I’d squealed, pressed the phone to my chest, too excited to listen to the voice in my head still urging caution. The concert was in seven days. But even more troubling, Max’s new job started in eight—which we’d barely discussed.
But like Roxy had said, we were here to trust and here to feel. And the way Max made me feel put my feeble calculations from last year to shame.
I opened the back door, stepped out into our backyard, which was filled with a messy, verdant garden and a small path leading to the converted garage. A second later, I heard my parents start up a cover of a song by The Stooges—a typical warm-up. For the first time in a long time, the combination of nostalgia and music here was a comfort and less of an aggravation. It must be a lingering effect of last night’s musical healing, which I carried around in my heart all day.
I pushed open the side door to the garage. “I’ve been calling you guys—oh.”
There, sprawled on the collection of old couches and chairs, were Pop, Mateo, and a handsome man I assumed was Mateo’s fiancé, Rafael.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed with a wicked half-grin, was Max.
A chorus of “Hey, Fi,” sprang up from the couch. Meanwhile, Max was speechless while simultaneously blushing around a smile that weakened my knees.
“There’s our brilliant daughter!” A second later, I was descended upon by my parents, who both had blue hair now and were dressed down for the evening in just one piece of leather apparel each.
“Um… hi?” I laughed, squeezing them back. Over my mom’s shoulder, Max arched a single eyebrow my way. I shrugged, mouthed what are you doing here?
“With everything happening with The Red Room, we thought it might be nice to have Pop and Max over for band practice. Reminisce about old times. And celebrate all the good work you’re doing.” My mom’s eyes were sparkling with delight. “Plus, Max brought over his best friends. Did you know they’re getting married?”
I beamed a grin at Mateo and Rafael. “I sure did.”
“We’re playing at the wedding now,” my dad said. The second he turned his back, I shot a discreet glance at Mateo, who only laughed as he raised a beer. When I finally extricated myself, I made my way over to the couch, giving Pop a pat on the shoulder.
“Has Angela written back yet?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “This morning. She likes the idea of a date at the park.”
I caught Max’s eye. The affection there briefly stopped my heart.
Mateo gave me a hug, whispering, “Of course they can play at our wedding.”
“Okay, but don’t feel pressured,” I whispered back, turning to meet Rafael for the first time. He had a shaved head, light tan skin, and an incredibly friendly smile.
“I’m Fiona,” I said, taking his hand. “It’s nice to finally officially meet you.”
He shook my hand with a playful expression. “Max told us all about you. And your date.”
Max snorted. “Traitor.”
I stepped back, looking between a red-faced Pop and my smirking parents. “I’m sorry. But is this a setup?”
“What’s a setup?” My mother was all faux innocence.
Pop shrugged. “I’m happy you and Maxy are dating. So fucking shoot me.”
“As usual, Pop says exactly what’s on my mind,” my dad said. He pulled three folding chairs close to the couch and sprawled in one with his guitar in his lap. The light plucking of the strings, the bluesy scale-picking, yanked me back to my childhood. “Your mother and I were delighted to hear that you and Max finally went on a date. Although the amount of money I lost to Mateo makes me embarrassed.”
“What?”
My mom patted my knee. “Your father and I predicted—well, placed a bet—that you and Max would be dating after only three days. I mean, look at him.”
I dropped my head in my hands. “Oh my fucking god.”
“Thank you, Sandy,” Max said. “I’ve been known to turn a head or two in my day.”
“What if our first date had been awful?” I pinned my parents down with a scrutinizing gaze. “What if we’d gone out and realized we hated each other and had nothing in common? Or that secretly Max is really boring?”
Mateo coughed into his hand. A cough that sounded suspiciously like the words supply closet.
Max was laughing softly, shaking his head. He dragged a chair next to mine to sit in, long legs spread in his usual loose-limbed confidence. He tapped my foot with his boot. Just once. But if a foot-tap could be a caress, this would be it. The brief touch pulled my eyes directly to his.
And then he winked at me like a smug bastard. “Yeah. But that didn’t happen, did it?”
My parents laughed, but it was good-natured and happy sounding. Mateo and Rafael were watching us with dual expressions of silly fondness. Pop, arms crossed, was studying his son carefully.
“No,” I finally said. “That didn’t happen. It was a very… a very lovely first date.”
Max’s boot connected with my foot and stayed there—the lightest pressure. And the smile blossoming on his face was sweet and appreciative. “I feel the same way.”
My mom dragged her acoustic guitar onto her lap, and she and my dad began softly playing an instrumental version of one of their first songs. It was like light background music—they literally had never been able to sit in silence. But it fit this moment, fit this little shared family that was giving me those warm-and-fuzzies again.
“Did you get some of these details from my extremely nosy older sister?”
“There was a play-by-play,” my dad mused. I’d given Roxy the play-by-play but trusted she’d left out the filthy, filthy sex we’d had in that closet. “She and Edward had plans already or she would have been here.”
Sex swing was probably what those plans were.
“Now that we’ve embarrassed Max, we brought over a few extra posters that Mateo designed,” Rafael said, elbows on his knees. “The three of us papered the block today.”
“Just like the good old days,” Max said, with a meaningful nod towards his friends. “We’ve got less than a hundred tickets left to sell and seven days to go, so we’re trying to put this thing front and center.”
Mateo dug through a large, leather bag. Revealed a poster in the same design as the ones he’d created for the benefit concert—black-and-white images against comic book-style backdrops. This one was a picture of my parents. Dad was jumping in the air like a jackknife, tongue out. Mom was mid-drum-solo, looking slightly terrifying. “I made this one for you guys. Rafael and I are huge fans, if we didn’t make that clear earlier.”
My parents took it, gazing at it with sheer wonder. “Would you look at that. You painted us like heroes.”
“You are heroes, Mom,” I said softly. “To a lot of people. Me included.”
There were a few things Lou and Sandy Quinn felt compelled to impart upon their daughters that went beyond their devotion to music and the arts. My parents were rabblerousers to their core; they protested, they marched, they fought for what they knew was right and were always helping our neighbors. When I was thirteen, my middle school had implemented a dress code just for girls that I believed was sexist, unequal, and unfair. My parents hadn’t hesitated—they drove me right to the school board meeting with my posters and petitions and took me out for ice cream when the school finally gave in and scrapped the policy.