by Julia London
Jamie began to call for Max.
Later, Carly wouldn’t remember actually leaving Max’s house. But she would remember how she and Baxter dragged into her house, with a garish aquamarine prom dress thing draped over her arm. She would remember how Baxter solemnly followed her into her bedroom, and the two of them sat on her bed while she typed out an email to Conrad on her laptop telling him she’d be out by the end of the month.
Twenty-Two
On Monday, Max confronted his dad about his new living arrangements.
His dad claimed confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, scratching his head. “We haven’t discussed Jamie’s living situation.”
This did not alleviate Max’s annoyance—it just made it worse. “Are you kidding, Dad? You’re planning on marrying this woman this weekend, and you haven’t discussed where you and Jamie would live?”
“I didn’t say that,” his father said with a frown for Max’s tone. “Evelyn and I haven’t decided where we will live, but she knows Jamie will be with us until we can get him situated in a group home. He’s been part of this deal all along.” He patted Max on the arm. “I think Carly misunderstood.”
“So . . . you’re moving to her house with Jamie?” Max was incredulous.
“We haven’t actually decided anything. But . . . I’d say it’s a good possibility.”
Max couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ve lived in this house thirty-five years, Dad. This is where we grew up.” Max’s objection now had less to do with Jamie and more to do with his own feelings. About his mother, about his parents, about his childhood. His dad was about to obliterate it all with one whirlwind romance.
“Max, come on now,” his dad said patiently. “This house is old and needs repairs, you know that. I could get good money for it. Or, if you feel that strongly, I’ll rent it out.”
“But what about Jamie, Dad? This is a lot of change for him.”
His father sighed. “You are the one who’s been advocating for him to move to a supervised home. That’s a big change, too, isn’t it? Is that sort of change less disruptive than this change? I don’t think so. I’ve put a lot of thought into the situation, and you know damn well I will do what is best for him. I always have and I always will.”
Max didn’t like the dismissive way his father spoke to him, as if his concerns were not valid. A memory abruptly popped into his head—he and Jamie were boys, walking home from school. Max was maybe twelve or thirteen, completely caught up with his friends, Jamie trailing behind them. One of Max’s friends alerted him to the fact that a couple of older kids were bullying Jamie. They’d seemingly come out of nowhere and were taunting Jamie, calling him retarded. Max had flown into a blind rage and had attacked them. Jamie had followed suit, swinging wildly and connecting with Max by accident. In the end, Max and Jamie had limped home.
The impotent rage he’d felt that day was the same as the rage he was feeling now. But this time, his rage was directed at his own father. “Have you at least talked to Evelyn about autism? About Jamie in particular?”
His father frowned darkly at him. “What the hell do you take me for? Of course I have talked to her about him. She ordered some books about it so she could learn. But she’s new to the disorder, Max. She hasn’t studied it like you have, and you’ve got to cut her some slack. There’s going to be a learning curve. You need to have patience.”
“I’m the one who needs patience? That’s rich, Dad. You’re the one rushing off to Vegas for no good reason.”
“Mind your own business about that,” his father snapped. He walked into the kitchen and started pulling dishes out of the drain tray to put away. “So, hey, you have a big presentation this week, right?”
Max wasn’t going to let him change the subject. “Why not put your wedding on hold a couple of weeks so we can get Jamie into a place he can live on his own? With people who understand the disorder and don’t have a learning curve. Let’s put him somewhere he can take his dog, someplace where he can get on a bus and go to work and come home and paint and get him settled first. Can you not wait that long?”
His father started to shake his head.
“Come on,” Max said impatiently. “You know she doesn’t want Jamie there. And honestly, I don’t think Jamie wants to be there.”
“You don’t know what either one of them want,” his father snapped. “You pop in and out of here a couple of times a week, and you think you know what Jamie wants?”
The truth in that stung, but Max pressed on. “What I know is that we coddle him. We do everything for him. And because we have, this change is going to be harder for him to navigate.”
His father’s face began to mottle with anger. “We do not coddle him.” He turned his back to Max and walked to the window, his hands shoved in his pockets, staring out. “I’m not going to talk about this now. I have enough to do as it is. Jamie will be fine.”
He meant what he said—he refused to talk further about it, changing the subject when Max tried. So Max left. He had a meeting with Drake to go over his presentation one last time.
Drake watched as Max walked through the various elements of his research, the same thing he’d done a couple of times now. But Drake had a curious look on his face. “What?” Max asked.
“I don’t know—you’re usually stoked about your research. You look and sound like your dog died.”
“Yeah,” Max admitted. “Family stuff. And, you know . . . Alanna’s got me beat.”
Drake looked down at his paper, which Max took to mean he thought so, too.
“I don’t know. Just a lot of stuff bubbling up at once,” Max muttered. “Can we walk through this again?”
“Sure,” Drake said. “But this time, at least look like you’re interested in your work.”
Max looked this way because life had kicked him in the ass. Carly was right—nothing sucked worse than meeting the right person at the wrong time.
