by CL Walters
All good. Eating French fries. How’s Ben?
Shit. Why did I write that? I frown and set the phone down as if it’s burned me, but that was all me. I’ve had Max on the brain, wondering about that Ben guy from the pizza place and his territorial show. I’ve wondered if it worked, and if Max is interested in him. I’ve hated that I’ve wondered since I know I don’t have any right to.
The three dots pop up, disappear, then reappear. I wonder what she’s writing, wonder if my question has freaked her out. I pick up the phone, needing to see her response more than I need to eat.
Max: Ben who?
A short text for all the writing and rewriting. This response makes me smile and buoyantly happy even if it’s irrational to be so.
Me: Maybe you didn’t go to that party since your dad showed up?
Max: Oh. THAT Ben.
That makes my smile short out like a broken neon sign.
Me: Why? Is there more than one Ben?
There probably is, I decide. Max is awesome, and any number of Bens would be lucky to call her a girlfriend. What the hell am I thinking? I’d texted her to ask about Lauren, and now I’m annoyed thinking about Max being any Ben’s girlfriend. My stomach feels like it’s in knots. I glance at the burger, unsure if I can eat it.
Max: Tons of them!
I’m at a party right now.
Ben’s a few feet from me probably thinking I’m weird because I’m grinning at my phone as I text you at said party.
There’s also Derek. Hank. Billy Bob. The Hulk.
A lightness floats about in my chest at her humor but also a protectiveness.
Me: Only I can say you’re weird.
Max: Says who?
Me: Me.
The possessiveness of the statement is glaring and loud even though it’s just a text. I switch gears, jumping into why I’d originally texted in order to cover it up.
Can I ask you something? I need your female expertise.
Max: My eyes just narrowed. Are you being sarcastic?
This makes me scoff out loud. I glance around, but no one has noticed.
Me: LOL No!
I just had this girl from class text me. I’m not sure how to interpret it.
Max: Are you trying to make me jealous?
Me: No. Are you?
I wonder if this is a Max joke. My insides are outlined with a strange awareness which is trying to reorganize my organs into different places within my body. Do I want Max to be jealous? I realize I’m irritated by the idea of any number of Bens or Dereks or Hanks, and it wakes up something inside of me. Something like I felt earlier when I’d walked into my house and saw Bill sitting at the table. It’s angry, but not exactly that. Am I jealous? Is she?
The phone rings; it’s Max.
I smile and answer, but my voice sort of shakes even though I don’t want it to. “I didn’t call because I thought you might be busy.” There’s noise in the background, lots of voices, the bass of music. I stare at my hamburger, which I haven’t touched yet.
“Hold on,” she says, and then the noise lessens. “Okay. What’s this about some girl calling?”
“Texting. Are you really at a party?”
“Yeah. With Renna.”
I clench my jaw and press the top bun of my hamburger. So, Ben is there. “How is it?”
“A party, which for the record I don’t like all that much. You’re changing the subject,” she says. There’s a noise, then the muffled sound of Max’s voice as she talks to someone. “Yeah. This is private. Thanks.”
I wait a few more seconds, listening to the sound of her voice and get lost imagining who she’s talking to. Wondering who is interrupting her and vying for the attention she’s giving me. This knowledge should make me feel happy, but instead it makes me feel lonely. I want to be there with her.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“We can talk later. If you need to go.”
“No! No. I want to talk to you. It’s just loud and someone—never mind. So, a girl texted you.”
“Yeah. From class.” I trace the edge of my napkin and fold the corner as I talk. “She asked me if I wanted to get together to work on class stuff, but I told her I couldn’t because I work. I offered to meet her for coffee or something. She just texted me.”
“Why do you need me for that?”
“I don’t know what it means.” The sounds of the party removed from Max’s proximity stretch inside the silence. “Max? You still there?” I know she is because I can still hear the party.
“I’m here. Just thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
“She’s interested in more than coffee,” she finally says. “The question is, are you?”
It’s a fair question. Historically, Lauren is the kind of girl I’ve been attracted to. But the reality has been those are the girls I’ve pursued for sex only, and if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t know enough about Lauren to know if I’d like her, even if her attention has made me feel somehow better.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“What aren’t you sure about? It fits with all of your rules.” The sound of her voice has changed; it’s edgy and sharp.
I furrow my brow and poke the hamburger bun with my finger, leaving an indention in the bread. “My rules? This isn’t partying. I’ve never gone out with a girl except… for you.” I swallow, considering the truth of that statement.
“Your rules still apply. Willing partner and all that.” Her voice sounds strange in my ears. Not Max. The levity is missing.
There’s something familiar about her words, and I think about our one kiss and the aftermath. She’d said something about rules then. What had she said? I can’t remember. Shit.
“I haven’t been partying. I don’t think that—never mind. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered you with this.”
She sighs into the phone. “Coffee won’t hurt, I suppose, but if you aren’t interested, you shouldn’t string her along.”
“Wait. What? I haven’t answered her yet,” I clarify. “I’m not stringing her along.”
