by Emery Lord
I furrowed my brows. Was now really the time to point out that I occasionally had problems with all relationships? “Yeah.”
“How’d you fix it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, defensive. “I apologized?”
“Right. But before then?”
The conversation was beginning to feel like a game show called Screwing It Up. Are all of Paige Hancock’s choices wrong? Let’s find out! With your host, Kate Hancock.
“I realized I probably should have reacted differently. So I told her that?”
“But Tessa didn’t react perfectly either, right?” It wasn’t really a question. She’d heard all of my grievances against Tessa’s response. “Do you think if the situation happened again, you would behave differently?”
“I hope so,” I said. I did wish for a do-over with Tessa, that I could match her excitement about Tate instead of questioning it. “I think so.”
“Right. That’s a relationship you value, and you put the work in to learn and do better.”
I thought of Tessa and the plants in her room, of her plucking off old leaves, reconsidering the water frequency. Willing to confront what she was doing wrong.
“So, you’re saying I should keep working at it with Max?”
“Not necessarily. I am your mother, after all.” Sometimes, she stamped this phrase like a wax seal, the end of her argument. But sometimes, like now, her motherhood functioned as a simple explanation. Her opinions would always skew toward my safety and, given that, my goodness. My happiness. “I don’t ever want to see you force a relationship that drains your spirit.”
I startled at the dramatics. Max didn’t drain my spirit. He and I clashed like colors—not armies meeting mid-field in battle. We were green and blue, sometimes in tones too similar to complement. But sometimes as natural as summer sky and the green lawns below.
“But,” my mom said gently, when I hadn’t spoken after a minute, “I also never want to see you give up when something isn’t easy.”
This whole year, I couldn’t seem to find the balance: When to work harder, when to let it go? What was meant to be a challenge, pushing me to get up and try again? What was meant to be a lesson learned, asking me to walk away with some semblance of grace? When to say no, and when to say yes? “It’s a fine line, I guess.”
“It always is.” She gave me a sad smile, genuinely sorry to tell me so. “As much as I love a pro-and-con list—and you know I do—sometimes you have to ignore all of that. Your gut instinct can say a lot.”
When I relaxed my mind a little—past the complicated facets that made this year with Max so good and so difficult—the core feeling beneath the rubble was clear. I didn’t even really need to soul-search. I didn’t need to ask anyone else what to do about Max.
“Yeah. Thanks, Mom.”
“Sure,” she said.
I stood, brushing off my pants. “I’m gonna head in.”
She stretched, readying her arms for a new section of un-primed wood. “Thanks for finishing the drawers for me.”
We both knew my attack on the drawers was for me, but I appreciated her attempt at preserving my dignity.
Up in my room, I thought of last summer, when writing to Max felt like flooding. How the words rushed from my mind, past my shoulders and arms, straight out my fingertips. And talking to him felt like an extension. Sometime since then, I’d tried to live up to his idea of me. So dazzled to be loved that I forgot Max really knew me—all last year, before I cared if he thought I was pretty enough, fun enough, easy to be around.
What was I so afraid of, anyway? It’s just you and Max. But I’d stumbled onto something rare, and I collapsed under the fear of squandering it. How foolish, in the end.
The first e-mail took me over two hours and four drafts. I made myself go to bed without sending it, and I sank into my pillow. Just typing out the words felt like I’d taken a long walk or a particularly hot shower—like I’d been wrung out and cleansed. In the morning hours, I sipped my coffee and reread the words. It wasn’t everything I wanted to say, but it was a start.
Dear Max,
I hope it’s okay that I’m e-mailing you. It seems like the right option since we agreed not to text, and every time we talk, the conversation escalates faster than the time I need to think.
Tessa recently told me that you and I are a lot alike—it’s why we connect. That’s also why it’s hard sometimes.
I keep thinking that getting frustrated with each other is a new development from this year. I’ve blamed our schedules, the mounting pressure of senior year, the fact that we started our relationship after three months apart. I’ve blamed myself. I’ve blamed you.
