Max rises from the beanbag, standing at his full height. “I am fine,” he declares in the same frank tone he might use to say the sky’s blue. “I just didn’t feel like partying.”
If I’m taken aback by his admission, Becky’s flabbergasted. Her eyes dart from him to me, drilling holes straight through my soul. She’s questioning what Max sees in me, as a friend or otherwise, and her expression is so anguished, so bitter, my cheeks become circles of heat. I sink into the beanbag, wishing myself anywhere but here.
Becky turns her glare on Max. “How could you do this to me?!”
“We were watching a movie.” He waves a hand toward Leo, Jesse, Kyle, and Leah, looking on with assorted expressions of discomfort. “It’s not like this is a private party.”
“Isn’t it? Because you two looked pretty fucking cozy!”
I expect Max to go all humble, to waver under her allegations like he has in the past. But instead of trying to wheedle his way back into her good graces, he says, “Becky, if I’d wanted to see you, I would’ve gone with you to the party. If I’d wanted you to stop by, I would’ve invited you.”
Her eyes are bright with tears. God, this is awful.
Ivy drops a sympathetic hand onto her shoulder. To her brother, she says, “You don’t have to be a dick.”
“And you didn’t have to bring her here.”
“What would you have had me do? Let her leave by herself?” Ivy scoffs. “You of all people should know what can happen if the cops catch you driving drunk.”
Max’s hands curl into fists. “I wish you’d mind your own business.”
“I wish you’d quit screwing up!”
He ignores his sister and takes a purposeful step toward Becky. “It’s time for you to go,” he says, though not unkindly. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” She lunges, planting her palms on his chest and shoving hard. He doesn’t move—doesn’t even sway—but I’m done. I can’t watch her put her hands on him, and I can’t watch him try to tend to her, even though I know it’s exactly what he should be doing. She’s in shambles, and Ivy’s not doing her any favors; where usually I’ve got nothing but ill will when it comes to Becky, now all I feel is pity.
She’s crying, sloppy sobs that serve as a perfect diversion. I stand, catching Kyle’s eye. He gets up, too, and we’re nearly clear of the bonus room when Max says, “Jill, wait.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, waving a hand like, deal with your shit. I want him and Becky to be over more than I want my next breath, but I’m not interested in standing around, waiting to see if he’ll make a clean break.
“I’ll walk Jill across the street,” Kyle tells him.
Max nods, and that’s it—Movie Night’s over.
Leah, Jesse, and Leo are up as well, gathering their things and slinging on their jackets. Ivy’s comforting Becky, wearing a look of utter helplessness, and I feel an unexpected pang of sympathy. It’s not like she expected a scene like this, and I know a little something about trying to push logical decisions on someone who’s determined to dig their hole as deep as possible.
Kyle loops his arm through mine. We head for the door together, listening to Becky snivel as we make our escape. I look back one last time to see her cross-legged on the floor, her head resting on Ivy’s shoulder. Max is hunched over the two of them. He’s murmuring something, his voice tight with consternation, with commiseration, and it doesn’t take a scholar to figure out that this was Becky’s intention—she’s trying to win his attention, his affection, by acting all bat-shit.
I wonder if it’ll work.
Once we’ve waved Leah, Jesse, and Leo off, Kyle and I cross the street to my house, tomblike in its tranquil darkness. He walks me all the way to the porch, quiet until he’s not. “So, what’s going on with you two?”
“Who?” I ask dumbly.
He flashes his patent don’t bullshit me scowl. “You and Max.”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing. I know we talked about being there for him, but did we mean be there for him?”
“I’m not in the mood for riddles, Kyle. Just say what you want to say.”
“Okay,” he says in this smart-alecky way that makes me steady myself against the porch railing even before he gets started. “I think you like Max more than you’re letting on, and I think he likes you. I think he’s relaxed when he’s with you—content when he’s with you. I think Becky’s a spoiled fuckup. And I think you’re standing in your own way.”
“There are a lot of things standing in my way.”
“Her? No competition.”
“Kyle. On the off chance Max and I one day got together, she’d make hell of my life at school. Ivy would, too. Besides, it’s not just Becky. My dad hates Max.”
“Because he’s been acting like a dipshit. But he won’t always.” Kyle squeezes my hand, gazing down at me like a sage old owl. “Your dad loves Max’s family, and he loves you. If you guys got together one day, he’d get over it—I’m certain. He wants you to be happy, Jelly Bean, just like me.”
18
MY DAD WANTS ME TO BE HAPPY, so he buys me a brand-new KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer. It’s beautiful—metallic silver, with all sorts of attachments, like a gourmet pasta press and an ice cream maker. He gives it to me the day following the disaster that was Movie Night, and I’ve got it out of the box and running in a matter of minutes. I’m thankful, so thankful, but even as I’m measuring flour and spooning yeast, I’m recalling the expression my dad wore as I accepted the mixer: reminiscent and proud, a little regretful.
I read his gift for all the things it says: I’m sorry I’m not around more, and For the love of God behave, and I’m trying to be a cool dad again.
I make homemade pizza crust, and even though savory foods aren’t really my thing, I add some marinara and mozzarella and zesty pepperoni.
“I’ll set the table,” Dad says fifteen minutes later, as I’m pulling dinner out of the oven.
Meredith fills glasses with water and ice and I divide the pizza into slices, pondering this shift in the paradigm; other than holidays, the three of us haven’t sat down to dinner together in months.
We’re quiet at first, a lot of chewing and swallowing because we’re tragically out of practice when it comes to this sort of togetherness, until my dad asks, “How was your day, Jill?”
“With the exception of my new mixer, pretty eh. I worked and caught up on homework.”
“You should’ve come shopping with Marcy and me,” Meredith says. “We got a swing for the baby, battery powered, pink-and-brown plaid. Darling.”
I nod blandly, and Dad does, too. He and I are in agreement about the overwhelming lameness of baby stuff.
“Maybe next time,” Meredith adds.