T

h e po u n di n g at my w i n d ow co m es l at e, and it scares
me shitless.
A second knock quickly follows, rattling the glass in its pane
and my heart in my chest. T
heres such force behind the rapping, Im
half expecting a bloodied, glass-encrusted fist to poke through my
curtains.
Our house is silent and inky dark. The last of the trick-or-t reaters
have called it a night. My parents have stowed the leftover Snickers
bars and checked the locks; t heyve been asleep for hours.
Another knock. More subdued, but still resolute. Theres comfort
in its persistence. Someone with deviant motives would be sneakier,
more cunning. Fear gives way as curiosity blooms, and my stuttering
heart resumes a steadier beat.
This knock, his knock, is familiar.
Its been years since Max visited me at night. Years since I let him
crawl through my window and sprawl out on my carpet and talk
himself gruff u
ntil early morning. Its been ages since w
eve talked at
all, really, but I c ant ignore him. Its not in his DNA to give uphell
keep knocking and eventually h
ell make enough noise to wake my
dad, wholl come to investigate. Max is little more than a peripheral
figure in my life t hese days, but Dadll be pissed if he finds the neigh-
bor boy lurking outside my window like a creeper.
I flip on a lamp and slip out of bed, straightening my skewed
pajama pants as I pad across the carpet. I catch a glimpse of my disheveled
reflection in the mirrored closet door and pause to adjust my tank top
and smooth my ponytail. I jump when he knocks again, an agitated
pummeling of the glass, like hes sensed my ill-t imed vanity.
Hes t here as I draw the curtains back, peering up at me from the
poorly lit side yard. The sad slope of his shoulders and the hard set of
his jaw do terrible t hings to my heart.
Max Holden used to be equal parts zesty and sweet, like lemon
meringue pie. Bright and jovial, so brilliant I once had to squint when
I looked at him. Now, his dazzle has dulled, flattened like a biscuit that
refuses to rise. Still, I c ant help but hope for his once-t rademark grin,
the one that says, I knew youd come.
Of course Ill come. Hes Max and Im Jillian, and thats how its
always been.
But he d
oesnt smilehe barely makes eye contact. He looks tired,
defeated, and deeply unhappy.
I unlock the window and push it up. I d
ont officially invite him in,
but he braces his hands on the sill and hurdles through the opening
like a cat burglar. He stretches to his full heightseveral inches
taller than my five-sevena nd I look him over, one eyebrow lifted in
unconcealed shock: Ive never seen him so eccentrically unkempt.
His feet are shoved into tattered moccasin-style slipperscastoffs

2
of his fathers, probablyand hes thrown on faded McAlder High
sweats, ratty t hings he wears to wash his truck, another hand-me-down
from Bill. His torso is draped in a blousy white shirt with a black, jagged-
edged vest over it, a skull and crossbones embroidered over his heart.
His dark hair is spiked in every direction, like he recently ditched a
too-t ight hat. He runs a hand through it when he notices my scrutiny.
And his eyes, a gray-blue so deep theyre capable of drowning the unsus-
pecting, are rimmed in liner, thick and black and smudged.
Max isnt a makeup kind of guy.
I stare, perplexed. I look away. Then, b
ecause I c ant help myself,
I peek again.
What? he asks.
Um. Y
oure wearing makeup.
He shrugs. And y oure not.
Its the m iddle of the night, Max. What are you doing here?
He sinks wearilyand without answerto the floor. He leans
against my bed, unfolding his long legs across the eggshell carpet my
stepmother, Meredith, had installed a few years ago. His eyes fall shut.
His breathing is shallow, disturbingly irregular.
I stand over him. Now that his eyes are closed, I regard him
again, turning over the facts Ive collected. Hes likely drunk. He went
to Linebacker Leos Halloween party, like the rest of our schools
population, and from what I heard, his girlfriend, Becky McMahon,
accompanied him. Who could blame him if he drained a keg to tolerate
her presence?
A draft eddies in from my open window. It d
oesnt appear to
bother Max, but Im cold in my thin pajamas. Im also self-conscious
in my thin pajamas, which is absurd. Its not as if he h
asnt seen me
dressed for bed. Weve been neighbors for ten years and our parents

