“Zoe’s looked like tree trunks before Oli was born.” He shifts the truck into park, since we’re basically gridlocked. He’s wearing the adoring expression that always finds its way onto his face when he talks about Oliver, his two-year-old nephew. “I bet your parents can’t wait for the baby to get here.”
Meredith can’t. She won’t quit talking about the pregnancy, the nursery, her miles-long list of possible names. It’s my dad who’s complicating things. One would think he’d be overcome with joy at having another child, especially after Bill’s tragedy, but he’s anxious about money and work and Meredith’s health—sometimes I hear them arguing late at night. And secretary or not, he’s never home anymore, which sucks. I’m starting to think he should erect a cot in the corner of his downtown McAlder office.
“Meredith is thrilled,” I tell Max.
He turns a mischievous half smile on me. “How weird is it to have solid confirmation that your parents are doin’ it?”
I frown. “Not that I’ve asked or even care to know, but I’m pretty sure this baby was conceived in a petri dish.”
He appears confused, but then a lightbulb flickers behind his eyes. “Oh. Jesus. Sorry.”
I cringe at the thought of my dad and Meredith “doin’ it.” Then I wonder … Would I be equally revolted by the thought of Dad with my mother, had they remained married? Beth is a celebrated Parisian chef now, distant, save snail-mailed birthday cards and the occasional e-mail. I have no grounds on which to base this presumption, but I doubt she was a frail, sickly pregnant woman like my stepmother. I imagine her with a big, rounded belly, standing before a stainless-steel stove, stirring a stockpot filled with steaming bisque. The notion makes me wistful.
I turn to Max. In my sternest voice, I say, “Let’s never discuss Jake and Meredith’s sex life again, okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” he says, wearing the shadow of a smile. Then, randomly, he asks, “Hey, you thirsty?”
“I don’t know … I guess.”
“I’ll be right back.” He opens his door, letting in a gust of damp air as he slips out of the truck. He slams it before I have a chance to question him. With my mouth hanging open, I watch him trot across the street and down the block, toward McAlder’s only 7-Eleven.
He’s been gone ten seconds when, of course, traffic starts to snake forward. I fidget, embarrassed, as a few horns trumpet. It’s not long before there’s a block of empty road between the front bumper of Max’s truck and the car up ahead. I turn around and give the driver behind me a raise of my shoulders and an apologetic smile. He glares, pointing to his watch.
Damn Max and his impulsivity.
Car horns begin to bellow in earnest, discordant as a flock of tone-deaf geese. I sit, helpless and embarrassed, until I spot Max’s keys dangling from the ignition—the truck’s still running. I unbuckle my seat belt and slide across the bench, then shift into gear and, gripping the big steering wheel, ease my foot off the brake. I’ve driven plenty of times, but nothing as burdensome as the F-150. I let it coast slowly down the block, appeasing the impatient drivers behind me while keeping an eye out for Max. I can’t very well ditch him in the cold, but that doesn’t mean I’m not entertaining the fantasy.
And then I spot him, jogging toward me and his barely rolling truck. He’s got a huge lidded cup in one hand and a can of Red Bull in the other. I brake and, to a cacophony of horn blasts, shift into park. He opens the driver’s-side door and jumps into the seat I’m frantically scooting out of.
I’m a breath from yelling at him for leaving me stranded when he shoves the enormous cup into my hands. “I brought you a soda.”
“Oh. Uh, thank you,” I say, flustered by his considerate, if ill-timed gesture. Fountain Coke’s my favorite—always has been—and he knows as much. Is this his idea of a peace offering?
He pops the top of his Red Bull and revs the truck’s engine. Another horn cuts through the fog, blaring far longer than what might be considered polite. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he mutters, “Keep your pants on, asshole,” and then we’re off.
4
EVEN AFTER WHAT TURNED OUT TO BE a construction delay, Max gets us to school in plenty of time, yammering about another party at Linebacker Leo’s this weekend. I’m not sure if it’s the Red Bull he downed in a few noisy gulps, or his once-insatiable need to fill silence reemerging like the sun from behind a cloud, but he doesn’t shut up until he pulls into his parking space at McAlder High School.
I catch a glimpse of his letterman-jacket-clad teammates hovering in the traffic lanes. Kyle (a junior like Max, Leah, and me) is tossing a football back and forth with Jesse and Leo even though it’s misty and forty degrees. They conduct this ridiculous makeshift parking lot practice most mornings, and their combined sense of oblivious entitlement and affable nonchalance always makes me smile. They’re hard not to like.
“Thanks for the Coke,” I tell Max, winding the cord of my earbuds.
“No problem.” He cuts the truck’s engine, then watches while I fish a tie from the back pocket of my jeans and gather my hair into a ponytail.
“Why do you do that?” he asks when I’ve finished twisting the elastic.
“Do what?”
“Wear ponytails all the time.”
I check the side mirror to be sure my hair is smooth and, at the same time, dodge what I suspect might be a too-intense expression on his face. “I don’t know. I like it out of my way.”
He’s quiet, expectant, his attention like a weight atop my shoulders, and it feels rude to continue staring quasi-ignorantly at my reflection. Despite the warning bells clanging in my subconscious, I turn to face him.
Big mistake.
His gaze is too intense, and now I’m trapped. His eyes hold mine until time extends long and taut. A voice in my head shouts, Look away! But I can’t—he’s trying to communicate using those expressive eyes of his, and something in me, something rebellious and exasperating, is committed to receiving his message.
He leans forward, reaching out. At first I think he’s going to touch my cheek and I suppress an anticipatory shiver, but his fingers extend beyond my face to my hair. He wraps the end of my ponytail around his hand in this deliberate, reverent way that whips up a frenzy of questions, the most urgent of which are: Why is he touching my hair? and What the hell is he thinking?
He moves closer and suddenly we’re in a vacuum, Max and me, cocooned in the warmth of his truck, the sounds outside distant and insignificant. This intimacy, this spark of connection, is familiar. Last night … there were good parts, sweet parts, tucked among the chaos.
I’m tempted to lean into him, but this isn’t me—I don’t swoon over boys. I don’t swoon over Max. And yet my heart thuds so forcefully, the truck’s likely shaking. His attention falls to my mouth and for a brief, terrifying second I wonder if he might kiss me. Again. Because that worked out so well last time.
Still, my breath catches.
The corners of his mouth lift in a smug smile. And then he levels me with the most awkward question ever: “You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”
Despite the recent strain that’s plagued our friendship, he knows me well.