Ironically, Max does not share my contentment. He’s been texting people the whole time.
He jumps to his feet. “I’m out of here,” he says.
“Where are you going?” asks Ginny. “It’s 2 a.m.”
“If you’d ever acted like a normal college student rather than a 40-year-old soccer mom, you wouldn’t need to ask me that.”
He leaves and she grips the arms of her chair with quiet fury, her eyes blazing.
“He was just kidding, Ginny,” I tell her.
“No he wasn’t,” she snaps. “You know, what Alex and I have is what all of these people want.” Her voice grows angrier. “All these people flirting and hooking up right and left, acting like it’s so much fun. And telling me I’m missing out? All they want is to be where we already are.”
“Settle down, Ginny,” says James. “No one means anything by it.”
“Don’t you tell me to settle down!” she shouts. “You’re listening to him too. I know you are. He’s probably the reason you tried to break up with Allison.”
Whoa. My entire circulatory system seems to screech to a halt. They broke up?
“Max had nothing to do with that,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, well if she hadn’t talked you back to your senses you’d be doing the same thing he is,” she snaps. “When you already have something good.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. And who told you about that anyway?” he asks.
“No one,” she says, getting up and stomping indoors.
He lets out a tired exhale.
“I don’t know what her deal is this summer,” he says. “She’s so volatile.”
I struggle for a moment to focus on what he’s saying. It’s difficult with my brain gleefully probing the fact that he wanted to break up with Allison.
“I think she’s having a hard time being away from Alex,” I answer. “And she won’t admit it, but I think she’s starting to sense that she’s missing out.”
“She’ll get over it,” he says. “Ginny never veers off course.”
“Maybe she should, though,” I venture. “He’s the only guy she’s ever really dated. I think she needs to experience a few things first.”
He shrugs. “They’re pretty well-suited though. They have the same goals, the same political views.”
“You should write romance novels,” I tease. My voice goes low and breathy. “‘Oh, Fabio, I love the way you share my political views.’”
He laughs, but shakes his head. “When it all comes down to it, after all the infatuation shit goes away, that’s probably more than most people have.” I wonder if he’s thinking of his parents. I never saw them fight, but I also never saw them happy. They ran their home like a business they shared responsibility for.
“What you’re describing doesn’t even sound like something worth having,” I counter. “I’d rather be alone than just have some like-minded companion around all the time.”
He looks at me, and for just a moment it’s as if a part of him has really listened. And maybe hopes that I’m right.
I rise reluctantly. “I should go check on Ginny,” I say. I take one step before my toe catches on something and I fly forward. He tries to brace my fall but not before I’ve practically landed on top of him.
Oh my God. I’m literally smothering him with my cleavage. Not embarrassing at all.
He flinches, draws in a quick breath as if he’s been injured and is trying not to show it.
“Sorry,” I gasp, struggling to get up, to ignore his tight clasp on my hips and his breath on my skin. My hands are on his shoulders as I push off. His perfect, broad, taut shoulders. Even under extremely humiliating circumstances I can’t stop mentally molesting him. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” he says, but the word is tight and controlled.
“My foot caught on something … ” I explain.
“Nails,” he says hoarsely as I stand.
“Huh?”
I’m the one who fell but he’s the one who sounds breathless, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He clears his throat. “There are nails popping up on the deck. That’s what tripped you. I’ll fix them.”
He jumps to his feet.
“You’re fixing them right now? It’s after midnight.”
“No,” he says. “I’m going running.”
My laugh is a little shaky. “It’s after midnight.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says, and the look he gives me is tinged with anger.
“It was an accident,” I whisper. But he doesn’t hear me. He’s already gone.
Chapter 13
My days are still too empty. It’s a creeping kind of emptiness, a small tickle at the base of my neck that tells me I’m making a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be just … existing … this way. My life has always felt like it’s moving forward and now it’s completely stagnant. I will never turn into a Max, someone content just to take what life happens to send my way, but it sort of feels like I am. And I really could use a distraction right now, because James — his looks, his smile, his perfect shoulders and sudden dismissiveness — opens fresh wounds daily.
Aside from that one testy phone call when the whole story came out, I haven’t spoken to my father. It doesn’t surprise me, really. He’s always operated under the assumption that I was old enough take care of myself, even when I was barely old enough to know what the phrase meant. And I guess he has his hands full, what with his most recent tabloid cover, entitled “The Downfall of an Icon”, his girlfriend, future baby and job status.
But my mom too has been mysteriously absent, and that’s more troubling. I’ve been out of the house for nearly a year, so I shouldn’t still worry about her, but I do. When she finally returns my call I have to restrain myself from nagging her about how long it took.
“Hi honey,” she chirps. “How’s the beach?”
“It’s good,” I say mildly. The truth – one I’ve been ignoring – is that I feel sick with guilt for leaving her in DC with a complete disaster on her hands. It’s occurred to me more than once that maybe she was just putting on a brave face when I stopped by her house. Although that would be pretty out of character for her were it true. “How are things there?” I ask.
“Things here are fantastic,” she says.
“Really?” I ask. “That’s um, not what I was expecting to hear.”
“Oh,” she laughs. “I guess you thought I was holed up in my bedroom crying over your father?” she asks.
“Well, yes, sort of. So it’s not awful? Are there photographers camped outside your house?”
“Oh,” she says uncomfortably. “Well yes, I suppose but … ”
“What do you mean by ‘suppose’? Aren’t you in DC?”
“Well, not exactly,” she says. “I’m kind of on tour.”
“On tour?” I say, loudly enough that everyone in the room looks over.