“Max always did know how to read people.”
“Mmmm.” Scarlett’s tone is noncommittal, then she says, “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me the real story about you two?”
“I’ve told you the real story.” At least twenty percent of it. I shrug and try to match my tone to hers. “The past three times you’ve asked.”
“I call bullshit. However…” Scarlett stops moving the brush over my eyelid and I open my eyes as she takes a step back to examine her work. “I’ll give you a free pass because at least you’re not moping about Tom.”
Oh God, Tom.
Scarlett’s words are like a kick in the stomach because I already feel bad enough about the way I imploded that relationship through every fault of my own. And the speed that I went from brooding about Tom to swooning over Max makes me feel sick.
Scarlett’s next words are soft. “I meant that as a good thing.”
“I know. But what does that say about me that the minute another guy comes along, Tom is a distant memory?”
“It’s not the minute another guy comes along. Don’t make me bring up Mikhail.” Scarlett gives me a pointed look. “It’s this guy.”
“Which is worse.” So much worse.
“I think it means you made the right decision about Tom.” Scarlett lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know why you insist on flogging yourself about this over and over again.”
“Because Tom is the nicest guy I’ve ever gone out with. He’s smart and funny and sexy, and it wasn’t enough for me. What does it say about me when I can’t make it work with, literally, the perfect guy?” My question ends on a bit of a whine, but I don’t care.
“That he wasn’t perfect for you and that’s okay. I know you loved Tom and I know you feel terrible that you hurt him, but you’d have hurt him more by staying and you know it.” Scarlett’s tone turns cajoling. “Maybe you don’t believe this, but you deserve to be happy too.”
“I know. But the guilt is real, you know? Of all the things I feel guilty about, Tom is in the top five.” God knows, I have a list of things to feel guilty about and I hate that Tom is on it at all. Max, on the other hand…
“I don’t think that’s necessary, but...” Scarlett claps her hands together and says, “You need to get ready and rehashing your relationship with Tom for the millionth time isn’t going to do you any good.”
Scarlett’s right. I know she is. The clock on the dresser reads 6:48, so at the very least I need to trade my towel for proper clothes. I stand up, ready to don jeans and a cardi after all. But then Scarlett hands me the red lacy bra from the end of my bed instead of the plain beige one next to it and I take it, grabbing my purple dress from the wardrobe on my way to the bathroom.
It’s the better choice anyway. Because Tom or no Tom, I haven’t seen Max Foster in twelve years, and if he’s anything like he used to be, he’ll see through me no matter what I’m wearing. I may as well distract him with pretty wrapping for as long as possible.
Chapter Nine
Twelve Years Ago
Max and I don’t walk home from school together for three days because he’s out of school for football. Frankly, it gives me time to practice pulling my hair out of its ponytail, so I don’t pull out half my hair and/or yelp when I accidentally get a bunch of strands stuck on my watch. It also gives me time to wonder why Max is my target audience for this maneuver, but I tell myself it’s because I’m tired of being his time-and-place friend. That’s all it is. Nothing more.
Rina said it’s about time I made Max see me as the powerful woman I am, but she’s assuming Max sees me as a woman to begin with. I’m not so sure. I certainly don’t have “ideas” about Max. The fact that I can’t articulate what those would be is proof enough for me. And, even if I did, the rumors I heard about him today might be enough to stop those so-called ideas in their tracks.
We turn down Chester Road like we always do when my finger winds around the band in my ponytail and I pull it out in one smooth movement. The wind immediately takes my hair and blows it in my face, and I shove it up from the middle of my forehead like I’ve practiced, pushing it out of my eyes.
“Whoa.” Max laughs. “What are you doing?”
“Letting my hair down?” I give him a practiced side eye.
“Why? I’ve never seen you with your hair down in the whole time I’ve known you.”
I practiced my response, as well. “I’ve been getting headaches lately and I think it’s from tying my hair back.”
Max keeps his gaze on my head as he says, “You have a lot of hair.”
