Dad frowns and I know what he’s thinking: How many more shopping trips will need to be made before the baby’s stocked up? He refocuses on me. “How’s the new semester going?”
“Okay,” I say, looking down at my plate. He’s trying, but his questions make me jittery. The last few weeks have been chaotic—I’ve barely had a minute to breathe—and the next few months won’t be much better, what with the baby coming. And then there’s my yo-yo relationship with Max. I wonder, for the billionth time, what he’s doing—how he’s doing. I think of the often-quoted definition of insanity: carrying out the same behavior over and over while expecting different results.
Is that me?
Have I completely lost it where Max Holden is concerned?
I pick at my crust, feeling like a can of soda, all shaken up. I wish I could unload the stress that’s peaked in mountains around me, but Meredith’s never really been a confidante, and Dad’ll lose his shit if he finds out my funk stems, in large part, from my non-romance with the bad-influence neighbor kid.
I set my half-eaten pizza slice on my plate. “I think I’m going to head to my room,” I say, pushing my chair back.
Meredith looks at me, worried. “Not feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Just not in the mood for pizza after all. Plus, I’ve got a lot to do before school tomorrow.”
She smiles sympathetically. “We’ll save you a few slices in case you get hungry later.”
Dad clears his throat, and I turn to face him. “Jill, I know the last several months have been a challenge. I know I came down hard, grounding you the way I did, and I know you’re still disappointed about your International Culinary Institute money, but I think you’ve handled yourself well lately.”
Only because I’ve been faking it, hiding my worries, not to mention my time with Max. I nod, unsure of where he’s headed.
He continues, “Maybe we don’t say it enough, but Meredith and I appreciate your help. We’re proud of you.”
I sense that he wants me to reply with something eloquent, something forthcoming, a response to merit the ceasefire he’s initiating, but tonight I’ve got nothing more than, “Thanks again for the mixer.”
*
Much later, after Dad and Meredith have gone to bed, I sneak outside to meet Max for a walk through the neighborhood. The outing was his idea, but once we get moving, he falls quiet, going through the motions without really engaging.
“What’s up with you?” I ask, after our first trip around the block.
He shrugs, melancholy, and adjusts the beanie he’s wearing.
Rather than poke at him by asking about how Becky’s surprise appearance at Movie Night played out, I tell him about my new mixer: its make and model, its various attachments, its quiet hum. I tell him about how perfectly the dough hook mixed the beginnings of my pizza crust, and how beautiful it looks on the kitchen counter. “It’s, like, the Rolls-Royce of small appliances,” I say.
He glances at me. “What is?”
“Uh, my new mixer?”
“Oh.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his inattentiveness. Realizing it’s up to me to keep the conversation flowing, I ask, “What’d you do today?”
“Went out.”
My skin prickles, and I immediately want to ask, With who?
“Leo and I went for a long run,” he supplies unprompted.
I’m not proud of the relief I feel at knowing he wasn’t with Becky. I don’t want to be jealous of something I don’t understand. This—our friendship—should be enough.
“How was it?”
“Fine. Boring … I had other stuff on my mind.” He nudges me with his elbow. “But tell me more about your mixer. What’re you gonna bake next?”
I consider. “Maybe a cake? Something delicious and supersweet, like coconut cloud cake, or hummingbird cake. Yeah, hummingbird cake, I think. It’s full of crushed pineapple and mashed banana and pecans and other delectable things. Have you ever had it?”
He gives me a blank look. “Had what?”
“Hummingbird cake! God, Max, are you even listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.” He drags a hand over his face. The night’s so cold, his breath creates a cloud of condensation. “Sorry, Jill. I’m just tired.”
We head for home.
19
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, THE QUAD IS FOR once drenched in sunshine, crammed with people soaking up vitamin D even though the day’s cool.
The final bell’s just rung, and I’m weaving through the crowd, hoping to talk to Kyle and Leah for a few minutes before I head for home. They’re missing from our regular spot, but Becky’s nearby, talking to her old standby Bryan Davenport, plus a bunch of his basketball buddies. When she sees me, she puts on an aggrieved mask that almost makes me feel sorry for her—until she leaves Bryan to strut toward me.
I become a statue on the walkway, watching, waiting as she makes her approach. The last I saw of her, she was sobbing on the Holdens’ bonus room floor. What could she possibly have to say to me now, and where the hell are my friends when I need them?
She’s advancing, her eyes locked on mine, and my pulse pounds in my ears. Frantically, I sift through a flurry of possible salutations, but my efforts are in vain because when she reaches me, she doesn’t stop like I expect. There are no loathsome words. No guilt-inducing tears. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all, except to freaking body-check me, ramming the barbed bone of her shoulder into mine as she pushes past.
I am shocked.
I know she’s pissed about Max bailing on their Saturday night plans, and I know the sight of him and me together on the beanbag chair mutated her into a monster, but—oh my God—I can’t believe she’s resorting to this sort of barbarity.
She’d make hell of my life at school, I’d told Kyle, and yeah, sure enough.
I’m still standing on the path, reeling, when I spot Kyle, football in hand, sauntering toward me to the whistled tune of “Walking on Sunshine.” “Jelly Bean,” he says, a greeting so cheerful I feel certain he missed what Becky did moments ago. When I don’t respond, he stoops down to scrutinize my expression. His smile falls. “Whoa. You okay?”
Pain radiates through my shoulder. My confidence must’ve been jolted, too, because my response is scarcely a whisper. “I’m fine.”
He gives a skeptical raise of his eyebrows but doesn’t push. “Have you seen Max?”
“Nope.” Thank God, because if he would’ve been around to witness Becky’s clip, I’d be a bazillion times more humiliated than I already am.
He slings an arm around me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure,” I say, shrugging him off. Feeling like the world’s biggest jerk, brushing away his concern like I am, I let a lie loose. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got Meredith’s car and she’s waiting for me, and just—I’ll call you later, okay?”