He had plenty to worry about and sort through with his dad and brother. But he had his job to think about, too. He loved this campus. He loved his job. There was so much he wanted to accomplish, so many things he wanted to study, and the University of Texas had deep pockets for it and a willingness to go the extra distance. But without tenure, he couldn’t bring in the sort of money he needed to really dig into his research.
There was so much weighing on him, but it was really Carly who wouldn’t vacate his thoughts for even a second. He was talking about neural pathways and thinking of her. He couldn’t believe that a woman who dressed like she did, who questioned his dog-keeping abilities, who listened to inspirational podcasts and had an idea for every situation, would be the one to worm her way into his heart. He’d always assumed it would be another academic. He’d never envisioned a woman who showed up with a dog in a tutu and gave it Evian water to drink. But it was that woman, and he missed her so much already even though they were still together.
He didn’t know where they went from here. Where he went from here.
When he’d finished his second run-through, Drake sat up. “Max, listen to me. Your dossier defense is in a couple of days. You need to keep your head in the game here. I know Alanna is a strong candidate, but so are you. You are not out of the running, no matter what you think.”
Max nodded. He appreciated Drake’s friendship, and he’d do no less for Drake. But that gut feeling wouldn’t leave him. It was over. All of it. Tenure, his family, Carly . . .
Nevertheless, Max spent the rest of the day prepping for his research defense. He and Carly had mutually agreed they both had too much to do before she left for New York and he made his presentation. She’d texted him, said her client was coming around, and she was tied up with him until she left.
He texted her and said he had to spend every moment preparing for his presentation. She asked if Baxter could hang out with him for
a few days while she was out of town. He said of course. She dropped Baxter off with a box of his things Tuesday morning. From the note she’d left, it looked like she’d just missed him.
They hadn’t said it, but it seemed to Max as if they’d both decided that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Life rolled on. Max just needed for his parasympathetic nervous system to kick into gear sometime soon and bring him down off the ledge so he could fight for the thing he’d worked so hard to achieve. He had to place the rest of his life on hold for a couple of days.
Somehow, he was able to do it by sheer force of determination. But Wednesday morning, his phone pinged bright and early.
Hey, you! Go kick some ass tomorrow!
Max smiled at his phone. He was extremely happy to hear from her.
Wish me luck.
LUCK. Anyway, you won’t need it. I am sure there is some biological explanation for what is really happening when people feel they need luck, but you’ll do great. You’re a rock star, Max Sheffington!
“Thanks, Carly,” he muttered.
Thanks again for keeping Bax. No couch! (just kidding) But for real, no mac and cheese. I mean, unless he won’t eat. Anyway, let me know how your presentation goes?
Will do. You do the same. When is your flight to New York?
I’m on the plane now. So, hey, Tobias Sheffington III . . .
He waited. Three undulating dots appeared on his screen. Then disappeared. He pulled on a jacket, looked again. Still nothing. Maybe the text had dropped.
He was combing his hair when the three dots popped up again.
Megan Monroe of Big Girl Panties podcast says that you should accept disappointment and not lose hope, and use the disappointment as a stepping-stone to greater things. I totally hate her right now. Who can be that Pollyanna all the time? Anyway, I don’t want to use you as a stepping-stone to anything. I just need you to know that you are the greatest love I will never have. Sorry if that’s too much, but I had to say it.
Max stared at the message, his heart racing. That was the way he felt, too.
Good luck tomorrow. Good luck good luck good luck. You deserve the best. Oh, the flight attendant told me to put my phone in airplane mode . . .
She ended the text with a picture of a little airplane. And then she was gone.
Max texted back, I love you, too, Carly. But he deleted it as his heart fissured right in his chest.
Twenty-Three
Carly arrived in New York at noon on Wednesday, utterly exhausted. She’d spent two full days with Victor, working into the night, helping in any way she could while he patched together what could be salvaged from his red and white collection.
Late Sunday night, Victor’s mother had texted with an SOS. She said Victor was so lost, but at least recognized that he was too much in his own head.
Carly arrived at his studio the next morning with the red suit he’d tried to throw away and she’d tried to wear. She hung it next to the awful blue and green pieces he’d been making. When Victor saw it, he’d paused and had stepped back to study it, as if seeing it for the first time. He picked up a piece of the white fabric and fashioned a bandeau and held it up beneath the jacket.
“Looks great,” Carly had said instantly, although she couldn’t tell what he was doing.
“It does,” June had agreed, just as quickly. Carly looked at June. June looked at Carly. They knew what they had to do here.
“You can still do this, you know,” Carly had said softly.
Victor had stood for a long moment, rubbing his hand back and forth over his head. “Yeah,” he’d said at last. “But I cut up most of the white.” He dropped his hand. “I’ve ruined everything. I don’t know, Mom. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin everything.”
“Oh, Victor,” June said, and put her arms around her son.
Carly laid her hand on his back. “We can fix this, you know. You work really well under pressure, Victor. And we can get more white fabric.”
