The One That I Want(27)
Author: Jennifer Echols

He paused. Maybe it was just that my eyes had adjusted to the spotlight on my house shining into the car, but Max’s face seemed harsher than before, the lines more angular. This time I looked away.

“Sure enough,” he said, “you and Addison are at each other’s throats, in your own quiet way. Neither of you verbalizes it, but I can feel the tension coming off the two of you. Your friendship is hard now. Before, it might not have been good, but it was easy. All your relationships were easy. You knew your place with everybody. And that was important to you.”

A shadow flitted across the spotlight beam. Bats were dipping in and out of the light.

“Maybe you worked very hard at a relationship,” he said quietly, “and it crumbled, despite everything you tried. How long has it been since you saw your dad?”

It felt like my heart was beating somewhere down in my gut. I said weakly, “I’ve told you. He lives in Hilton Head and runs all these businesses, so it’s hard for him to come all the way over here just to see me.”

Max didn’t say anything. He could have changed the subject with a joke and made me feel better. But he was content to open a wound and then just sit there and watch it bleed.

I asked angrily, “What are you planning for your college major? Psychology?”

His dark brows knitted. “No. My dad wants me to go to Tech and major in engineering. He says psychologists don’t make enough money.”

“And why don’t you tell him what you really want to do?” I sneered. “Because that would make your relationship hard?”

“I like reading people,” he said. “I think I’m good at it. That doesn’t mean I’m good at reading myself, or solving my own problems.”

“Obviously,” I said, “because you just caused another problem. You’re right. I don’t like complicated relationships. You know what’s really complicated? Being friends with my best friend’s date. So don’t think you have to pick me up anymore. You’re smart enough to arrange another way to go out with Addison.” I opened the door.

“Gemma,” he said. His hand squeezed my thigh. Electricity shot across my skin, up my torso, and across my chest to my heart, which pounded like I’d just finished a workout.

I slid out from under his touch and slammed the door behind me.

10

As I stomped across the yard, I realized I shouldn’t have slammed Max’s door. My mother might have heard it. She might be watching me out a window now. She would know from the way I walked that I was angry. She would hear that anger again if I slammed the front door behind me. Then we’d have to talk about what had happened.

I’d thought I longed to have the chat with her that she kept promising me. But the prospect of talking to her about something this real made me cringe. I didn’t want her to know I had a complicated relationship with Max. Then I would have a more complicated relationship with her. Max was right, and that made me even madder at him.

I closed the front door, careful to shut it the way I normally did, which I probably got completely wrong now that I was thinking so hard about it.

Then I edged to the window to peek out at the driveway. I half expected—or half hoped—Max would still be parked there, staring mournfully at my house, contemplating running after me and ringing the (oh God) gong doorbell to tell me he was sorry. But he was already backing into the street, probably not even thinking about my prissy little fit.

I watched him until his taillights disappeared around the corner.

In the kitchen, I peered into the refrigerator, then the freezer, then the refrigerator again, looking for . . . something. I asked myself whether I was hungry or just wanted something to eat. The answer was neither. I wanted Max to come back. I wanted to erase what I had said, and what he had said, and go back to a time before I saw myself so clearly. I didn’t like what I saw.

I climbed the stairs. My mom was in her office. Really I thought of it as Dad’s office, though it had been Mom’s for the past six years. She hadn’t redecorated after Dad left. The walls were still painted a manly forest green and lined with towering dark wood cabinets. She seemed out of place in Dad’s leather office chair, sitting behind his massive wooden desk and pecking at the computer. A bowl and a spoon sat next to the keyboard. Without looking, I knew the bowl had held cobbler and ice cream, and that it was empty.

When I stood in the doorway, she didn’t glance up from hunting and pecking. My high school made everybody take typing now, but she had missed out on that. And apparently, working for a few years as a secretary before marrying my dad had not taught her any keyboarding skills. Biting her lip, she was really intent on finding that G or whatever.

“Hi, Mom,” I finally said. “I’m back.”

“Oh, hey, sweetie.” She pecked another letter before she looked up. Her brow furrowed. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you have fun on your date with Max?”

“Sure,” I lied. Wait. “Carter. My date with Carter.”

“That’s what I said.” She went back to typing. Over the clicks of the keyboard, she called, “Let me finish this up, and then I want to hear all about it.”

Right. I knew how it worked. We wouldn’t talk again until morning, when she would make me a big breakfast and I’d refuse to eat it.

I wandered down the hall to my room and sank down on my bed, thinking hard about Max. I had lashed out at him instinctively because what he’d said had hurt—like slapping a mosquito when it stung me.

But he had been right about a lot. He was so right about my “friendship” with Addison that I almost felt like I should apologize to her for losing weight and making the majorette line. I’d gained confidence, I’d started fighting for my own friendships with people, and I’d ruined the nice, peaceful princess-and-servant relationship that Addison and I had had before.

I knew I should apologize to Max for getting so angry. And telling him I couldn’t be friends with him anymore. What if he took that seriously?

I pulled my phone from my purse. With a shaking finger, I flipped to his number and called him.

“Hello?” he said.

I’d never heard him over the phone before. His low voice sent a shiver through the center of my chest.

“It’s Gemma.” He should have known it was me, since he had my number in his phone, but he didn’t sound like he knew who was calling.

“Hi, Gemma,” he said evenly.