“Oh, yeah. Oli peed on me more than once. Not cool.”
I giggle at the mental image. “Ready with the new diaper.”
“Okay, hold her feet like this.” He shows me how to corrall Ally’s wriggling ankles, then says, “You’ll unfasten the old diaper, use the wipe, and slip the fresh diaper underneath.”
I follow his directions, fastening the tabs of the clean diaper, feeling accomplished. “Now I snap the onesie back up?”
He nods. “Simple as that.”
I finish dressing my sister, my heart filling with hope. This amiable rapport Max and I’ve got going feels good—like it could be more than good.
I carry Ally back to the living room and sit down on the couch. She rests contentedly across my lap, focusing on the slowly rotating ceiling fan above.
Max joins me, this time leaving a good foot of space between us. “You did good,” he says. “Now you’re a kick-ass big sister.”
“Thanks for teaching me.”
He shrugs. “It was nice to have you talking to me again.” He tilts his head, looking over at me. “Kyle told you, didn’t he? About Becky and me?”
“He might’ve mentioned it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure if I should say I’m sorry, or congratulate you.”
His smile’s like a pinch of salt—minuscule, but enough to affect me. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that she’s not a factor anymore. Not at all, okay?”
I nod, and as an offering of peace, I pick up the remote and turn SportsCenter up.
He grins his Max grin, wide and open, eyes crinkling at the corners, and I feel a rush of emotion so intense I can’t dismiss it—I don’t want to dismiss it. He stretches his hand in my direction, letting it rest on the couch cushion, palm up, and my hesitancy melts away.
Holding his gaze, I slide my hand into the warmth of his, and his fingers find their way into the space between each of mine in this deliberate, intimate way that erases the last of my doubt. Without the darkness of Becky’s shadow, without the difficulty of the last several months clouding my vision, Max is what I see.
Max is all I see.
25
AFTER DINNER AT HOME WITH MEREDITH AND Ally, I sit at my desk with my computer, a notepad, and a pen. The more I think about the International Culinary Institute and its meager smattering of scholarship options, the less likely my Grand Dipl?me of Professional Pastry Arts seems. Even if I’m awarded all the money I apply for, and even if I save every penny I make at True Brew, I’ll just barely have enough to cover tuition. Short of taking out a gigantic loan (what’s that my dad said about debt being no way to live?), I’ll have nothing left to pay for housing and food and transportation—essentials. That means …
New York isn’t going to happen for me.
The realization is like lemon juice in a fresh wound, and I’m doing my very best not to wallow in self-pity. Diversion number one: research Seattle culinary schools.
There are some good ones, but the International Culinary Institute’s been my dream for so long, anything else feels like settling. Still, I take halfhearted notes on a few possibilities—programs at the Art Institute of Seattle, the Seattle Culinary Academy, and Le Cordon Bleu—but the more I scribble stats and figures, the less stock I put in my future patisserie. Without the International Culinary Institute, I’ll probably end up baking at the local doughnut shop.
I’m distracted by a slam of the front door. Dad’s home, and he and Meredith get right into it. I toss my pen down; if they knew how much I can hear, they’d shut up.
“It’s Saturday,” Meredith says. “It’s bad enough you were gone all day. You could’ve come home for dinner.”
“I was working,” Dad says.
I close my laptop with a sigh.
“You’re always working. Prepping for a case. Mid-case. Wrapping up a case. I wish you were as interested in spending time with your daughters as you are in your job.”
“I’m interested in paying the mortgage, Meredith.”
“Ally’s not going to be a baby forever. Look how quickly Jillian’s grown up. Someday you’ll regret not being around more.”
“And someday you’ll regret being such a nag.”
The living room falls quiet. I imagine Meredith’s face twisted with hurt. Dad’s being so unappreciative, so nasty. Lately, I’ve found Mer’s nagging to be pretty damn warranted.
Footsteps pad down the hall. Her shadow passes by my door, and I consider checking on her, but I don’t know what to say or how to help. Besides, she’d probably put on her happy face and pretend everything’s fine, like usual.
My phone dings with a text. I grab it and fall onto my bed.
Max: What are you doing?
I type: Homework, because the truth, listening to Dad and Mer fight, is too much information.
On Saturday night? You know better.
I smile and respond: OK, Life of the Party. What are you doing?
Thinking.
About?
I await his response, buzzing with anticipation. There’s something about our conversation—texted or not—that feels monumental.
My phone chimes. He’s sent one word: You.
Thank God I’m alone, because I can’t help my little gasp of surprise. I reply: Don’t play games with me, Holden.
No games. And then: I had fun today. You?
Yes. I send the message and let the admission sink in. I did have fun. When there’s no drinking or drama or dysfunction, Max and I are great together.
He sends another text: Guess what I want …
I can only imagine. Ooh, tell me.
Ice cream. Out front in 5?
I confirm, grinning, then swap my leggings for jeans. I leave my sweatshirt on; this isn’t a date, I remind myself. Still, I run my fingers through my hair and swipe lip gloss across my mouth. Then I head down the hallway to Dad and Meredith’s room.
She’s in the master bath, on her knees, scouring the tub with a scrub brush. The harsh smell of cleanser burns my nose. I lean against the doorjamb. “Meredith?”
The brush falls, landing in the tub with a clatter. “Oh! Jill, you startled me.” With the back of her hand, she wipes perspiration from her forehead. Then she notices my shoes. “Where are you off to?”
“Just out for a bit.”
“With who?”
“Well, remember this morning, before Marcy and Max came over? When you said you’d owe me one?”
“Sure,” she says. “Cashing in already?”
“I was going to go out with Max for a little while, and Dad…”
Meredith straightens, her gaze narrowing. “You don’t want your father to know.”
“He doesn’t get Max,” I say, hoping she does. The implausibility of this moment, confiding in Meredith, is not lost on me. But I want to trust her—I need to trust her. “He thinks Max is trouble, but he’s not. He thinks Max will change me, but he won’t.”
“Please. You’re better than letting a boy rub off on you. But wait … Is this a date? Because this morning you seemed pretty eh about Max.”
“We’re just going to get some ice cream. I’ll be home before Dad notices I’m gone.”