“You suggested coffee. She might have hope.”
I’m confused and wonder if we’re still talking about Lauren. “Are you mad?”
“Why would I be mad, SK?”
“I don’t know. You seem irritated. And I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
She sighs again like I’ve missed the entire point, and I guess I have. I just feel confused. “I have to go, Griffin.”
“Wait!” I scramble, trying to keep her on the phone. “Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” I rush the words out afraid she’ll hang up.
“Yes. I’ll be home.”
“That’s good. Your dad’s been kind of a mess.”
She makes a noise in the phone. “I’m coming home.”
“My mom invited you guys over for Thanksgiving dinner. If you’re interested. Your kitchen is being torn out, so you might have to take me up on it.”
“Great.” She sounds sarcastic.
“Are you sure you aren’t mad?” I feel like there’s a tenuous tightrope between us, and both of us are about to topple into a chasm of unknown territory.
“Not mad. Thanks for the invitation. I’ll be sure to tell my dad.”
I’m afraid to say something wrong and make it worse. “I’ll see you in a week or so.”
“Yep. See you.” And then she’s gone, and I’m looking at the phone, unsure what just changed between the beginning of the call and the end.
What I have realized, however, is I don’t want to meet Lauren, not if I’m going to leave my past in the past. Lauren isn’t forward for me. She’s a Bella, the status quo, and besides, there is nothing about Lauren other than her attention that moves me. I know this because there are other sparkling threads that I feel tied to Max. I’ve spent a lot of time insisting she’s just my friend, but those threads feel like they might be weaving me into something new, and I’ve got to figure out what the roa
d ahead looks like.
3
I’m fucking coming out of my skin waiting for Max—and Cal—to arrive for Thanksgiving. Thinking about our tiny-ass ranch style house with a tiny-ass living room and dining room, all of us packed in like sardines in a can, makes me hot and sweaty. The discomfort isn’t the space, it’s the idea of being so close to Max. Since my misguided attempt to share what happened with Coffee Lauren, my texts with Max have been different—not as easy as they once were. I’m afraid I’ve ruined us somehow, and I just want to fix what happened, to go back to the way things were.
I check my reflection in the bathroom one more time, to make sure I look okay. I’ve changed—sort of—since graduation. I’m not as skinny. I’ve got more defined muscles now from the physical work of construction stuff, and the running. My neck is wider, my face a little wider but sharper. I went and got a haircut because my hair was looking shaggy. I’d been inspired by Phoenix whose hair looks like shit—all long and ratty. I run my hands through my own hair one more time, then smooth my dark blue shirt, as if it will ease the ants crawling around inside my chest. I take a deep breath to douse their fire, but they crawl down my arms and out into my fingertips. I crack my knuckles.
“Griffin!” my mom yells from the kitchen. “Would you grab the door?”
I walk into the dining room and take an olive from a dish on the table set for six. Mom, Phoenix, and me. Bill. Cal and Max. Whatever Mom’s doing has my mouth watering. Who knew she could do the whole feast? She refused my help because Phoenix was in the kitchen helping her. She said, “It’s a two-butt kitchen, Griffin. You’re on house-straightening duty.” That took less than an hour. The rest of the unstructured time has added to the way my brain and nerves are spinning. Even the run hasn’t helped today.
“Stop eating the olives and get the door.”
Bill is on the other side. It’s clear he’s put some effort into his appearance for my mom, and I recall just looking at myself in the mirror, wondering why I went to the effort. His grayish hair is neat and trimmed. His red shirt buttoned up under his black leather bomber jacket. He’s tucked the shirt into gray slacks so his belly presses against the buttons a smidge. The cologne he’s wearing is strong and hovers around him like a cloud, but he offers a warm smile. He’s got a bottle of wine, flowers, and something store bought in a paper bag. “Hi, Griffin.”
I step back to let him in. “Hey.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.
I offer him a peacekeeping smile. “Yeah. You too.”
He passes me, drops everything but the flowers on the counter, then disappears from my view, but I can hear my mom’s pleasure and exclamation over the flowers.
Phoenix appears at the end of the hallway. He’s dressed, though not with as much attention to detail. Jeans and a blue t-shirt with a Star Wars Boba Fett encircled on it. His hair is pulled back into his version of a man bun, most of the hair hovering over his shoulders. He glances at whatever is happening in the kitchen and looks away, his eyes catching mine. For a moment, our brotherly language returns crossing space and time. That’s fucking annoying, he says without making a sound.
I roll my eyes in acknowledgement.
We smile together as he sits on the couch. I join him. He turns up the volume on the football game, so we don’t have to listen to the disgusting flirting occurring in the kitchen. Side by side, we watch the game. I like that our brother language has begun functioning again.
“You hear from Dad?” Phoenix asks between an offensive and defensive series on the TV screen. The game goes to commercial.
Mom laughs in the kitchen at something Bill’s low voice has said, though I can’t hear what it was.
I glance at my brother, who is avoiding my gaze. His is fixed on the commercial. “No. You?” I already know the answer to this question.