“I know, right?” I look at his short hair, barely ruffled by the wind. “Girl problems.”
“Not going there.” Max holds his hands up like he’s under arrest, but his gaze turns more intent as he says, “You should wear it down more often. It suits you.”
“Thanks.” I grin and try to ignore the warmth flooding my stomach. Max was making an observation, not complimenting me. Another gust of wind means I’m pushing my hair back again as I ask the question that’s been eating away at me all day. “So, rumor has it you were being scouted this week?”
“Rumor has it, huh?” Max raises a brow. “Where did you hear that?”
“Let’s see, Amy Mead mentioned it in form time, Suresh Patel in chemistry, Will Downing and Harry Quirk were taking bets on what team would sign you at lunch, and Sarah Green was waxing lyrical about your prospects in English. So really, where didn’t I hear it?” I raise my eyebrows. “Oh right. The man himself hasn’t said a word.”
“Fucking hell. The only person I told was Will.” Max’s cheeks flush. “I was going to tell you.”
“Okay.” I shrug like it doesn’t sting that I’m the last to hear. “So tell me now.”
“Well, uh, yeah. There were a load of scouts at my game the other night.” Max’s expression is caught between sheepish and excited.
“Yeah, I got that.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Come on, you don’t have to play it cool with me.”
Max takes a deep breath and then his words tumble out. I catch about eighty percent of what he says, but my focus is on his face – the way his eyes light up and his smile is so unselfconscious. He’s practically beaming as he says, “So, yeah, we’ll see, you know? My coach said that since I don’t have an agent, he can help me evaluate the offers when they come in, but gaining experience is really the most important thing at this stage.”
“That’s amazing. We should celebrate.” The words come out before my brain can stop them. But then my brain kicks in and I stutter, “I mean, you should celebrate. I hope you’re going to. It’s not every day you find out your dreams are about to come true, right?”
“Yeah, totally.” Max bites his lip and turns around, walking backwards so he can face me as he continues. “There’s a party at the Library tomorrow night. I was thinking of going as a sort of celebration, if you want to go?”
The Library is a now-defunct public library that’s a party hot spot with the Bishop’s Blue Coat crowd because it has a covered car park attached and a back door that’s not always locked. It’s off the beaten path of City Police and too far from the city center to be a viable option for the homeless. Rumor has it, there are plenty of drug dealers passing through, but that’s not exactly a deterrent for the party crowd. I’ve never been to the Library, and honestly, I’ve never wanted to go.
“You’re going to the Library?” My words come out slowly, as much because I’m still processing the fact that Max asked me to go to a party, as the fact that he’s going himself. He’s Mr. Popularity, yes, but his training schedule means he gives most parties a miss.
“Why not, you know?” Max juts his jaw out, as if he’s daring me to call him out. “Like you said, it would be fun to celebrate.”
“Sure. Definitely.” I nod way more than my two-word answer calls for.
“So, are you in?” Max grins, but I swear there’s a hint of a challenge in his voice. “You going to come live it up a little with me?”
A million thoughts run through my head, not the least of which is that my family will kill me if they ever find out. I can’t imagine which one of them would kill me. Between my parents and my twin brother, Tariq, they’d probably be pretty equal opportunity about it. Then there’s the logistics of actually going – dressing for a party, getting out of the house, getting back in the house. I’m a terrible liar. I could say I’m at Rina’s – she’d cover for me in a heartbeat – but she’s a worse liar than I am. All it would take is my mum calling her mum and I’d be under house arrest until I’m thirty.
“Sure. That sounds like fun.” Bloody hell. What I expected to say isn’t what comes out of my mouth at all. But Max grins and my stomach swoops and I think maybe part of me knows I was going to agree all along.
Chapter Ten
Twelve Years Ago
It turns out my house is completely empty as I’m getting ready on Saturday night, which alleviates at least one of my worries. My parents are having dinner with some friends and Tariq is working. I have a bit of a panic that he’ll decide to come home in between pizza deliveries, but it’s not nearly as big a panic as what I’m going to wear.