But the truth is … we butted heads last year, too. We bickered one of the first times we ever spoke! I’m not sure why I scrubbed that from my memory. Classic romanticizer, I guess.
Every time we bicker, I wish it away. But the reasons we clash are also the reasons we were drawn to each other in the first place. Me & you, Watson—too alike sometimes. So I can’t wish we were different people.
I can wish I had handled those differences better. And I do.
So, here’s something I wish I had told you a long time ago: It felt like a lot of sudden pressure, being together. A few “old married couple” jokes here and there, and I panicked that we were somehow in a more serious relationship than I thought. I didn’t tell you that the “together forever” stuff made me nervous because I thought you’d be like, “Whoa, those are jokes, why would you think otherwise?” (Which would have been fair.) But I think a little part of me also worried you were fine with those assumptions. (This is … very embarrassing to type out.)
It felt like our relationship had to be all or nothing. Planning college around each other or calling it off. Planning for the thing mostly likely to happen, instead of what I most want to happen, you might say.
This is a long way of saying I’m sorry. The road in front of us stole all my attention. I was squinting through the windshield, trying to spot the point on the horizon when our paths would diverge. You asked what I would take back, and that’s my answer. I should have enjoyed being next to you, like I always have.
Love,
Paige
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
With 2BD, 1BA rehearsals ramping up, I had blessedly little time to think about Max and the state of our non-relationship. He didn’t reply to my e-mail the next day, or the one after. I accepted it, with some mortification, as a clear signal. When I saw him from a distance at school, I ducked down the freshman hallway, out of view.
At Mythos, I held my raincoat closed as I hurried out for espresso runs, jotted down notes as Cris debated blocking changes, ran to the campus store for more safety pins. During breaks, I chipped away at a paper for English class. And obsessively refreshed my e-mail in case there was something from NYU or Max.
I’d seen each scene rehearsed at some point, but never all the way through. The first time they attempted it, Cris kept calling, Cut. I’d assumed that Marisol was hot under the stage lights, but no—she was flushed with nerves and frustration. Even Ella, normally so cool, flubbed a few lines. Other cast members missed cues, didn’t shut the front door of the set apartment hard enough, forgot to walk in with a pizza box necessary to the scene. At one point, Cris craned around to look at the director’s box, her arms wide like What the hell? The spotlight was supposed to follow the second lead, but it hadn’t budged.
“It’s always like this,” Marisol assured me. “Like cleaning out your closet. The mess means progress.”
Despite her confidence, she looked near-tears frustrated later in the week, when she botched her pivotal monologue. Cris called for everyone to take ten.
But Friday night. Friday night, no one forgot props in the first act. Doors were closed properly. I held my breath as Cris yelled for them to run it through, no break. We were on a roll. I mangled the end of my pen cap completely, tooth marks and frayed plastic.
Ella was winding up to
her big scene, stepping out to center stage.
“Come on,” Cris whispered under her breath. If I had to guess, I’d bet she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Ella glided through the transition, finishing the speech with an emotional tremble in her voice.
I was close enough to the stage that I could see Marisol resisting the urge to scoop Ella up and spin her around.
With a few pauses for adjustment, the play gelled before my eyes. It needed work still. We weren’t in costumes; mics weren’t placed for sound checks. But I saw it—the difference between paint on a canvas and art.
Cris smiled over at me. “You hooked?”
I could almost feel my own bright-eyed newness, the soundboard panels glittering in my eyes.
She laughed a little, looking back at the rest of the team. “She’s hooked.”
In my only block of free time, I met Ryan at the Linwood vs. Oakhurst baseball “friendly” after my second therapy appointment. My dad let me borrow the car, which I still couldn’t drive through that stretch of road outside the cinema. Dr. Hernandez, upon hearing this, seemed completely unfazed. We’d talked about medication, and she’d sent me home with brochures.