3
are close. When I was thirteen, I spent a week with the Holdens while
my dad and Meredith honeymooned in Maui. But thisthisis differ
ent. W
ere seventeen, and w
ere alone.
The air suddenly seems gelatinous. Does he sense it? Probably
not. Hes slouched against my bed, eyes still shut, features pinched in
a scowl. He looks seconds from sleep in his wacky getup.
My brain cranks into overtime....Max Holden is in my bed-
room, shouldering an air of gloom like heavy armor. The gloom isnt
implausible or even surprising, but what is surprising is that hes come
here. Though Ive tried plenty of times, he h
asnt willingly engaged
with mew ith anyone, as far as I knowin months.
Shivering and desperate for practical action, I step over his idle
legs and push my window shut. Hes staying, at least for now.
He opens his eyes to the quiet click of the window latch, gazing up
at me from beneath heavy lids. You let me in, he states thickly, as if
hes just now realizing.
You d
idnt give me much choice. You w
ouldve woken my dad if
Id left you out t here beating the glass, all drunk and disorderly.
He smirks. Youre glad Im h
ere.
He doesnt deny the drunk or the disorderly, I notice. You think
so? I was in bed. We have school tomorrow, in case y ouve forgotten.
Is that why you w
erent at Leos? Cause its a school night?
Leo, a huge middle linebacker whose father owns the Chevrolet
dealership in town, is one of Maxs closest friends, and I w
asnt at his
Halloween party for a variety of reasons. First, I hate the limited
selection of costumes available to girls my age (slutty nurse or skanky
angel...no, thank you). Second, I hate social gatherings that include
more than my core group of friends (Leo invites half the school over
anytime his parents go out). Thirda nd probably most significant
I hate watching Becky paw Max like hes a scratching post.

4
 I dont feel compelled to explain any of this, though. Max and I
may have been close in another lifetime, but I dont owe him any-
thing now.
Leah missed you, he says, folding his hands behind his head.
The toothed edges of his vest r ide up around his ribs.
Im sure she had a fantastic time. Leah goes out with Jesse,
another of Maxs football buddies. I helped her with her peacock
costume, an indigo leotard we glued iridescent emerald and violet
feathers to. Though she and Kyle, my best friend and McAlders All-
District quarterback, did their damnedest to convince me to go to
Leos, I didnt get the impression my absence would have much bearing
on their fun meters. Besides, t here was no way I was going to squeeze
into the black cat costume Kyle pointed out during our trip to the
local party supply store.
I eye Maxs attire, lips pursed in contemplation. Dont tell me...
Jack Sparrow?
Nah. Just your general parrot-
toting, sword-
w ielding, beer-
guzzling buccaneer. His words are perfectly pirate-slurred.
Sounds like all you got right was the beer guzzling.
He sneers. Becky was my wench.
Speaking of your better half, where is she? Oh! Wait! Did she
walk the plank? Was she swallowed by a g
iant squid?
His laughter, low and uninhibited, surprises me. Its the sound of
my childhood: leisurely afternoons spent tossing a football back and
forth in the street between his h
ouse and mine, gross-out comedies in
the Holdens big bonus room, dripping fudge pops devoured on sum-
mer evenings. His bloodshot eyes crinkle at the corners and his head
tips back. A small, selfish part of me is flattered that hes h
ere, with me,
sharing a chuckle at Beckys expense.
But when his laughter dies, he looks uncomfortable, like he might