Phoenix clears his throat and runs his open hands across his denim-clad thighs. “Yeah. We’ve been talking.”
I look at the TV and watch some guy standing at the edge of a mountain cliff with his new SUV parked behind him. My heartbeat tightens in my chest, keeping things small and compact. I want to say something about it, but the feelings are first, surprise, given how much Phoenix hated our dad when we were younger, and second, insecurity, so I don’t know what to say.
“He wanted me to tell you Happy Thanksgiving.”
I press my teeth together and cross my arms over my chest. The words ‘go to hell’ surface on my tongue, but I don’t voice them. I just nod to let Phoenix know I’ve heard him, then watch as the uniformed men pummel each other on the TV screen.
When there’s a knock on our front door, my heart stalls because I know it’s Cal and Max. My hands start to sweat, which is weird.
“You just going to sit there?” Phoenix asks and pushes me. “You’re closer to the door.”
I find a way to get my muscles moving, swipe my hands over the back pockets of my jeans, and open the door.
Cal’s in front, taking up most of the real estate on the porch. He smiles, and I offer a distracted smile, more interested in seeing Max. I haven’t seen her in person since my visit to her dorm a month earlier, and I recall the way I hadn’t wanted to leave her. My heart speeds up, and my stomach dips and rolls tying itself up into knots. I’m not sure this is how other friends feel…
Cal steps into the living room, and Max is behind him. “Hey, SK.” Her honey hair is down, draped over her shoulders like a pretty waterfall. She looks up at me, and her eyes crash into mine like a wave. Feeling floods me.
…because I like Max. Oh my fucking god. I like Max, and it’s definitely more than friendship. The realization makes my breath logjam in my chest, and my head spin in the thought. I have feelings—real feelings—for Maxwell Wallace.
I recall the feel of her body pressed against mine that morning, and the way I wanted to crawl back into bed with her. The wish that I hadn’t had to go.
The way I feel bright and warm when she texts.
I remember laughing with her at Triple B.
I picture her working on the cabinet and the way her focus makes her lips look soft and kissable.
I feel her sly smile across the table at the pizza parlor, filling the empty deep spaces inside of me with joy.
My stomach does a dizzy dance, and I fist my hands at my sides to keep from reaching for her.
I’ve been so stupid.
Max is the way forward.
I don’t want her to date the Bens or Dereks or Hanks. I want it to be me she chooses—and then realize she tried. I ruined it, like I always do.
I clear my throat so that I can get words that disguise what I’m feeling out. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
She smiles, and her cheeks bloom roses. She swipes a lock of hair, tucks it behind her ear and looks down at her feet to navigate crossing the threshold. When she leans forward, she gives me an awkward hug with her hands on my shoulders. Unsure where to put my hands, I lean closer, breathing in cinnamon and spice, a hand on her back.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
“Close the door. It’s cold,” Phoenix says.
I glance at him, see he’s shaking Cal’s hand, and close the door. “I can take that,” I tell Max.
She hands me the package she’s holding and removes her coat. She’s wearing a blue dress and an open sweater over the top of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a dress. She looks so pretty that it hurts, a lump in my chest that my heart can’t seem to get around to function properly.
I lead her and Cal into the kitchen, where I introduce them to my mom and Bill.
“Thank you so much for your invitation,” Cal says. “Our kitchen doesn’t look much like a kitchen right now.”
“Yes. Griffin told me,” Mom says. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
They talk like grown-ups, and I tune them out in favor of focusing on Max.
Her eyes slide to mine. She smiles, and it hits my heart like a sharp dart in a bullseye of the board. I can
’t keep looking at her because of the weird way it hurts, and I need to reset myself. I’m acting like an idiot. I go to the table and take some olives.
I track Cal as he returns to the living room to sit with Phoenix to watch the game. They talk though I can’t hear them.
Max, who’s standing next to me, has put olives on the tips of her fingers. She wiggles them at me. “I love olives.”
I smile. “I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a kid.”
“Then you’re missing out,” she says and bites one of her fingertips.
I follow her movement with my eyes, her fingertip to her lips. They close over the flesh of the olive, and it disappears. My belly constricts. When I reconnect with her eyes, she’s watching me. She smiles.
I clear my throat, look away because my skin is overheating, and coax myself not to be an idiot. Find something to say, I tell myself. “How are things with your dad?”
“Fine.” She eats another olive.
I beckon her to follow me and lead her down the hallway to my room. When I stop in the doorway, I realize I haven’t thought this through. The room might be sort of neat, but there aren’t a lot of places to sit.
Max doesn’t seem to mind and moves past me to sit on the end of my bed. She looks around.
I follow her in and stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. “You sure you’re okay?”
“It’s good. Dad and I talked.”
“You upset at him?”
“No. I was never really upset with him. Just the circumstances, you know. Indigo disappeared like I figured she would, and I realized that’s what he’d been trying to protect me from.”
I sit next to her.
She turns to face me.
I look down at my hands. It’s easier than getting stuck on the pretty way she looks. “He missed you. And when he got back, whatever happened shook him up.”