The teams were still in pregame stretches, Hunter warming up his arm with the catcher. Ryan and I found a spot low on the bleachers, and I set my book beside me.
“So, you and Hunter becoming buds?” I asked. Hunter had texted me after hanging out with Ryan and, if I understood correctly, also Max. I’d stared down at my phone, perplexed by the situation. But it sounded, at least, like Hunter enjoyed himself.
“Yeah, he came over last weekend to play video games. Really fun dude.”
“He is.” I said it mildly—I really did. But the whole interaction still felt dense with unspoken meaning.
“It was Max’s idea,” Ryan said. “To invite him over.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, disbelieving.
“And they were totally cool. We had a good time.” Ryan fixed me with a look, unable to resist the meddling. “I’m not gonna defend Max, okay? He goes into full porcupine mode when he feels threatened—prickly as hell. You can bet I’ve been on the receiving end of it, too.”
“Mmph,” I said, grudging. But I did know that.
“You have to remember,” Ryan said, “underneath the nerd swagger, he’s still a guy who got pretty seriously squashed as a kid.”
“That sounds like defending him to me,” I noted curtly.
“No, just understanding him.”
“He’s the one who ended it, Ry.” I thought, with no small amount of embarrassment, about the e-mail in Max’s inbox—my heart swung open like a gate. “And I’ve tried to reach out. Honestly.”
Before he could respond, Hunter waved, jogging our way. I studied him in the striped baseball whites, hat and eye black obscuring part of his face. In his element, comfortable. He and Ryan did a hands-clasped, back-pat hug, and he smiled down at me. “You came.”
“I even wore half Linwood colors, thank you very much.” In the form of a navy cardigan over a striped, Oakhurst-red T-shirt, but still.
“Hancock.”
“What?”
He pointed to the bleacher space beside me. “Did you bring a book to my baseball game?”
“Yeah. Only for when you’re not on the field.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Ryan said. “She’d bring a book to her own birthday party.”
They went down a sports tangent that I tuned out. After Hunter headed back to take the field, a pep in his step from knowing he had a cheering squad, Ryan looked down at his hands. “Sorry I got in the middle before. I always tell myself I won’t. But I’m not always on his side, you know. Sometimes he’s wrong. And he hates being wrong.”
Ryan said this with a bit of relish. I knew Max confided in him—of course I did. But I hadn’t considered how much of my behavior had probably been recounted to Ryan, in exasperation.
“He told you about karaoke, didn’t he?” I asked. The heat rose from my chin to my forehead.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Ryan said. He looked away, scanning the field so I couldn’t see his face.
Even after Ryan’s insight, I began to doubt Max would ever respond. But before bed, I checked my e-mail once more, and there it was. I rolled over, pulse banging against my throat.
Dear Paige,
Here’s something I wish I had told you this year: I felt that pressure, too. And worse, I felt it freaking you out. I should have said, “Wow, how annoying are these little comments?” so we could laugh about it. But I worried that would sound mean? Ridiculous, right?
I agree with the assessment that we are alike. But I’d also like to posit another theory: I am an asshead sometimes. (I’ve been sitting here trying to think of a more poetic way to put this. Long-form correspondence! Shouldn’t I be fancier? I am obtuse sometimes? Bumbling? But sometimes an asshead is just an asshead. Some things can’t be English Romanticized.)
I was an asshead to you after what happened at karaoke, and I’m sorry for that. When I told Ryan that you and I fought, he kind of laughed. According to him, I’m too used to being good at anything I want to be good at. I hope I don’t sound like a braggart when I say I think he’s right. I spin out in frustration when I can’t make sense of things, can’t fix them like a malfunctioning circuit.
I’m sorry it took me a few days to respond. I could blame it on my schedule, but the truth is that I wrote and edited and rewrote and deleted and started again. I wanted the whole thing to sound concise but thoughtful, sincere but clever. Took me a while to decide on “braggart,” which seemed more elegant than “jerk.” And then I just went and showed my hand anyway. That always seems to happen, sooner or later, with you.