5
feel guilty at having experienced even the tiniest bit of joy. He studies
his watch, a vintage t hing on a worn leather cuff that belongs to his
father. Bill has no use for it t hese days; Max is the one who wears it
unfailingly.
He shakes off the memory he fell into and says, Becky went
home. He makes a swilling motion, as if throwing back a drink. I
mightve had one too many. Think I pissed her off.
You think you pissed her off?
I spilled beer on her costume. Maybe in her hair. But yeah, shes
definitely pissed. She made a big scene and then she left, which was
shitty, b
ecause shes the one who begged me to go to Leos in the first
place. Blow off some steam, Max. And then, poofhe swoops an
imaginary magic wand through the airshe was outta t here.
Wow. Some girlfriend.
Right? For all she knows, I tried to drive home and ended up in a
ditch.
I blink away the image of Maxs F-150 mangled on the side of a
dark road. She r eally left you without a ride?
Yeah, but Ivy brought me home.
Of course. Ivy Holden is a year older than Max and me, a grade
ahead of us in school. She and Becky might as well be affixed at the
hip, but that doesnt keep her from watching out for her brother. Does
Becky know youre h
ere?
He snorts. What do you think?
Honestly, I dont know what to think....He ticked his girlfriend
off, caught a ride home with his sister, then stumbled across the street
to my h
ouse. How scandalous. Yet t heres something right about his
visit, even a fter all this time. I shiver again, though the windows sealed
tight. Sure, Max is blitzed, but he came to me.
He captures my gaze, inhaling like hes preparing to admit

6
something of utmost importance. Hes so serious, so un-Max-like, I
stoop down to give him my full attention. Quietly he says, I dont wanna
be at home, Jill. I hate home. Ive hated it since...
His voice shrivels, but I know what he intended to say: since my
dads stroke.
He pretends to be impervious. He slogs through his classes, work-
ing just hard enough to maintain a GPA thatll keep him on the varsity
football roster, then boozes it up with Becky on the weekends. He acts
like hes fine, like hes handling it, but t hose of us who know him, really
know him, see how much hes changed.
Its been almost six months since Bill Holdenpatriarch, football
fanatic, and my dads longtime friendcollapsed while pushing his
mower across his front lawn. Max, the only other Holden home at the
time, found him unconscious in the grass. He called 911, and then he
called my father. Dad and I stood in the yard with him while Bill was
loaded into an ambulance, an experience profound in its gravity. Poor
Maxhe was a little boy all over again: scared, sorry, close to caving
u nder the weight of my dads hand on his trembling shoulder.
Later, at the hospital, we learned that Bill had suffered a hemor
rhagic stroke, the result of an undiagnosed cerebral aneurysm that
burst and caused bleeding in his brain. The damage is, for the most
part, irreversible. H
ell never again be the vital, active man he was, no
matter how much his son drinks. No matter how desperately Marcy,
his wife, prays. No m
atter how often his daughtersIvy and Zoe
act out or micromanage.
The impact of Bills stroke was instant, and instantaneously
u n raveling.
Since my dads stroke...Its t here, loitering in the air, ominous as a
storm cloud.
Maxs jaw is clenched and his eyes are inflamed and Im horrified.

7
Hes had too much to drink, and now hes battling emotion hes kept
corked for months. I should let him say what he needs to say. Just spit it
out and fall apart and be done with it. But the idea of tears trailing
down his face guts me.
I reach toward him, brushing my fingertips along smudged
charcoal liner. He exhales, but stays still. T heres beer on his breath.
Something warm and spicy, tooc innamona nd its inexplicably
appealing. I have the briefest, most inappropriate thought ever: I wonder
what he tastes like?, before I remember how damaged he is. Tonight he
needs a friend, not a neighbor with indiscriminate hormones.
My fingers shake as they skim the kohl line of his eye. Touching
him tangles my emotionssurprise snarled with self-awareness, embar-
rassment twisted with wonder. Weve barely had physical contact over
the last couple of years, but I committed the velvety quality of his skin to
memory long ago.
He sighs, and I come to my senses. The last t hing I want is to dis-
rupt the trust hes instilling in me, but t heres only so far Im willing to
go. Max has a girlfriend, one whod breathe fire if she knew I was touching
him. Besides, in the morning, after hours spent anxiously obsessing, this
whole experience w
ill seem dreadfully bizarre.
As my fingers drop away, he opens his eyes, catching my hand as it
falls. I try not to fidget as he stretches it open, holds it close to his face,
and studies my palm like hes reading my fate. My fingertips are stained
an odd carrot color because I spent Halloween the same way I spend
most evenings: baking. The orange food tint I used to color marzipan
for pumpkin cupcakes is evidence. Layered over the orange, accentu-
ating the dips and valleys of my fingerprints, is the black liner I lifted
from his pirate makeup.
He folds my palm into the web of his and drops our knotted fin

