“I thought you were better than this,” he says, looking pointedly at the audience we’ve attracted. Dozens of people have stopped to observe us, two cats wrestling over a tom. I’m not this girl; I’ve never wanted to be this girl. I step back, using Max’s height to shield myself from their stares. Callously, he says, “Get the hell out of here, Becky.”
As the warning bell trills, I spin around, intent on making an overdue escape, but Max catches my hand. I pause, but I don’t turn to face him. I don’t want him to see how my cheeks burn, how my lip trembles, how utterly humiliated I am. I wait, staring unseeingly at the floor, clutching his hand, bound to him in all the ways that count as our classmates reanimate, hustling to get to class before the final bell.
When the hallway has mostly cleared out, Max twirls me around and pulls me close.
“She’s mad at me,” he says. “Don’t let her get to you.”
“Do you see, though? Why I don’t want to make a big deal about us at school?”
“Jill, it’s not like things can get any worse.”
I’d like to tell him about Becky knocking into me because, yes, things can get worse, but I don’t want to trigger his anger—not over this, something I should be able to handle on my own. “If I ever see her touch you again,” I tell him, “I’ll have to hurt her.”
His eyes take on a devilish gleam, and he walks me back, until I’m leaning against the cold metal of my locker. He turns his hat around so its bill is out of the way, and I grip the hem of his jacket, tugging him closer, until his mouth is inches from mine. “I like when you get all fiery,” he says.
“Oh, I bet you do.”
The tardy bell rings. The hallway’s empty but for us. I should be in French.
Max places a hand on the locker next to my head and moves closer. He tucks a leg between mine, pressing his body against the length of me. I feel him inhale, slow and shallow. He skims his nose along that place where my collarbone meets my throat, and heat rushes up my neck. God. When did the hallway get so warm? He brushes the side of my face with his prickly cheek, touching his lips to my ear, lingering a moment before easing back. His cinnamon exhale fans my skin. “I’m dying to kiss you.”
My breath hitches. “Then maybe you should.”
He closes the space between us, but at the last second, bluffs and pecks the tip of my nose. “No more kisses for you—not until you’re cool with doing it out in the open, in front of anyone who cares to watch.”
I gasp. “Max Holden, you are the worst kind of mean!”
He takes off down the hall, turning once to look back at me. He’s smiling, but his voice has a serious edge, and it reverberates in the deserted corridor. “That’s the deal, Jillian Eldridge.”
33
I DON’T CARE FOR MAX’S NO-MORE-KISSES decree, or the way his mood declines as the week drags on.
After school on Tuesday, we drive to the river and park in our spot. He’s distant, even while using the flash cards I made to quiz me on my bio vocabulary. Late Wednesday night, he knocks softly on my window, but when I let him in, he’s surly and restless. He stays thirty minutes before leaving the way he came. Thursday, he goes to a midnight movie premiere with the guys; he doesn’t text before he leaves or after he gets home. I’m not so needy that I require his rapt attention at all hours, but this behavior’s so different from how he’s been since we got together.… I feel like I’m being punished.
Friday, I still haven’t spoken to my dad about Max and me. He’s hardly been home, is part of the reason, but mostly I’m reluctant to slap more angst on the messiness that is my family. I haven’t seen him put one iota of effort into fixing things with Meredith, like he promised, and on the few occasions he and I have shared space, he’s barely been able to look me in the eye.
Max doesn’t get it, though. The well of points I earned talking to Bill and Marcy has run dry, and I end up having to take Meredith’s car to school because he left early to fit in a workout with Kyle before first period.
His fortitude is one part impressive, two parts aggravating.
I suffer through my classes, stewing instead of absorbing the material.
I’m feeling sorry for myself as I navigate the halls after the final bell, wishing Max would materialize. And then he does—the first time I’ve seen him all day. His eyes meet mine, and with a nod of his head, he summons me to a recess beneath the stairwell. I make my way toward him and slip into the nook.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks without preamble, the underlying cord of tension in his voice hard to miss.
“Kyle and Leah convinced me to go to Leo’s party. Are you going?”
“Planning on it.” And then he asks the question he’s asked every afternoon for the duration of this week: “Talk to your dad yet?”
“Max—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Look, Jill. I’m trying to be patient, like you asked. I played along with your game at the Yellow Door. I’ve given you space at school. I’ve crawled through your window instead of walking through the front door like an actual human being. All week I’ve waited, hoping you’d follow through, hoping you’d own up, because I’ve gotta tell you: The way you’re handling this sucks.”
“But I told your parents. And Meredith knows.”
“Yet here we are, arguing in an alcove because you refuse to tell the person who matters most. Your dad’s this huge part of your life. He’s got his reasons for not liking me, and you’re giving them weight. You’re turning me into the villain he thinks I am.”
“It’s just such a bad time.” Stupid—I know as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Max throws up his hands. “Jesus, Jillian, you keep making excuses to let yourself off the hook. That’s probably the same thing your dad did every time he lied to Meredith and climbed into bed with his girlfriend.”
He might as well have socked me in the gut; oxygen rushes from my lungs, leaving me empty. I’d forgotten how utterly excruciating fighting with Max Holden can be.
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I tell him quietly.
His gaze shifts, like the sight of me leaves him cold—a heartbreaking thought. His scowl is a brutal reminder of how he used to be, before we were us.
“Please, Max. Tell me how to fix this.”
He bristles. “You know how to fix it.”
I reach for his hand. My fingers skim the band of his father’s watch, working their way into his tightened fist. When our palms align, the contact—my skin on his—is unhinging. A dizzying sensation takes me, like the undertow that would’ve dragged me under at the beach a few years ago, had it not been for him. All I can focus on is the sudden, stomach-churning realization that I could lose him over my unwillingness to openly defy my dad, who’s raised me lovingly but disappointed me unequivocally.
Max pulls his hand away, burying it in the pocket of his sweatshirt. I’m at a loss, and I’m agitated, and I’m scheduled for a closing shift at True Brew. It’s almost comical, the idea of serving coffee and conversation when my life’s so screwed up.