“And you? We hardly see you anymore. Find yourself a nice boy to date?”
I swallow back the snicker that comes with that ridiculous question. The boys in my circle are hardly datable … Jesse’s blissfully spoken for, Leo’s up front about his love-’em-and-leave-’em attitude, and Kyle’s not interested in girls. Max … he couldn’t be less datable.
“Nope,” I say, casual. “School and work keep me too busy.”
“Good girl,” Marcy says, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I wish Max shared your priorities—any idea what’s going on with him?”
My face practically ignites. God—is she baiting me? “Uh, no … Why?”
“He’s in the foulest mood. Almost insufferable. Isn’t that right, Bill?”
From his place at the table, Bill nods.
Marcy rubs the gold cross pendant she wears on a fine chain around her neck, as if shining it with her fingertips. She waits, hoping I’ll share some nugget of wisdom, some brilliant insight into her son’s petulance, I guess. The thing is, I do have a rather foggy idea as to why Max might be especially ill-tempered—less than twelve hours ago, he drank too much, fought with his girlfriend, then kissed me, the very last person he should be kissing. There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to discuss traitorous, drunken hookups with his mom, though.
“Huh … Not sure.”
“I wish there was something I could do for him.” She lowers her voice, leaning in close. “He’s taken Bill’s stroke so hard—harder than both my girls. I just don’t want him to do anything stupid.”
I recall the throwaway comment he made last night, about how he could’ve hopped behind the wheel of his truck after getting pirate-drunk. “None of us do, Marcy.”
With that, Max comes thumping down the stairs. He’s wearing his letterman’s jacket, and a black knit beanie covers his dark hair. He gives me a cursory nod of acknowledgment, mumbles good-bye to his parents, and saunters out the front door.
I hurry to follow.
By the time I reach the F-150, Max has closed himself inside. The unmistakable strumming of classic country leaks from the cab, and a shudder of annoyance ripples through me. I silently curse the automobile gods, because if I had a car of my own, I wouldn’t be forced to endure what’s sure to be a torturous ride with the most miserable person in all of McAlder.
Still, Max isn’t completely ill-mannered; he throws the truck’s passenger door open for me. I’m greeted by a gust of heated air and Willie Nelson’s nasal voice wailing nonsense about heartache. As I step onto the running board, he murmurs, “Hey.”
My foot slips.
“Shit!” I shriek, fumbling for the door handle, barely managing to catch my balance. I heave myself gracelessly into the truck, glaring at my dew-wetted shoes. Nothing like a narrowly avoided crash landing to foil feigned indifference. Max is watching me, I know he is, but my bruised ego won’t let me meet his eyes. I buckle up, my cheeks flaming.
“So,” he says, backing down the driveway.
“So,” I return.
“Sleep well?”
“Fine. You?”
“Eh … Got any tests today?”
“Um,” I say, thrown by his attempt at conversation. “In French.”
“I’ve got a quiz in civics. Forgot to study.”
Shocking.
He doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t, either. A decade of friendship, and this is what we’re reduced to.
Daunted by the prospect of ten minutes of meaningless staccato chitchat followed by cumbersome silences, I fish earbuds out of my backpack and scroll through the music on my phone, searching for something to drown Willie out. Max drums the steering wheel, effectively ignoring me, and I feel a jolt of frustration. What right does he have to be nonchalant? He was the one who came to my window. He was the one who initiated the kissing. He was the one who cheated on his girlfriend. Why am I stressing out?
I make myself a promise: I will stop worrying about the sharp-edged dynamic that is my relationship with Max Holden. He doesn’t care. Why should I?
He swings the truck out of our neighborhood and onto one of the two main roads in our tiny town—McAlder is, quite literally, a map dot on the fringes of suburbs that’ve cropped up under Washington’s perpetually overcast sky. We live in the shadow of Mount Rainier, among countless evergreens, between two runoff rivers that swell with melted snow and salmon every spring. McAlder’s the sort of town where people move to escape the bustle of city life: quaint, but close enough to civilization for an easy commute, which is why my dad chose it after he and my mother, Beth, split up. Career-driven, she moved halfway around the world to cook fine cuisine. Dad, on the other hand, settled in the most family-friendly community he could find (first in a condo, then in the house where we live now), and hired a secretary to lessen his workload so he could spend time with me.
I chance a peek as Max straightens the steering wheel and guns it. He’s in his typical driving posture—slightly slouched, one hand hanging at twelve o’clock—wearing his jacket, plus a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans. He’s probably nursing a hangover, and he’s sporting his semipermanent scowl, but still. He looks good.
I smother a sigh as he brakes behind a line of traffic. The corners of his mouth turn up and, lightning fast, he snatches my phone from my lap and turns my music off.
I pull my earbuds out, intent on retaliation, and lunge for the dash. I spin the volume dial, silencing Willie. “How do you listen to that crap anyway?”
Max shrugs in his annoyingly offhanded way, refocusing on the traffic, which is at a standstill in front of us. “It’s better than the emo shit you listen to. And since you’re set on a music-free car ride, we can talk.”
Talking feels like an enormous undertaking, especially in the aftermath of the slop-tastic kiss that never should’ve been. “Talk about what?”
He gestures to the line of cars idling in front of us. “Maybe you can tell me why traffic’s so backed up.”
“I have no idea. Accident? Construction?” I reach for my phone, certain our conversational quota for November’s been met.
Without taking his eyes from the road, Max swats my hand—the swift reflexes of an athlete. “I thought we were gonna talk?”
I rub the spot where our skin made contact. Tingles. Undeniable, unwelcome tingles. “Fine,” I say. “Talk.”
“How’s Meredith? You know, with the baby?”
Not my favorite topic, but better than a certain alternative.
“Okay, I guess. She still gets sick, and her blood pressure’s high. Apparently that’s a bad thing when you’re pregnant. Her ankles look like gigantic sausages. It’s disgusting.”