8
gers to his lap, like the two of us holding hands is the most ordinary
t hing in the world. Why are you being nice?
Im always nice, I say, distracted by the heat of his hand against
mine.
Remember when we were friends?
Max. W
ere still friends.
Not like we used to be.
Nothings like it used to be. The admission makes my chest
ache.
Remember when you used to hang out with me, not Kyle?
Theres a sharpness to his voice thats alien, not to mention confusing.
Theres no reason to be jealous of Kyle, and Max knows as much. But if
Kyles not the issue, what is? Is he trying to provoke me? Has his never-
ending series of fights with Becky turned him mean?
W hether he intends to or not, hes proving my pointnothing is
like it used to be.
Remember when you used to hang out with me, not your team-
mates? I counter, tossing my ponytail over my shoulder. Not Becky?
Predictably, he ignores my rebuttal. Why dont I ever see you
anymore?
Because youre always playing football, or partying, or out with your
girlfriend, I want to say, but I sense t hose words wont help. Instead,
I tell him a different truth. We grew up.
Thats such bullshit.
All at once, I regret letting him into my room. I tug my hand out
of his. The lost connection combined with the bite of his tone make
my stomach roil. Dont put this on me, I say. A lot has happened, stuff
Ive had no control over.
What? You mean Becky?

9
 I mean his f ather, but the hurt he wore a few minutes ago flashes in
my mind and I cant bring myself to mention Bill, whos had to leave
his half of the Hatz-Holden Logging management responsibilities to
Marcy. Bill, whos confined to a wheelchair, who needs help eating,
dressing, using the bathroom. Bill, who has a hard time communicat-
ing a s imple hello.
I stand. The ghost of Maxs touch makes my palm tingle, but I feel
better now that Ive put some distance between us. Ill go to my desk,
littered with cookbooks and recipe cards. Ill read my latest issue of
Bon Apptit. Ill get ahead on my English lit assignment. Ill ignore
Max u
ntil he sobers up, and then Ill send him on his way. Ill pay for
t hese late hours tomorrow, but t heres no way I can get comfy in bed
with Blackbeard acting all wasted on my floor.
Im stepping high over his legs, fuming at his audacityh is
idiocywhen he grabs the hem of my pants. I lose my balance, wob-
bling on one foot like a dizzy flamingo, u
ntil Im forced to give in to
the inertia of his pull. I drop into his lap, landing with an embarrassing
oof. Judging by the look on his facechagrin swirled with a generous
dash of unadulterated amusementhes more shocked by my new seat
than I am.
Im mortified beyond wordsbeyond recovery, apparentlywhile
he stares at me, biting his lip against what must be hysterics. Jesus,
Jill. Whatd you drink tonight?
I struggle to right myself. Nothing, thank you very much.
Hes snickering, and I want to smack him. Really? B
ecause that
was
You pulled me down! And shut up, would you? Youll wake my dad.
His laughter quiets. Jakes cool. Remember when we were in
m iddle school and he caught us smoking the cigarettes we stole from

