My lack of answer is confirmation enough.
Dad sighs. “Scouts are supposed to be at his game Friday night. He’s going to throw away his chances at being recruited. And this.” He waves a hand at me, then the floor—the scene of the crime—his mouth twisted in revulsion. “I won’t stand for him taking advantage of you.”
“He wasn’t taking advantage—”
“Uh, doesn’t he have a girlfriend?” It’s a rhetorical question. Becky’s been a fixture at the Holdens’ for ages, first as Ivy’s best friend and now as Max’s turbulent love affair. Everyone knows he has a girlfriend.
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, but maybe it was. Now that I’m picturing us tangled on the floor through my dad’s agonizingly astute filter, I can’t deny that Max’s motivations were less than romantic. He used me to cheat on his girlfriend, and I willingly participated.
“I expect better from you,” Dad says. “Max is intent on being miserable, and you’re not the kind of girl to lose sight of her goals for a screwup.”
My goals. They’ve been set in stone for as long as I can remember: graduate high school on honor roll, earn a Grand Dipl?me in Professional Pastry Arts from the International Culinary Institute in New York City, and open my own patisserie in a charming town, where I’ll spend my days baking and serving adoring customers. Nobody’s been more supportive of my goals—my dreams—than my dad; he’s been funneling money into my culinary education fund since I was ten. I just wish he could see that one weak moment won’t derail me. I indulged in a careless kiss with my unavailable childhood playmate; I didn’t commit grand theft auto.
I’m suddenly very tired. Tired of listening to Dad bash Max. Tired of looking at his drawn expression and the way it contrasts with the inane jack-o’-lantern on his T-shirt. Tired of defending actions I’m not even proud of.
I fake a yawn. “I’ve got to be up for school in a few hours.”
He glances at the digital clock on my nightstand, then scrubs his hands over his face, as if the motion will erase the memory of Max and me horizontal on the carpet. “I thought we were beyond this, Jill, but I’m going to have to set some boundaries.”
“Seriously? I made one mistake—”
“One mistake that traces back to one very unstable person. I love Bill and Marcy, but their son’s become a terrible influence, and I won’t have him taking you down.” He pauses, making sure he has my full attention before saying, “I want you to stay away from Max Holden.”
3
DAD LEAVES THE HOUSE BEFORE DAWN, AN attempt at beating traffic on his way to a meeting in Seattle, and this morning Meredith has an appointment with her doctor—one she doesn’t mention until just before it’s time for her to drive me to school.
“Catch a ride with Max,” she says, hitching a thumb toward the window where his truck sits in full view, warming up in the driveway across the street.
Meredith is perfectly put together, sitting at the kitchen table with her feet up on the chair across from her, sipping green tea from a travel mug. Meanwhile, I bustle around, wiping down counters, collecting stray mail, dumping my dad’s breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. There’s been a complete role reversal in the six months she’s been pregnant, and I don’t love it.
“Dad said to stay away from Max.”
“Then ride the bus.”
“Never.”
“What about Ivy?”
I wrinkle my nose, downing the last of my cooling coffee as I hitch the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Riding with Ivy is to risk a Becky run-in—no, thank you—and anyway, I have nothing in common with Max’s big sister. She’s crème br?lée: fancy and feminine and double-take gorgeous, with a hard outer shell I’ve never cared to crack. Besides, her car’s already gone.
“Jill, just go with Max,” Meredith says wearily, resting a palm on her stomach. She does that a lot now—shields the leech baby with her manicured hand—and it’s strange. Not that I relate to most of what Meredith does. She and my dad started dating when I was ten, she moved into our house when I was twelve, and there was a wedding a year later. It’s not that I dislike her; I just don’t get her. She’s so … pristine.
She slips her feet into the patent-leather flats beneath her chair. “I have to go if I’m going to get to my appointment on time, and you can’t let what happened last night make you late for school. It’ll be a ten-minute ride. You’ll survive, and your father will, too.”
Damn it.
Back when she was on bed rest, Meredith often let me take her Saturn to school, and on the occasions she needed it, my dad would drop me off. But I’ve had to ride with Max a few times, too, on mornings when Meredith’s had errands and Dad was tied up with early meetings, and it sucks. Max’s truck is cluttered, he insists that every morning begin with twangy riffs courtesy of the Highwaymen, and he’s almost always grumpy. But today the horror that was last night clamors around in my head.… Max and I kissed, and my dad walked in on us, and that’s seven shades of screwed up.
Begrudgingly, I shoot him a text to let him know he gets to play chauffeur, then hurry across the street, littered with a blend of pine needles and pinecones and fallen leaves, to the Holdens’ driveway. I pass the truck, exhaust streaming from its tailpipe, and give the front door two knocks before letting myself in, same as I always have.
I find Marcy and Bill in the kitchen. She’s still in her bathrobe, pouring steaming water from a teakettle into an oversize mug. He’s in his wheelchair, sporting a royal-blue tracksuit and immaculate sneakers that’ll probably never touch pavement.
“Morning, sweetie,” Marcy says, wrapping me in a hug. She’s warm and soft and homey, like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. She welcomed me into her family’s fold the moment my dad and I moved onto the street. She used to do her fair share of babysitting where I was concerned, and she taught me almost everything I know about baking.
When she releases me to tend to her tea, I stretch my mouth into a big smile and walk to where Bill sits. His eyes are on the small kitchen TV, tuned to ESPN as usual, but they move to follow me as I come closer. I assume the louder, livelier tone that comes inherently when I address him now. “Morning, stranger. How’s it going?”
He replies with a wobbly grin and jerky nod. He’s too thin, birdlike in his fragility, nothing like the indestructible man I used to know. Still, he’s Bill; his eyes gleam with familiar amiability. I squeeze his shoulder and move to where Marcy’s washing dishes.
She bumps her hip against mine. “Catching a ride with Max?”
“How’d you know?”
“He may have grumbled something about it while wolfing down his omelet. He’s upstairs brushing his teeth, but he should be ready soon. How’re Jake and Mer?”
“Busy,” I say. “Dad with work. Meredith with baby stuff.”