I’m tempted to test that last declaration, to flat-out confirm his suspicion that I was with Max in Seattle last night, to tell him Max and I are together, and that I love him more than cookies, cakes, and cobblers combined, but I’m not about to let my father exploit me in the name of keeping his affair a secret. Meredith doesn’t deserve that, and neither does Max.
My heart aches. Dad and I are traveling parallel courses and I can’t imagine our paths intersecting again, but for now, all I want is stability. For Ally. For Meredith. And for me. If Dad’s telling the truth, if he ended things with that woman, and if he’s serious about getting back on track with Mer, then maybe we can start fresh. Maybe everything’ll work out, like he said.
“It’s really over?”
He nods gravely. “Yes.”
“I still think you should tell Meredith.”
“Jill, that’ll only build new problems on top of the ones we already have.”
“But you’ll fix things?” I ask, my voice high, childlike in its desperation. “You’ll make everything at home right again?”
“I’ll do my best. For you and for Ally.”
I thrust his cappuccino through the window. “Fine. Now go.”
*
I spend what remains of Sunday in the kitchen, baking my favorite quick breads. I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with my dad; hindsight can be a real bitch. I should’ve demanded he tell me who he’s been seeing. I should’ve insisted he tell Meredith. I should’ve come clean about Max and me. Instead, I did everything wrong for fear of challenging the status quo, which was so stupid.
The status quo sucks.
Before dinner, Max calls. “How’re things?” he asks, and even though he’s just across the street, he feels miles away.
“They’ve been better.” I tell him about this morning: my dad’s confession, and my concession on the Meredith issue. I describe how cheap, how dirty, surrender feels. My throat tightens, squeezing my voice like frosting through a piping bag, and it takes incredible focus to keep my emotions in check.
Max says all the right things, warm and comforting, until: “You told him, though? About you and me?”
“I—uh…”
“Jill, I thought we agreed.”
“I know, but this morning was just … not a good time.”
“There’s never gonna be a good time. You know that, right? You’ve just gotta pull the trigger.”
“I can’t pull the trigger—not yet. I can’t believe you’re pushing me on this.”
“And I can’t believe you went back on your word.”
“My word came before I had a frank conversation with my father about his infidelity. I’ll keep my word, Max. Obviously I will. But it’s not going to happen while my dad and Meredith are in the midst of a marital meltdown. Can’t you just be patient?”
He sighs, an arduous sound that makes me feel like I’m suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” I say, regretting the sharp way I spoke. God, this day … I wish we could reclaim the impossibly perfect moments we spent on his bed last night. “I’ll tell him, okay? I swear I will.”
“Cool,” he says, detached. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he hangs up.
By the time the sun sets, I’ve got double loaves of apple spice, chocolate chip banana, and zucchini, an empty flour canister, and a heavy heart.
32
MONDAY MORNING, I SIT ON OUR LIVING ROOM couch with my school bag and a saran-wrapped loaf of chocolate chip banana, waiting. I might not be ready for a grand gesture, but after a night spent twisting and turning, racking my brain for a way to fix things with Max, I’m certain I can pull off a medium gesture. I hope it’ll be enough.
“Do you need to take my car today?” Meredith asks, surprising me. She’s standing under the living room’s archway, where a sprig of mistletoe once hung, and she’s holding Ally, who’s racked out—naturally, because no one else in the house is currently asleep. Mer’s wearing jeans and an emerald sweater, and she looks pretty in the morning light.
“No, thanks. Max will take me. I’m just waiting for Ivy to leave before I head over. I’ve got to talk to Bill and Marcy, and I don’t want her skulking around, acting like a she-devil.”
Meredith smiles. “She’s not so bad, is she?”
“Oh, she’s pretty bad.” I say this lightly, like it doesn’t bother me that Ivy takes Becky’s side in battles I don’t even want to be a part of, but it does. It bothers me a lot, because even though she and I have never shared a bond like the one I have with her brother, I assumed she cared in her own aloof way.
“What do you need to talk to Bill and Marcy about?”
“Max and me.”
She smiles. “Going public, finally?”
“To a select few.”
“I’m glad. Max obviously adores you.”
“But Dad…”
Meredith rolls her eyes, folding the hem of Ally’s blanket under. “Your dad’s hardly an authority on character these days.” She presses her lips together, then draws a breath. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“No,” I tell her. “It really wasn’t.”
Our shared gaze holds. She looks both mystified and melancholy, like she’s trying to figure out how her life reached this juncture while at the same time yearning to move beyond it.
“I’m going to lay this girl down.” she says, squinting at Ally. “Have a good day, okay?”
I nod. I’d return the sentiment, but I suspect the words will sound hollow; from what I can tell, Meredith’s good days have been few and far between lately. Dad may have ended it with the Other Woman, but he’s got a long way to go if he’s going to make the last several months up to his wife.
Through the rain-streaked window, I catch sight of Ivy walking briskly down the Holdens’ driveway, umbrella overhead. As soon as she backs her car out and heads for school, I spring from my seat and sling my bag over my shoulder. Then I head into the rain, hustling across the sodden lawn, shielding my hair and my bread as best I can.
At the Holdens’ front door, I give a double knock and slip inside, wiping my wet shoes on the woven mat before making my way to the kitchen, where Marcy and Bill are seated at the table. She’s got a cup of coffee, and there’s a protein shake with a thick plastic straw sitting in front of him.
“Jillian!” Marcy says, patting the bench beside her. “What a nice surprise. Come sit.”
Leaving my bag on the floor by the fridge, I pull a knife from the butcher block and carry my loaf to the table. “I brought breakfast,” I say, taking the seat Marcy offered.
She unwraps the banana bread and inhales. “Smells amazing,” she says, holding the loaf out to Bill. He sniffs, and smiles his approval. “Coffee?” she says, taking the knife and slicing the bread into even pieces, which she places on napkins and divvies out.
“No, thanks. Max is still upstairs?”
She nods, helping Bill with a bite. “He should be down in a few minutes. You need a ride, sweetie?”
“I do, actually, but that’s not the reason I’m here. I kind of need to talk to you guys.”
Marcy brushes crumbs from her fingertips and folds her hands. I’ve got her full attention—Bill’s, too—and I’m nervous. I’m trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea when the conversation Max and I had last night bounces through my head: his dismay, his thousand-pound sigh, his lack of farewell.