10
Zoe? All he did was toss the pack and sit us down in front of a docu-
mentary about lung cancer.
Yeah, and neither of us smoked ever again.
My point is, he didnt freak out. And I did not pull you down.
I was walking and you grabbed my pants!
I d
idnt want you to leave.
I whack his chest. I was going to my desk, you moron.
He rubs the spot where I hit him, as if Im capable of causing him
pain. When hes satisfied t here w ill be no bruising, his hand lands on
my leg. Its inadvertent, I think. A comfortable resting place, although
his other arm is looped behind my back thanks to the way he caught
me when I fell.
We must notice the position of his hands, my body, the close con-
tact, at the same time b
ecause all the oxygen funnels out of the room.
His attention flickers to my mouth, and heat floods my face. What the
hell am I d
oing in his lap?
Yeah..., he says, shifting. Not such a cocky pirate a fter all.
I muster the little dignity Ive managed to retain and prepare to
push myself up. Sorry. Youre okay, ri?
He tightens his hold.
Im okay. Hes recovered his swaggerIm sure the copious
amount of beer he consumed earlier is helpingand his voice is low,
throaty, familiar. Its his flirty voice, I realize, the one he uses with
Becky during their (infrequent) good moments. Are you okay?
Im fine. I try again to leave his lap, but his hand glides up my
spine, beneath my ponytail, and cradles the back of my neck. Now he
is flashing me the grin, the one I was hoping for when I opened my
curtains, the one that exudes confidence and promises fun. I want to
hate him for teasing me. For using me. For being so freaking enticing.

11
 I could never hate him.
You d
ont have to go anywhere, he says.
Max. Its a warning. Its an invitation. With a smile and a stroke
of his fingers along the curve of my shoulder, hes drawn me in, and
Im losing the very fragile grasp I have on this situation. I study the
stubble on his jaw to avoid his eyes, but then I want to touch it, feel
its coarseness against my fingertips.
I give my head a shake and focus on my hands clasped in my lap. I
breathe, in and out, but the beer, the cinnamon, the wintry-clean scent
of the soap hes used for as long as Ive known him...Im certain he
hears my hearts incessant pounding.
Softly, he says, What w
ere we talking about again?
How everyt hings changed.
Jilly.
I melt into him as he whispers the nickname that never fails to
thaw me. Yes?
If you tell me to go, I w ill.
His declaration lets me see us from a distance, unencumbered by
his scent and his warmth and his gentle touch. Im a reasonable person.
A smart girl. And Max is a mess, letting regret engulf him, anger con-
sume him. Just last week I watched him shove a freshman on the quad
because the kid accidentally bumped into him. And tonight hes three
sheets and looking for distraction. As much as Id like to help him, I
wont be his no-strings-attached hookup, the other woman to his wan-
ing relationship with Becky.
I resolve to tell him as muchthat he should, in fact, go home.
That he should drink a glass of water and swallow a couple of Motrin
before bed. That Ill see him tomorrow at school.
But before I can utter a syllable, hes charging forward, eyes glazed,
lips parted. Im so astonished, so stunned, I let him push his mouth

12
against mine, and even though its heedless and utterly unexpected, I
reciprocate. I c ant help myself.
I cant process this frantic, feverish kiss, but it shoots straight
through me, a streak of heat and want and, oh my Godits good.
Just like that, I forget all the reasons why kissing Max Holden is an
awful idea.