My friends are no help because none of us have ever been to the Library before, and finally I end up texting Max: Hey, what am I supposed to wear?
His reply is immediate: To the Library?
Me: Duh.
Max: Jeans and a sweater? I don’t know. Something warm?
Me: Oh my God, you’re no help at all.
Max: Okay. Will you be ready in 20?
I text him a thumbs up because I don’t really trust myself to not demand he be more specific. I know the Library isn’t his usual scene either, but the people who go there are, and I’m dying to ask him what Amy Mead will be wearing.
I’m also dying to ask him if this is a date, although Rina and I analyzed Max’s invite to death and we both think it’s more of a hangout than a date. Rina thinks it has date potential. I’m not so sure.
I finally settle on my dark denim jeans, black boots, and a deep purple jumper that my mum always says compliments my skin tone. On top of that I wear my black puffy coat, which is the only coat I have anyway and, slipping my key into my pocket, head to the corner to meet Max.
It’s freezing tonight, which allows me to blame the fact that my hands are ice cold on the weather instead of nerves. I can’t explain away my pounding heart and dry mouth quite so easily, though, so I choose to ignore them. Just like I ignore the way my stomach leaps into my throat when I see Max leaning against the lamp post.
He’s wearing a black leather jacket and faded jeans; his look screams young James Dean. It also screams effortlessly cool and my fears that I’m out of my depth multiply. Until Max glances up and grins, calling out, “T. You came.”
“Of course I came.” My breath makes puffs of smoke in the frigid night air as I speak. “Are we going to freeze to death at this thing? I feel like that’s a distinct possibility.”
“Nah.” Max pushes off the lamp post and slings an arm around my shoulder. “I’ll make sure you don’t turn into an icicle.”
Tonight Max’s boy scent is all leather and I breathe in so deeply, I can taste it. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, and his arm stays loosely draped over my shoulder until we walk into the Library and he’s pulled into a one-armed hug by Zane Okeke.
“Max. Dude.” Zane’s voice is loud and his smile is so big, I can’t help smiling, too. Which Zane notices because of course he does. He’s that kind of guy. He grins wider at me and says in his lilting African accent, “Tara Kapoor, right? You gracing us tonight, man?”
Gracing us? I look up at Max, who says, “Gracing us with your presence.”
“Uh, yeah? I guess?” From the way Max talked, the Library isn’t his scene either, but I’m the one gracing us?
It feels like a strange call out to me, but I don’t get to say anything before Zane laughs and pulls us further into the Library. It takes two minutes before I’m separated from Max, which makes me panic until I find myself a pillar to stand by that allows me to watch the party mostly unobserved.
The space is a dilapidated covered parking garage with a dingy concrete floor and a single fluorescent light flickering in the ceiling. There are camping lanterns dotted around in a circle, so while the space isn’t bright, it’s not pitch black either. There’s a keg in the middle of the circle and music plays, although I can’t tell where it’s coming from. There are a lot of people here that I don’t recognize. I don’t know everyone who goes to Bishop’s, but I’m sure there are people from other schools here.
Max seems to know everyone, though. I watch him laughing and smiling and it alternately makes me feel happy and lonely. I’m trying to decide which I feel more when a girl leans against the opposite side of the pillar from me and says, “You new here?”
“To the Library?” I ask, answering before she responds. “Yes. I came with a friend.”
“What lie did you tell to get out of the house?” the girl asks.
I peer around the corner and see that the girl speaking to me is an Indian girl with long black hair and glasses, and I nod in recognition. “I didn’t have to lie. No one was home.”
“You’re lucky.” The girl takes a sip of the drink in her plastic cup. “That’s why this place is called the Library, you know. So when you tell your parents where you’re headed, you don’t have to lie.”
“I thought it was because that building….” I point to the door barely visible at the far end of the car park. “Was a former library.”
