, and cradles the back of my neck. Now he is flashing me the grin, the one I was hoping for when I opened my curtains, the one that exudes confidence and promises fun. I want to hate him for teasing me. For using me. For being so freaking enticing.
I could never hate him.
“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he says.
“Max.” It’s a warning. It’s an invitation. With a smile and a stroke of his fingers along the curve of my shoulder, he’s drawn me in, and I’m losing the very fragile grasp I have on this situation. I study the stubble on his jaw to avoid his eyes, but then I want to touch it, feel its coarseness against my fingertips.
I give my head a shake and focus on my hands clasped in my lap. I breathe, in and out, but the beer, the cinnamon, the wintry-clean scent of the soap he’s used for as long as I’ve known him … I’m certain he hears my heart’s incessant pounding.
Softly, he says, “What were we talking about again?”
“How everything’s changed.”
“Jilly.”
I melt into him as he whispers the nickname that never fails to thaw me. “Yes?”
“If you tell me to go, I will.”
His declaration lets me see us from a distance, unencumbered by his scent and his warmth and his gentle touch. I’m a reasonable person. A smart girl. And Max is a mess, letting regret engulf him, anger consume him. Just last week I watched him shove a freshman on the quad because the kid accidentally bumped into him. And tonight he’s three sheets and looking for distraction. As much as I’d like to help him, I won’t be his no-strings-attached hookup, the other woman to his waning relationship with Becky.
I resolve to tell him as much—that he should, in fact, go home. That he should drink a glass of water and swallow a couple of Motrin before bed. That I’ll see him tomorrow at school.
But before I can utter a syllable, he’s charging forward, eyes glazed, lips parted. I’m so astonished, so stunned, I let him push his mouth against mine, and even though it’s heedless and utterly unexpected, I reciprocate. I can’t help myself.
I can’t process this frantic, feverish kiss, but it shoots straight through me, a streak of heat and want and, oh my God—it’s good.
Just like that, I forget all the reasons why kissing Max Holden is an awful idea.