13
H
e e ases m e o f f h is l a p, n u dgi n g me back u
ntil Im
stretched out on the rug. He joins me clumsily, adjusting
to keep his weight from crushing me. His mouth finds
mine again, heat and spice and fervor, and I return his kiss with pas-
sion I didnt know I possessed.
Kissing Max d
oesnt feel strange or forced or immoral.
It feels indulgent, satisfying, thrilling.
Until, through my fog of euphoria, I sense a shift of the air, and
register the click of an opening of a door.
My dads voice fills the room. Jillian? Max?! What the hell is
going on in h
ere?
Despite my shock, I emerge too slowly from my lusty daze.
Max and I are breathing like we just finished a set of wind sprints.
Hes stretched out on top of me. My fists grip the waistband of his sweats.
My camisole is twisted up around my ribshe has a hand beneath it!
 From his place in my doorway, my father is witness to every dirty
detail.
I wait for Max to apologize, to roll off me, to fling himself out
the window, but drunken stupor mustve robbed him of logic, because
he drops his sweaty forehead to my neck and breathes a long, low,
Fuck.
I shove him, simultaneously straightening my top and scrambling
to get up off the floor.
Dad... But thats all Ive got. Theres no way to justify the lit-
eral tangle hes caught me in.
Max hauls himself up to stand beside menot too close. Hes
squirming, tugging at his pirate vest, pushing a hand through his
wild hair. He looks like a snared animal, alarmed and fretful and des-
perate to flee, which is pretty congruent with how Im feeling.
My dad pounds a fist against the doorjamb. What in Gods name
is he doing here?
Max and I share a glance. Limited options churn b
ehind his puffy
eyesdoor or window, door or window? Its glaringly apparent when he
comes to terms with the fact that t heres nowhere to run.
Um, visiting?
My dad scuffs a toe on the carpet, posture inclined, stare lethal,
like a bull preparing to charge. I notice his sleepwear: candy corn
sprinkled over flannel pants, a googly-eyed jack-o-lantern grinning
gaily from his T-shirt. Merediths aggressively themed purchases,
sported b
ecause Dad relinquished his Man Card four years ago, the
day he said, I do.
Hysterical laughter fizzes in my throat. I have no idea whats
wrong with me; this is so not funny.
Dad takes a step forward.

15
 Max matches it with a step back, as if t heres a force field keeping
the two of them from getting too close. Jake, I can explain.
My dad flaunts a deadly smile. Really? Oh, this should be rich.
What possible explanation could you have for sneaking into my h
ouse
in the m
iddle of the night? What was that thud I heard? Did you trip?
Did you fall on top of my d aughter?
Max has the sense to bite his tongue, but I c ant say Im thrilled
when he glances at me, passing the baton.
Dad, calm down.
I w ill not calm down!
But its okay
I c ant imagine anything less okay!
We w
ere just talking.
Its a blatant lie that summons flames from deep within him.
Talking my ass! You w
ere not talking. You w
ere...you were
Meredith materializes b
ehind him. Shes sporting the feminine
version of his Halloween pajamas, but the jack-o-lantern on her top is
stretched over her newly rounded belly. Her face crinkles with confu-
sion. Jake? she says, touching his arm.
Ill h
andle this, he snaps, whipping around. Then, in a tone
marginally softer, You should be in bed.
She rests a hand on her stomach. My half s ister is growing inside,
draining the life from my stepmother. At six months pregnant, Mere-
dith still throws up daily, and shes only just finished a long stint of bed
rest. Still, doctors o
rders dictate she take it easy, and she complies
because even a fter dozens of cutting-edge, astronomically expensive
fertility treatments, it took her years to conceive this baby, whos due
in February.
She sighs, glancing from Max to me. She must deduce some version

16
of what my dad walked in on, because she arches her professionally
shaped brows, bidding the silent question: How dare we disrupt her
baby-cultivating sleep?
She gives my dads arm a squeeze, swivels on her toes, and shuffles
down the hall.
Damn it. As crazy as Merediths capable of making me, her pres-
ence was a welcomeif short-liveddiversion. Now Dads attention is
channeled back at Max and me, and his anger h
asnt abated.
Holden, y oure lucky I d
ont keep a gun in this h
ouse, b
ecause if I
did... He pauses, his lawyers brain considering the threat hes about
to discharge. He must think better of itpossible f uture legal reper-
cussions or Maxs challenging home life, Im not surebecause he
pulls in a breath and comes away with a fraction of composure. I want
you out of h
ere. Now.
Yes, sir. Maxs voice drags when he adds, Im sorry, Jake. I
didnt
Save it! Dad barks.
As Max moves to exit my bedroom, I feel a pang of envy, watch-
ing his relatively painless escape. Theres no way Ill be getting off so
easy.
But Dad extends a hand, blocking the doorway before Max can
disappear into the hall. Make no m
istake, he says, dripping venom.
Youre not welcome in my house again u nless youre accompanied by
an adult, and you are never allowed in Jillians room. Have I made
myself clear?
Max gives a curt nod. Yes, sir. And, in a move that can only be
described as humiliating, he ducks u
nder my dads arm and passes
swiftly down the hall. I startle when the front door slams.
Dad returns his attention to me, but it seems his ire has followed

