She smiles conspiratorially. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I leave through the back so as not to attract attention. Max is waiting in his truck, parked on the street between our houses with the passenger door wide open. He’s listening to early Tim McGraw, classic enough to satisfy his tastes, I suppose, but contemporary enough to keep me from going batty.
When he sees me, his face, illuminated by the cab’s dome light, comes alive with a smile. There’s a new energy between us, a palpable, the-possibilities-are-wide-open kind of energy.
I like it.
*
We pick up ice cream from Rainier Creamery. Then Max drives down to the river, where he parks on a deserted overlook. The sky is pitch black and wind whistles through the truck’s tiny entry points, but inside the cab we’re warm and comfortable. We dig into our ice cream, country music’s all-stars crooning ballads over the radio’s waves. As far as non-dates go, the whole scene is pretty dreamy.
Max quickly interrupts it. “Level with me. How thoroughly have I pissed you off over the last few months?”
Leave it to him to get right to business.
“Pretty thoroughly,” I admit, studying a spoonful of coconut ice cream. “When you called me from the river, finding out later it was about Becky. That was … unpleasant.”
“It wasn’t about Becky. Shit, Jill. Is that what you think?”
“You drink yourself into oblivion right after you break up with your girlfriend. What am I supposed to think?”
“Not that it had anything to do with her. That day … Seeing you in the parking lot after school, knowing I’d probably fucked things up beyond repair, I felt like nothing was ever gonna be right again.” He looks at me, his expression quizzical. “Haven’t you ever felt that way?”
“Honestly? I’ve been feeling that way a lot lately.”
He drops his ice cream dish into a cup holder. “I’ve been taking my shit out on you, and I know that’s unfair, but after Halloween, after Bunco, I knew you had regrets—”
“Wait. You didn’t have regrets?”
“I was freaked out, yeah. You’re you. If I hurt you, my parents will disown me. Kyle will beat my ass. Shit, your dad’ll bury me in his backyard. But I was never sorry.”
Bits of reality replace the conjecture that’s been clouding my head for weeks. I take another bite of ice cream and let it melt on my tongue. It’s sweet and tropical, and makes me think of sun-drenched beaches and palm trees and warm ocean air. I glance out the window at the black, black sky, feeling conflicted. “What about Becky?” I ask, because if I’m going to do this, give Max and me a real shot, I need to know everything.
“What about her? We were a cluster-fuck.”
“Then why did you stay with her so long?”
He expels a hefty I was hoping you’d never ask me that sigh. “She’s not a terrible person, Jill—not like you think.”
“Yes, she is. She’s manipulative, and she’s mean to you.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t been all that great to her.”
“She makes you drink.”
He laughs, a dry, drained sound. “I do stupid things all on my own, in case you haven’t noticed. Becky’s never made me do anything. And for what it’s worth, I’m done getting sloshed every time the world gives me the finger.”
“Really?” My tone is part dubious, part dazzled. I want to believe him; I want him to prove he means it.
“Yeah, really. And you’re right—Becky can be a royal pain in the ass, but to be fair, a lot of the time, she was reacting to shit I pulled.”
“Then … why?”
He’s staring out the windshield, into the night, when he says, “She was supposed to go to Italy in the fall, for this semester-abroad program she was accepted into. She deferred a year because she wanted to be around for Ivy and me. I didn’t care whether she stayed or went, which should’ve been a red flag, but she stuck around, and I felt like I owed her. Plus, she’s Ivy’s best friend, and she’s at the house all the time, and tolerating her seemed easier than making waves. Jesus, Jilly, I don’t know. My dad’s stroke … It screwed me up.”
My heart squeezes at the way his voice breaks over those final words. “What happened to your dad had nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”
“It had everything to do with me. I was home. I could’ve—should’ve—mowed the lawn. He asked me to, but I was getting ready to go out with Becky—some midday party at a lake an hour outside town. I should’ve told Becky I was bailing on the party. I should’ve helped my dad. At the very least, I should’ve found him sooner. A minute or two might’ve made a difference.”
“God, Max. It wasn’t your fault.” I reach over to touch his arm, wondering if anyone’s ever told him as much.
“He’s just … He’s so different now.”
“But he’s still your dad. He still loves you and your mom and your sisters, and he’s still wild about football. Wheelchair or not, he’d find a way to move mountains if it meant you’d be happy.”
“I know.” He runs a hand over his face. “God, I know. I’m trying—I swear I am—but for a long time, I just wanted to be away—anywhere but home. Becky … When I needed an escape, she was there.”
I slip my hand from his arm and say, quietly, “Is that what I am? An escape?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Hardly. Everything’s different with you. Right now, the way you’re asking me to explain myself? Nobody else does that. My mom and my sisters take my crap in stride, like they’ve written me off, but you don’t. After the river and the whisky, I felt guilty as hell about the way I treated you. You … You make me want to get my shit together.”
I ditch my ice cream bowl in the cup holder next to his. Since he’s laying his playbook on the table, for once completely forthcoming, I swallow my hesitation and broach a new topic, one far less appealing than the idea of Max getting his shit together. “I recently heard a rumor about you, Becky, and a biology classroom. True or false?”
He makes a grim sound. “Jill. False. Becky and I haven’t … Well, it’s been awhile. Since before Thanksgiving.” He adjusts his hat, looking tremendously uncomfortable, and I get it. Ice cream followed by talk of Max’s sex life—totally awkward. He says, “There hasn’t been much interest in risky biology hookups, at least not on my part.”
“Huh. I suppose that’s good to hear.”
He smiles, then lifts the center console and takes my hand in his, warm and a little rough, like worn leather. “My parents have never liked me with Becky. Not because of anything she’s done, really, but because she’s not the girl who lives across the street. You know, the moody baker girl who sometimes pretends I don’t exist even though she has this massive crush on me?”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I live across the street from a cocky jock who once coerced me into the world’s cheesiest mistletoe kiss.”