Lincoln pursued me for months, but I was wary of getting serious with anyone, especially when most of my classmates switched partners as easily as they dropped early morning classes. Wasn’t that what college was all about? Shouldn’t I have been doing the same? Lincoln was persistent, though. He made me feel special. Doted on me in ways I’d never experienced. And so I fell hard.
Which, coincidentally, is exactly when Lincoln decided I was no longer special. He began to play games. The kind that made me cry and scream. He’d disappear for days, forget my birthday, periodically ask me for space, then reappear when I gave him too much of it. I was a volatile person back then. And Lincoln loved it. Said my passion showed how much I cared and kept our relationship fresh.
It took me a long time to realize Lincoln enjoyed provoking me; eventually, he even lost interest in doing that. He distanced himself in stages, until the day I entered a crowded campus dining hall and saw Lincoln kissing and caressing another woman. If I’d been a stronger person, I would have stormed out and never looked back. But as I stood there watching him make someone else feel special, my insides squeezing my heart until I thought it would pop out of my chest, I was overwhelmed by profound sadness. Not eat-my-weight-in-chocolate sadness. Or even lie-in-bed-and-stare-at-the-ceiling sadness. No, this was far worse. It was I-can’t-contain-any-of-this-inside-me sadness. So I crumbled. Made accusations as tears ran down my face. Wailed. Dropped to my knees like a melodramatic actress auditioning for a part as an extra in a B movie. It was ugly. And awkward. Painfully awkward. And when I looked up at the faces of my schoolmates, all I saw was pity. A loss of respect I’d never regain. And all because I couldn’t control my emotions. I vowed in that moment that I’d never let anyone or anything reduce me to that embarrassing state again. I’ve only experienced one slipup since then—which also happens to be the incident that got me fired from my job as a paralegal—but I can confidently say that I now control my emotions whereas in the past my emotions controlled me.
It isn’t fair to expect Max to understand any of this. He’s uninformed. Still, I see no point in enlightening him; he can believe what he wants to believe.
I leave my miniature sanctuary and return to the front of the store, where the air’s filled with laughter and the driving percussion of samba music. My gaze immediately lands on my mother, who’s popping a brigadeiro in Max’s mouth. He moans and rolls his eyes as he chews; my mother happily looks on as if meeting Max’s dietary needs is her priority in life. Rey shuffles over in search of water and playfully pokes Max in the ribs on his return. Everyone else is dancing samba in the center of the room. It’s official: They’re throwing Max a welcome-to-the-family party. Honestly, I can’t blame them. I’ve secretly enjoyed being with him, too.
Tia Izabel gestures for me to join their dance circle. I’ve done it countless times, just not with Max around. When I realize I’m stalling, I strut over so I can prove to myself I’m not hesitating because he’s here. Rey and Natalia, always the loudest at any gathering, throw up their hands and shout their approval. My body eases into the familiar rapid-fire steps that require my feet, calves, butt, and hips to work together seamlessly. It took me years to perfect it, and now the dance comes to me as easily as walking does. I’m so lost in the music that I close my eyes and let my body swing and sway to the tempo, my arms above my head as I shimmy my torso.
The next song is slower, but I make the necessary adjustment, rocking my hips in smaller circles, until I lift my lids—and spy Max standing by the counter watching me, his gaze traveling over my body and eventually resting on my face. My breath quickens, and my heart is banging around in my chest. I don’t look away. Neither does he. If we were alone, we’d close the distance between us—the pull is that strong.
Natalia bumps me with her hip, throwing me off-balance. Before I can even right myself, Max leaves the store.
I meet my mother’s gaze, a question in my eyes, but she merely shrugs and turns away, a hint of a smile tugging at her full lips. Since I asked him to join me this evening, I feel compelled to go after him and make sure he’s okay, so I push open the front door and peek outside. To my relief, he’s a few feet away, pacing between two parked cars.
“What’s going on?” I ask, rubbing my arms to ward off the chill in the air.
His head shoots up, but he doesn’t stop pacing. “I could use a smoke.”
“What do you smoke? Cigarettes? Weed?”
He shakes his head. “Neither. But tonight I’d reconsider. I’m just feeling a little off.”
“Well, you’re welcome to go if you need to. We’re done here.”
Max turns to face me and rests his hands on the car between us. He looks a little paler than usual, but otherwise seems okay.
“I think that’s a good idea,” he says. “Can you tell everyone I said goodbye? Explain I wasn’t feeling well?”
“Of course. Don’t worry about it. Do you think something my mother gave you is messing with your stomach? The brigadeiros have condensed milk in them.”
He shakes his head, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “No, no. It’s nothing like that. I’m tired, that’s all. Makes it difficult to think clearly.” His gaze darts to mine, then it rests on a spot behind me. “Your family’s great, by the way. Intimidating but great.”
I grin at him. “That’s a perfect description.”
“Your dad?”
“Not in the picture,” I say, shrugging. “We’re okay with that.”
He nods, then lightly bangs his fist on the hood of the car. “Listen, about the things I said earlier: I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Your family knows how to put on the pressure, and I just said what I believe. I realize what I believe doesn’t mean jack shit, though, so let’s pretend I never said anything. Deal?”
I could easily accept his peace offering, but my instinct is to reject it outright. Does that make me a bitch? God, I hope not. Even so, I give him a toothachingly sweet smile. “There are no do-overs in life, Max.” Wow, I am a bitch.
He purses his lips as though my answer doesn’t surprise him. “Right.”
What’s wrong with me? Why am I pushing him away when he’s obviously trying to fix the rift between us? I set out to get closure this evening, and now that it’s within my grasp, I’m lobbing it back at him as though it’ll burn me. Maybe it’s because I need this rift between us. Without a grudge to hold on to, what will I rely on to keep Max at arm’s length? I’m too aware of him for it to be good for me. Still, I can’t make him out to be the bad guy if he isn’t. It would be convenient, but it wouldn’t be true.
I stare at him as he fidgets with his key fob. He wants to bolt, and I’m standing here preventing his escape. I should say goodbye, but I don’t want to end the night this way. “Max, it’s true there are no do-overs in life, but we can move on from here. I’d like us to be friends.”
He exhales a deep breath and taps the roof of the car. “I’d like that, too.”
Before I can think better of it, I blurt out, “And I hope there isn’t any doubt about this, but your ex-girlfriend was wrong. You’re a great guy—in your own right. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”