“Hmm. That too, maybe.” The girl takes another sip of her drink. “So, where’s your friend?”
“What?” I furrow my brow.
“You said you came with a friend?”
“Oh, right.” I scan the crowd and find Max easily. I nod in his general direction. “There. The tall blond guy with the black leather jacket.”
“You’re here with Max Foster?” The girl’s tone is a mix of incredulous and impressed. “Are you his date?”
“No. I mean, we’re friends and I don’t know. I think it’s …you know.” I’m babbling, but I can’t seem to stop.
Until I see a blonde girl in skin-tight jeans and a lowcut black sweater let out a shriek and run up to Max, throwing herself at him. He catches her easily as she wraps her legs around his waist, burying her face in his neck. He laughs when she throws her head back, and then their lips meet.
“Well, I guess that answers that question,” the girl next to me says.
I guess it does.
The girl hands me her plastic cup and I take it.
Chapter Eleven
Turning into a drunk girl cliché at the Library was not part of my original plan. But neither was Satya Patel. No relation to Suresh, as she assured me at least twenty times. Her cup of strawberry Ribena mixed with vodka unfortunately tasted mostly like strawberry Ribena, which was a Very. Bad. Thing. And she kept giving it to me, which was worse.
The only good thing is that I puked in the street ten minutes ago and my head isn’t spinning quite so much. That, however, could be the fact that I’m leaning my cheek against the cool, rough brick of the abandoned library and it’s holding me upright.
“Are you going to be okay?” Satya peers at me over the top of her glasses.
I start to nod, but that’s a terrible idea, so I say, “I think so. I need to go home.”
“I think if you walk into your house in your current state, you are definitely not going to be okay.” Satya rolls her eyes. “What happened to Max?”
That’s the question. After I saw him locking lips with Miss Supermodel, I decided I didn’t want to keep track of him. That became easier with every sip of strawberry Ribena and vodka, and now I genuinely have no idea where he is. For all I know he left.
The thought sobers me a bit. I’d assumed Max would look out for me, but I didn’t know for sure. The fact that he hasn’t sought me out all night should probably speak for i
tself.
I glance up at Satya and give a one-shoulder shrug. “I don’t need Max to get me home.”
For the first time tonight, I see genuine emotion on Satya’s face. “You’re not walking home alone, so get that thought out of your head, and I’m not walking you. Do you want to call your brother?”
I can imagine Tariq’s reaction if he had to come get me here. He’d tell Mum and Dad, and I wouldn’t be allowed out for a year. I close my eyes because I can’t think with Satya looking at me that way. I hear Max call out, “Tara? Are you out here?”
Satya answers before I can speak. “She’s over here.”
Max comes around the corner, his leather jacket open, revealing a fitted grey T-shirt underneath. His hair is more disheveled than it was a couple of hours ago, but that’s no surprise. Not only does Max himself have a habit of constantly pushing his hair back from his face, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a girl or two wasn’t running her fingers through his hair. “I would, if it were me.”
“What?” Both Satya and Max say at the same time.
“I’d run my fingers through your hair.” My voice sounds dreamy, like I’m imagining it, and it makes me giggle.
“How much did you have to drink, T?” Max’s voice is soft.
“You’re a bit late with the concern, don’t you think?” Satya asks. Her tone is even, but there’s an edge to it that wasn’t there before.
I want to tell her not to jump in the middle of something she doesn’t have a full picture of. Max and I are only time-and-place friends, no matter how much I wish we were more.
Whoa. The thought makes me straighten, my cheek scraping gently against the rough brick. It’s not like I’m unaware that I have complicated feelings for Max, but I’ve gotten pretty good at cultivating my denial of them. Until confronted with strawberry Ribena and vodka, apparently.
Max and Satya have continued to bicker while I’ve been having my come-to-Jesus moment, but I don’t listen to them before interrupting. “Hey, Max. I want to go home. Are you taking me or not?”
A Brit Player (Castle Calder Book 4) Page 4