“I’m still pretty handy with a sewing machine,” his mother added.
Victor sighed. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Okay. Okay.”
He went to work immediately and removed the blue and green cabana wear and had begun to piece together what he could. With June on a sewing machine—the woman had mad skills—and Carly doing cleanup or whatever could be managed with a thread and needle, Victor worked around the clock to cobble as much of his original collection together as he could.
When Carly left for home very late Tuesday night, he had seven pieces. His original collection had ten, but seven would work. His models were all still booked. All he had to do was get on the plane for New York.
When he didn’t show up for the seven A.M. flight, Carly didn’t allow herself to panic. As long as he was in New York by four, in time for the photo shoot at Couture, all was well. It was quite possible he’d overslept—she nearly did. She kept telling herself that all the way to New York.
In New York, she made her way to Naomi’s, buzzed in with the code, and used the key Naomi had given her the last time she’d been in town. She called Victor. There was no answer. She thought that meant he was on a flight.
But Victor didn’t show up to New York by four. Carly canceled the Couture photo shoot and emailed Ramona her sincerest apologies.
Not surprisingly, she couldn’t get Victor on the phone after that, either. Or June, for that matter.
Carly looked at the cute green pants she’d brought to wear out tonight. She’d been looking forward to this girl’s night out for the last two weeks.
Naomi was late from work and flew in. “We have to do a quick change. Tandy and Juliette are already at this great new restaurant we discovered in Chelsea. Cuban and Japanese fusion. Isn’t that crazy? Anyway, it’s going to take us forever to get there.” She’d grabbed Carly in a bear hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “We are going to have so much fun when you move to the city. I can’t wait.”
Carly tried to smile as Naomi peeled off her work clothes. “What?” Naomi asked as she shimmied into a skintight silver dress. “Why are you looking like that? Why aren’t you dressed?”
“I can’t go.”
“What? Why not?” Naomi cried. She rushed to the mirror in her room and began to fluff her dark hair. “You’re in New York, Carly. You have to come.”
“I want to come. You have no idea how much I want to come. But I can’t, Naomi. My client is . . . not cooperating.”
Naomi paused and glanced back. “What does that mean?”
“He hasn’t actually made it to the city yet.” Just saying it made her feel like a failure.
Naomi looked confused. “What, is he in Jersey or something?”
“No, he’s still in Austin,” Carly admitted. “I mean, I think. All I know is that he was supposed to be here today and he didn’t show.”
Naomi gasped. She shook her head. “I don’t know why you are keeping him around, honestly, Carly. It’s like one thing after another with him.”
“Well, for one, he is the only one who is paying me right now. And two, Victor Allen is truly a remarkable designer.” She still believed that. Watching him work like he had the last two days, and how quickly he could take a piece of cloth and turn it into art, had astounded her. She leaned across the bed and took out some photos she’d brought to show Ramona McNeil—the photos Phil had taken with Hazel, including some of the pieces Victor had salvaged from that original shoot. “He’s remarkable, but he’s young. Sometimes I forget how young he is. But so undeniably talented. And, you know, sometimes we all lose our way. He just needs a little help.”
Naomi looked at the photos. “These are cool. Except this one is a little weird. That dog is adorable.”
“That’s the thing about creative geniuses,” Carly said, tucking the photos away. “Not everything
they make is a home run, you know? There has to be trial and error, because that’s how they evolve.”
Naomi shrugged. “Maybe. All I know is that this jerk is keeping you from going out tonight. Okay, sweets, gotta run. Don’t wait up.” She was out the door in a flash.
Carly ordered in Chinese and tried Victor two more times. At eleven o’clock, she was ready to throw in the towel. She had done all she could do. But first, she was going to call him and tell him what an asshole he was.
She expected the call to roll to voice mail like all the other calls, but this time, Victor actually picked up. “Don’t hate me,” he said.
Carly was stunned. It took her a moment to gather herself. “What the hell, Victor? You’ve been ghosting me all day. This is twice I’ve had to cancel a free photographer for you! What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly. “I don’t know if I can do it. I keep thinking I’m going to throw up.”
This, Carly thought, was the difference between twenty and twenty-eight. “But, Victor . . . you’ve worked so hard. The pieces look great. You were happy with your work. What changed between yesterday and today?”
“I’m just not feeling it.”
Carly closed her eyes and prayed for providence. She did not wait to get it. “With all due respect, if you tell me you are not feeling something one more time, I am going to totally kick your ass and trust me, you will feel it. What is the matter with you? I mean, really? Do you think some divine light is going to shine on you and make you feel it? None of us knows what is going to happen. There is not a single person on this planet who walks out their door every day and really knows what is going to happen.” She thought of Max, who would march off to his presentation tomorrow, certain he’d be denied this shot at tenure. She thought of herself, on her way to New York this week, trying to convince herself that Victor wasn’t going to ruin this for both of them. “Not feeling it is part of life.”