It’s late, and the Holdens’ house is quiet as we make our way up the stairs. Bill and Marcy are likely in bed, and Ivy’s probably celebrating single-girl status with Becky and a box of wine.
Max closes his bedroom door while I slip my shoes off and make myself comfortable on his bed. He turns and stalks toward me all threateningly, but I know better. His jaw drops when I laugh, and he charges the bed like he’s on his way to the end zone. He hovers over me and kisses me, a hot, needy kiss that leaves me breathless. When it’s over, his face is a fascinating mix of desire and restraint. He asks, “Do you want me to put on a movie?”
“Um, no. Not unless you want to.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d feel like … you know. We can just hang out.”
“Aren’t you considerate?”
He smiles. “Only on my best days.”
“Thanks, but I think too much when I’m just hanging out.”
I pull him close and kiss him hard, and he quits being chivalrous and gallant and starts acting like the lustful teenage boy I need him to be. I sneak my hands under the hem of his button-down and the T-shirt he wears beneath. His skin is on fire, and smooth, like satin stretched over stone. I trail my hands up his torso, as far as I can within the confines of his shirts.
He sits up, suddenly, and yanks them both over his head.
I might be hyperventilating.
“Hey,” he says, resting his palm on my cheek. “You okay?”
I nod, leaning into his hand.
He stretches out next to me and I reach for his arm, trailing the tips of my fingers over his skin. He’s watching me, and his expression … It’s awed and adoring and completely disarming. No one’s ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me now, and for a moment I’m overwhelmed by the intense physicality of my feelings for him. I’ve heard love talked about a million times, in a million different ways, but I’ve never imagined it would feel like this, so raw and powerful.
His hand wanders to my stomach. His fingertips drift under my shirt and trace circles over my skin, slowly, higher and higher. His touch is torture, and it’s bliss. It makes me shiver, and wonder how far he’ll go, and hope he’ll never, ever stop. But then, like the gentleman he’s been raised to be, he smooths the hem of my shirt down. “I won’t push.”
“I know.”
He pulls me against him, until we’re a lace of limbs.
We lay perfectly still for what might be the very best minutes of our day.
31
MY SUNDAY MORNING TRUE BREW SHIFT IS winding down when my dad’s Durango pulls up to the window. I haven’t spoken to him—haven’t even seen him—since he spotted me at the Yellow Door last night. I’d prefer to keep it that way, but Kyle’s wiping down café tables and chatting up customers, and I’m left with no choice but to slide the window open.
“What can I get for you?” I ask politely, as if he’s a stranger.
He shifts the Durango into park, staring crossly through the open window. “My usual cappuccino, and a minute to talk to you.”
I splash milk into a pitcher and set it to steam. “What about?”
“For starters, I’d like to know what you were doing in Seattle last night.”
“Yeah? Ditto.”
“This isn’t a game, Jillian. You’d better not have been with the Holden kid. I thought I made my feelings clear.”
I jam a loaded portafilter into the machine. My anger is scalding, like water rushing through ground espresso. I look him square in the eye. “I thought I’d made my feelings clear.”
He emits a heavy sigh. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like a child.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop acting like an adulterer.” The words are out before I register thinking them, spoken in an acidic tone that makes him wince. I glare, merciless. “You can’t deny it, can you? Last night, you were with her.”
“I don’t know what you think you saw—”
“I saw you, with another woman, smiling and laughing. You were holding her hand. God, Dad. I’m not stupid. You’re cheating on Meredith!”
His righteousness crumples as he looks at his lap. I slap a lid on his cappuccino and hold it out the window, waiting for him to take it. He doesn’t, and we’re left at an impasse; me, pulsating with rage, my arm suspended in the morning air, and my dad, hanging his head. Behind me, Kyle whistles the chorus of Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” as he completes the midday cleanup duties.
“It’s over,” Dad says quietly.
I draw my arm and his cappuccino inside. “How convenient.”
“Really. I ended it last night.”
“On Valentine’s Day?”
“That’s right. I won’t see her again.”
“Who is she?”
“That’s not important.”
“Were you with her the night Ally was born?”
“That’s not important, either.”
I roll my eyes. “I should’ve known you’d be incapable of honesty.”
He fixes a steady stare on me. “I’m not sure you’re one to judge.”
I refuse to let him point his flawed finger at me. “This is what happened with my mother, isn’t it? You guys had a baby—me—and your wedding vows didn’t matter anymore. It’s no wonder she left. How do you think Meredith’s going to react?”
“You’re going to tell her?” he says, and his surprise—his alarm—bowls me over.
“You’re going to tell her.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.”
“God, Dad! She deserves to know!”
“But it’s done. I swear to God it is. Please, Jillian. This will ruin her.”
“Like it ruined Beth?”
He flinches, but doesn’t contradict me.
I’ve never missed my mother—I don’t know her enough to miss her—but I’ve missed the idea of a mother, not to mention all the things I imagine they do for their daughters: French braids before school and warm cookies after, Saturday afternoon shopping trips and homemade chicken soup during flu season. I’ve felt sharp stabs of envy watching silent smiles pass between Marcy and her girls, and I spent years holding Meredith at arm’s length because she tried too hard to fill a colossal hole.
Dad says, “Is that what you want? Meredith to move out? She’ll take Ally with her.”
My heart plummets—that’s the last thing I want.
He senses my weakness and seizes control. “It’s over. Let me work things out with Meredith. Let Ally grow up in a house with a mom and a dad and a big sister.”
“You’re not being fair,” I say, but I’m wavering. Ally’s the innocent party in all this; I spent a lot of my childhood with one parent when I would’ve liked two. How can I force the same future on her?
“Jillian,” Dad says, poised and stolid. “I’ll make things right with Mer, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you pay for the International Culinary Institute next year. Now, please. Let me live my life, and I’ll let you live yours.”