Somehow, this proposed activity strikes me as more intimate than anything else we’ve done lately. I mean, it’s not sex in a biology classroom, but me plus Max plus a movie viewed in a dark space seems more like an equation equaling trouble than two friends hanging out.
I call Kyle for his opinion.
“But Max told me he was going out tonight,” he says. “Couple of guys on the basketball team are having a rager, and Becky’s dragging him along.”
“Not anymore,” I say, wondering at the catalyst for his change in plans. “He just texted me.… Do you think I should watch a movie with him? I mean, it could potentially get … weird.”
“Jelly Bean, surely you two can sit through a ninety-minute film without your libidos getting the best of you.”
I roll my eyes. “You should come.”
“Third wheel? Hard pass. Unless…”
And that’s how Leah ends up invited to the Holdens’. She insists on bringing Jesse, and he calls Leo and tells him to stop by, and before I know it, the evening has turned into an official Movie Night.
My friends and I used to gather in the Holdens’ big bonus room often, vegging in front of comedies we’d seen dozens of times. Even Ivy joined us when she wasn’t in the midst of social calls and dance team obligations. Last year she came pretty regularly, in fact, and then she started inviting Becky. Seemingly all of a sudden, Becky and Max were a couple. That was right around the time I began to dread the get-togethers. Then Bill had his stroke and the Holden household became a place of sickness and sadness, and Max and Ivy stopped asking friends over.
I’ve got mixed emotions about this whole Movie Night thing—the notion carries a lot of baggage, and tonight will be Max’s and my first attempt at our newly resumed friendship in the company of others. I do my best to relax by making a treat, lemon coconut truffles, which I have to wrestle from my freakishly strong, delicacy-demanding stepmother before heading out the door.
With every step across the dark street, my nerves multiply. Kyle’s car has replaced Ivy’s in the Holdens’ driveway, and Jesse’s and Leo’s are bumper-to-bumper on the street. Seems I’m the last to arrive.
Normally, I’d give my double knock, then walk right in, but tonight feels formal. I was invited, after all, and I’ve brought a dessert. So I knock three times, and wait.
Max answers the door. He’s smiling, and then I am, too.
I gather my wits, sort of, and after saying a quick hello to Marcy and Bill, who are watching Wheel of Fortune in the living room, I follow Max up to the bonus room, where our friends are waiting. Leah has dressed up for our night in because that’s the sort of girl she is—an ostentatious chocolate sculpture, showy but sweet—and the guys are lounging in jeans and sweatshirts with various sports logos plastered on them. I give a general wave and place my platter of truffles on the ottoman. While Kyle, Jesse, and Leo descend on them with alarming zeal, I allow myself a two-second peek at Max, who’s loitering to my left. He’s wearing a University of Washington hoodie, and his hair’s sticking up in unruly spikes, and I’m pretty sure he couldn’t look better if he tried.
He catches me checking him out—of course he does—and I turn away to assess the viable seating options, instantly regretting my leisurely mosey across the street. Kyle, Leah, and Jesse are lined up on the couch, Leo’s taken over the recliner, and Max … He crosses the room to the oversize beanbag chair, prime real estate, and flops down, taking up well over half the surface area. Before Bunco—before Halloween—I might’ve shoved him over and made him share. Tonight, I stay on my feet, unsure of what to do and where to go.
“Jilly,” he says, patting the barely there space beside him. “Come sit.”
I glance at Kyle, who hitches a hubba-hubba eyebrow. I head for the beanbag with the sole purpose of proving his silent but ridiculous assumption wrong. “Scoot over,” I tell Max.
He does, but when I sit down, we both sort of sink into the center, until our shoulders-hips-thighs bump up against each other. I’m tempted to rocket right back up, but Max doesn’t bat an eye, and honestly, what’s the big deal? We’ve been sitting side by side at True Brew and the library, not to mention within the confines of the truck, and it’s been fine. Because we’re friends—we agreed—and so far neither of us has done anything to upset the balance we found when we shook hands.
Jesse hops up to dim the lights and Max uses the remote to start the movie. It’s one I’ve seen before, a shame because I could use something other than the many points of contact between my body and Max’s to focus on. But alas, I spend much of the film alternately wondering at and freaking out about his apparent lack of distress.
Halfway through the movie, Marcy appears with three bowls of popcorn. She gives one to Kyle, Leah, and Jesse, one to Leo (because his size dictates an individual serving), and one to Max and me. She smiles when she notices us together, yet she doesn’t look all that surprised. After letting us know that she and Bill are turning in for the night, she heads back downstairs.
Max shifts, planting the bowl of popcorn between us. He angles his head toward mine and whispers, “Comfortable?”
I nod. “You?”
“I’m good.”
I wiggle deeper into my spot, bending my knees to bring my feet up. The movie’s nearing its climax and it’s funny—it really is—but I’m struggling to pay attention. I’m struggling to get comfortable, too, because I feel like I can’t move, lest I rock our beanbag boat.
“Jill,” Max says, hooking an arm around my legs, “I can’t see.” He tugs my knees down until they’re resting against his thighs, then leaves his arm flung across, effectively pinning them there—not that I have a superstrong urge to move away.
Even in the meager light, I catch Kyle smirking.
And then, over the theatrics onscreen, I hear car doors slamming in the driveway, followed by commotion downstairs. Max sits up a little, cocking his head. Not five seconds later, the bonus room door bangs open and the lights blaze on. Becky stands in the doorway, and judging by her disheveled appearance, she’s having a wild night. Her ringlets are frizzy, her face is patchy with redness, and her mouth is a tight line. She’s in a minidress and tall, tall boots, with pale swaths of bare thigh glowing in the lamplight.
I jerk away from Max, but it’s too late. She sees us—how close we’re sitting, Max’s arm draped across my legs, the way I’ve subconsciously inclined myself toward him.
“This is why you skipped out on the party?” she accuses, thrusting a finger at me.
“I was just—”
“Becky.” Ivy comes into view behind her, also dressed for a night out—though not as outrageously. “He wasn’t feeling well, I told you.”
“He looks fine!” She’s wasted—it’s so obvious. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she keeps rocking back on her heels. She looks careless and cutthroat—practically possessed.