“You’re not help-ing,” I sing back.
He places a hand on my back and shoves. At the same time, Max slams his cup down, slopping liquid onto the counter, and takes a step toward me. I’m standing in front of my boyfriend, who’s flushed and so obviously frustrated, and I have no idea what to do. Leah and Kyle appear apprehensive, while Leo and Jesse survey the scene with fuzzy bewilderment. I wonder how much they’ve had to drink. I wonder how much Max has had to drink.
“Nice of you to join me,” he says, loud enough to be heard throughout the bustling kitchen.
“Nice of you to get wasted before I showed up.”
“I’m not wasted.”
I might believe him. I can see now that the liquid in his cup is clear, and he’s not swaying or stumbling. His eyes aren’t glazed or red, like his friends’.
“I need to talk to you,” I say, glancing at our audience. “Can we go outside?”
“Outside,” he repeats, lofty and condescending. “Figures.”
He stomps out of the kitchen, and I crash into half of McAlder High’s student body trying to keep up. Finally, we slip out the front door and into the night. The rain has stopped, but the cloud cover remains, leaving the air dense and damp.
Max is halfway across Leo’s soggy lawn when I catch up. I grab his arm, and he skids on the slick grass, reeling around. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No, but—”
“Jesus, Jillian. Not six hours ago you promised you would!”
“Are you drunk?” I ask. I don’t think he is, not anymore, but I’m half hoping he’ll tell me yes anyway, so I can pin his anger on beer instead of myself.
His hands clench, his expression incendiary. If there was a wall nearby, I’m pretty sure he’d put a fist through it. “No, but it’s nice to know that’s your immediate assumption.”
“It’s not like you have the best track record, Max.”
“Oh, and you’re so fucking perfect.”
I will myself to hold his gaze, to maintain an assertive posture on the saturated lawn, though he’s never made me feel so small.
When he speaks again, his tone is flat, explanatory. “I poured a beer when I got here. Is that what you want to hear? Would you believe me if I told you I couldn’t finish it? I was too busy thinking about football and my family and you—how I want to be good enough for you. I dumped it down the drain.”
“Max—”
“Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? I’m not good enough. All that shit your dad fed you about me being trouble—you swallowed it. I’ve been busting my ass to get my act together, to prove I’m not a screwup, but you’re ashamed.”
“That’s not true!”
“Then what? You just like having me by the balls?”
“Max, no.” It’s a tiny, timid word, but it’s all I’ve got. He’s thought this through. He believes what he’s saying. How is that even possible?
“I see how it is,” he says. “You made a choice, and it’s not me.” His hand is on my shoulder, a consoling pat. Gently, he adds, “It’s okay.”
I bat him away, sick of being interrupted, talked down to as if I’m too meek for hard truths. My heart hardens, crystallizing like candied ginger, and I throw up my hands. “Nothing is okay! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, if you’d just listen!”
He stares, stunned, because for all I’ve tried to numb myself to tonight’s events, I’m crying. I’m sobbing. Max’s surprise gives way to concern, and he grasps my arms, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “I’m listening now,” he says. “What happened?”
“My dad. I went to talk to him, but he wasn’t alone.… I found him in his office with her, and I just—I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”
Max runs his hands up and down my arms. “Shit, Jill. Who?”
“Mrs. Tate.”
He blows out a heavy breath. “Jesus.”
“Sucks, right? And to top it off, your ex more or less assaulted me when I got here, which was icing on the freaking cake. So, yeah. My dad’s sleeping with Robin Tate. He’s an asshole and he’s tearing my family apart and today has been absolute shit, so excuse me if I didn’t get around to making a grand announcement about you and me.”
“I didn’t realize—”
“Of course you didn’t,” I say, shaking free of him. My throat feels as if it’s coated in pastry flour, and I swallow before barreling on. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain. God, Max! You think I’m some snob who’s shuttering you away because you’re not good enough? How many chances have I given you over the last few months? How many times have I listened to you vent? How many times have I eased you off the ledge? Why would I bother if I thought you were less-than? I care about you so much, and it breaks my heart to know you might not feel the same.”
“Jilly…” But he doesn’t finish.
Good, because there’s nothing left to say.
I’m backing away as he scours his face with his hands, looking so dejected I can’t believe he’s still on his feet. I’ve seen varying degrees of this expression too many times, and while it shreds me, I don’t have the strength to help him recover. Not tonight.
I leave him to stand alone on the dark lawn.
36
AT HOME, I PACE MY ROOM.
My dad’s yet to show; it sickens me to think he might’ve stayed with Mrs. Tate even after our confrontation. Poor Meredith must be bored, because she’s knocked on my door a dozen times, wondering aloud if I’m okay, if I need anything, if I’d like some company.
I know I need to talk to her, and I’m going to, but … not now.
Feeling alone and agitated and abashed, I wash my face and brush my teeth, then dress for bed in sleep shorts and the McAlder football T-shirt I snatched from Max last weekend. It’s threadbare and faded, but it smells like him.
Regret’s gnawing a hole through my stomach. I feel terrible about our fight, the events that sparked it, my suggestion that he doesn’t care.
I know he cares; I just worry that for us, caring might not be enough.
I’m seconds from falling into a restless sleep when an urgent rapping rattles my window, startling me out of bed. I stumble across my dark room and yank the curtains open. Max is standing in the side yard. His eyes meet mine, their sadness so exposed and acute, I feel it instantly, intensely, a knife of sorrow straight to the chest.
Being next to him is at once a basic, physical need, as crucial as oxygen.
I throw the window open. He puts his hands on the sill and hoists himself through, then pulls me to him. His lips touch my hair, my cheeks, my throat, a flurry of butterfly kisses. He’s clinging to me, shaking, his raspy breaths skimming my skin. I haven’t seen him this upset in months, since the night after Bill’s stroke. I’d tried to console him, a naive attempt at erasing his pain, but he brushed me off and went to Becky’s, where he drank himself stupid. Later, after she dropped him off at home, he got sick in his dad’s immaculately pruned hedges.