CHAPTER TWO
The next day, I hustled into Alcott’s for my lunch break—a daily practice that had been Max’s idea. Why eat my paper bag lunch in the dingy cinema break room when my favorite place in Oakhurst was one intersection away? This bookstore had been my small salvation more times than I could count, the cove I steered toward in any storm. Now I ate my sandwiches by a sunny window, book in hand. This week, Americanah on recommendation from Tessa’s girlfriend, Laurel. I nursed a small iced coffee—cheapest thing on the menu—and nestled in.
My break was almost over when something swooped into my line of vision. Blinking, I set my book down.
A tiny paper airplane hit the wall and dropped back onto the table beside me.
Max. The word rushed through me like a whisper, a quiet magic that could only ever be his. But he couldn’t be here. Not till tomorrow morning—I’d taken the day off work, even. I swiveled my head a full one-eighty, searching, but no.
My heart punched at my rib cage as I reached for the airplane, its sharp nose bent from impact. OPEN, it said across the flat wing. In his handwriting. On what appeared to be a folded-up boarding pass. My fingers trembled, nearly ripping the neat angles of paper.
In the dead center, two words: Miss me?
I rocketed up, combing both hands through my hair. Why—WHY—had I clipped my bangs back this morning instead of doing something with them? In less than zero of my daydreams about our reunion was I wearing my work shirt and stupid baggy-legged tuxedo pants.
“Max?” I stepped into the nearest aisle, searching, but only glossy-magazine-cover faces looked back at me.
“Are you serious?” I said, louder. Because I couldn’t get out the full sentiment: You’re home early? You have the patience to wait even one more second?
He stepped into view, grinning and different and exactly the same. His denim button-up shirt and Converse and Maxness. I squealed something unintelligible—“Oh my God!” or “You’re here!” or “It’s you!”—and flew at him like a freed bird. It was nearly a tackle, sending him off balance.
“Hey, girl,” he said, laughing. I kept my arms around his neck, stunned by the realness of him, solid and graspable.
This time last year, I didn’t even know Max Watson. He’d started as the dorky cousin of my actual crush, Ryan Chase. Max had transferred to Oakhurst from private school, sat beside me in English class, and, somewhere along the way, became a true, trusted friend. He slid into my life like some part of my heart had always been saving a seat for him—this boy who matched wits like fencing, who read me like a favorite book.
Max eased his hold, freeing me to drop down, but I stayed pressed against him.
“Sorry,” I said. “You have to live like this now.”
It was some kind of ecstasy, to hear Max’s laugh right next to my ear. To feel his chest rise and fall against mine. No ha-ha via text message, no laughter distorted through computer screens. Sometimes I imagined my feelings for him rivaled any commercial airplane. They could soar out of Indiana, over Ohio and Pennsylvania, cut through Connecticut. They’d propel themselves across the Atlantic and flamenco through Spain and then swim the final sea-length to Italy.
When my feet hit the ground, I took him in, trying to believe he wasn’t a mirage. His darkest-brown hair, grown out and thick. His usually pale skin, as tan as I’d ever seen it—a souvenir from the Italian sun. New glasses I hadn’t seen in person until now, frames that looked nice with the green of his eyes.
I could feel the goofiness of my smile, but Max’s smile was just content—the feeling of waking up late on a Saturday morning.
“You’re here,” I said, only barely convinced. “How are you here?”
“One of our excursions in Sicily was canceled, so I caught an earlier flight. I got in at four a.m.”
“You could have told me!” I said, stepping back to push his shoulder. “I would have tried to switch shifts!”
I didn’t add “I would have looked cute,” even though I thought it. On some level, he was still my friend Max, and I didn’t want to admit how much I cared what he thought of me. How he thought of me.
“And miss seeing the tuxedo in person?” His eyes flicked up and down the work uniform he’d been joking about since I got the job. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh my God.” I attempted to cover the awful pants with both arms.
“I didn’t think I’d actually make my connection at JFK. Figured I’d rather surprise you if I did.” He linked our hands together. So many times last year, I’d imagined reaching for his hand, and now it was simple—an invisible barrier dropped.
“How am I supposed to go back to work?” I demanded. “My break’s almost over. I can’t stay there knowing you’re a few miles away!”
“Well, good. But I need a nap, and I want to catch up with my mom. But tonight, do you want to—”
“Yes.”
He glanced down at his sneakers, smile tucked into his mouth.
“Oh,” I said. “Wait. Laurel’s bon voyage party is tonight.”
Tessa had plans to send her girlfriend off to college in style, with favorite snacks and a nautical theme.
“Oh, right.” Max’s mind was working quickly, his eyes ticking around before they landed on mine. “How about a quick dinner, then we can head over there? I’ll have to modify my excellent first-date plans, but … needs must.”
I would have eaten dinner curbside in the smoldering cinema parking lot, wearing my tuxedo, if he was the one sitting beside me. “Sounds great.”
“Oh, and I’m, uh, not going to mention to anyone else that I’m home,” he said, watching for a light of understanding in my eyes. No influx of text messages from our friends, no demands to see him right away. One dinner, just us.
I mimed zipping my lips.
“Good. I’ll text you later?”
“You’ll see me later,” I said, and he squeezed both my hands.
I reentered the theater in a haze, a cartoon with hearts circling my head. Donna was standing with Hunter, glancing between her watch and me. “Cutting it a little close, aren’t we?”
I did not care for Donna, overall.
“I’m here,” I said, fingertips quick on the clock-in screen.
She turned toward her office, perhaps to note that I’d been flippant about my near lateness. It didn’t matter. Even the hideous theater carpet—drab maroon with flecks of teal—suddenly looked celebratory, like confetti on a velvet backdrop. I turned back to Hunter, close to bursting. “Max got home early!”
“Yeah, he stopped by, looking for you. Told him you were at Alcott’s.” Hunter crossed his arms, appraising me. “Wow. I knew The Boyfriend was a big deal, but you are beside yourself.”
“I am, yes.”
“Go ’head,” he said. “Do the little dance that you’re clearly bottling up. Let’s get it over with.”
I did a little skip-around thing, with a twirl, then some hip movements.
“Wow,” Hunter said, leaning his cheek against his hand. “Cute.”
“Yeah, pretty good, right? I think it’s only missing …” I turned to him, continuing the whole routine with my tongue stuck out at him.