Man, I missed talking to you. Typing to you. Hearing from you.
Hi. How are you?
Love,
Max
It was a door, cracked open, and both of us were peering through. When I couldn’t sleep that night, it was because I was already planning what to say next.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dear Max,
The letters of famous literary minds do notably lack the word “asshead.” And frankly, I think they’re worse for it.
As long as we’re being honest, here is something else I wish I had told you this year: I haven’t driven through the intersection where my car accident happened since … my car accident happened. If you are thinking, “But that is a major, almost unavoidable, area of town,” … yes, correct.
Have you ever seen a military-training sequence in a movie? There’s always that big wooden wall the cadets are expected to scale. At a distance, the challenge seems straightforward. Viewers watching the movie from home are like, “Just scamper up, easy!” But I can’t get more than a few feet without falling to the ground.
I’m not sure why the things that scare me overtake me. I think about this a lot.
It’s hard for me to decipher between legitimate fear—good instincts trying to protect me—and panic based on no threat whatsoever. Sometimes I think it’s a mix? I don’t know. That uncertainty is making college decisions really hard. It makes everything hard, in some way or another.
Relatedly, I’m nervous it’s going to be weird between us at school tomorrow. But I missed talking to you, too.
Love,
Paige
Dear Paige,
Tomorrow won’t be weird. I’ll tell you exactly how it will go: I’m going to say hello. I’m going to ask how your weekend was.
Well, maybe you’ll say something weird from there or maybe I will. Never know. But that’s how I’m going to start.
Love,
Max
At school on Monday, I saw Max after third period. He showed up at my locker as he had for much of the year, with Tessa and Ryan.
“Hello,” he said quietly. “How was your weekend?”
I laughed under my breath instead of actually responding.
Ryan looked briefly curious but h
eld up one hand. “You know what? Don’t even want to know. I stopped trying to understand the subtext between you two ages ago.”
So it went: A few brief, comfortable interactions at school. And then, at home, during breaks at the cinema and at Mythos, at night before bed—reading and rereading e-mails from Max. Composing them. Falling asleep hoping for a morning response, bold in my inbox.
Dear Paige,
Well, it’s that time of year again—my birthday nears, and my dad comes a-knockin’. Like clockwork. Curiosity or guilt, who knows?
But it’s been weird this year. He got in touch earlier than usual and seemed more … desperate, I guess? I’m ready to see him, but even if I wasn’t—my mom has been oddly insistent.
The last time I saw him, I was 13. My mom took me to Chicago for a trip to Adler Planetarium and arranged for me to have dinner with my dad and his fiancée at their place. I’d never met Margot before then, and I liked her so much. She’s a few years younger than my mom and an illustrator—knows a lot about comic books, digital animation. I had fun with her, and with my dad. But when my mom picked me up, her hopeful face at the door of their nice apartment made me feel so guilty I honestly thought I’d vomit. My mom, who did everything herself and, in her barely existent free time, took me to the planetarium. I cried in the car back to the hotel, and I wouldn’t tell her why. When she asked if I wanted to visit again, I always said no.
That was that. Afterward, I felt furious at my dad in a way I hadn’t as a little kid. He had this nice life with Margot. Why couldn’t he have had that with my mom? Of course, the older I got, the more I understood it doesn’t work like that.
Long story short, it sounds like he’ll drive in from Chicago for a dinner in the next few weeks. I have … absolutely no idea how I feel about it. My brain skirts around the thought, reroutes me to schoolwork, applications, anything.
Sorry. Kind of an overshare. I haven’t told anyone all of this. When it comes to my dad, Ryan gets really defensive of me. I love him for it, but I don’t need any help painting my dad as the bad guy. And I never want my family to feel like they’re not enough for me, especially my mom. I’m starting to realize that I told myself I was protecting her, but I think maybe I was protecting myself.