17
Max across the street. His shoulders plummet and his face droops and
I feel awful.
Jillian, he says. Im so disappointed in you.
In seventeen years, Ive never given him occasion to utter such
astatement. Tears well in my eyes because, God, this sucks. Id rather
suffer the angry shouts he launched at Max than this quiet but deep-
seated displeasure.
I r eally am sorry.
He heaves a sigh. Max Holden? Tell me you didnt invite him
here.
I d
idnt. He knocked on the window. Hes having a really hard
time.
Creases line my dads face. The Holdens and the Eldridges have
been a unit since he and I moved in across the street a decade ago. Joint
holiday celebrations, backyard cookouts, riverside strolls, family vaca-
tionswe used to do everyt hing together. I recall the Super Bowl bash
Marcy hosted a few years back. By halftime, Dad and Bill w
ere several
beers in, joking about how Max and I would probably end up married,
which was perfect, Bill surmised, because wed breed football prodi-
gies with a talent for baking. Dad cracked uphe was a happy member
of Team Max back then.
Max is not your responsibility, he says now. That kids on the
fast track to self-destruction. He was drunk, w
asnt he?
My lack of answer is confirmation enough.
Dad sighs. Scouts are supposed to be at his game Friday night.
Hes g
oing to throw away his chances at being recruited. And this. He
waves a hand at me, then the floort he scene of the crimehis mouth
twisted in revulsion. I w
ont stand for him taking advantage of you.
He wasnt taking advantage
Uh, d
oesnt he have a girlfriend? Its a rhetorical question.

18
Beckys been a fixture at the Holdens for ages, first as Ivys best friend
and now as Maxs turbulent love affair. Everyone knows he has a girl-
friend.
It wasnt like that, I say, but maybe it was. Now that Im pictur-
ing us tangled on the floor through my dads agonizingly astute filter, I
cant deny that Maxs motivations were less than romantic. He used me
to cheat on his girlfriend, and I willingly participated.
I expect better from you, Dad says. Max is intent on being mis-
erable, and youre not the kind of girl to lose sight of her goals for a
screwup.
My goals. Theyve been set in stone for as long as I can remem-
ber: graduate high school on honor roll, earn a Grand Diplme in
Professional Pastry Arts from the International Culinary Institute in
New York City, and open my own ptisserie in a charming town, where
Ill spend my days baking and serving adoring customers. Nobodys been
more supportive of my goalsmy dreamst han my dad; hes been fun-
neling money into my culinary education fund since I was ten. I just
wish he could see that one weak moment wont derail me. I indulged in
a careless kiss with my unavailable childhood playmate; I d
idnt commit
grand theft auto.
Im suddenly very tired. Tired of listening to Dad bash Max. Tired
of looking at his drawn expression and the way it contrasts with the
inane jack-o-lantern on his T-shirt. Tired of defending actions Im
not even proud of.
I fake a yawn. Ive got to be up for school in a few hours.
He glances at the digital clock on my nightstand, then scrubs his
hands over his face, as if the motion w ill erase the memory of Max and
me horizontal on the carpet. I thought we w
ere beyond this, Jill, but
Im g
oing to have to set some boundaries.
Seriously? I made one m
istake

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 One m
istake that traces back to one very unstable person. I
love Bill and Marcy, but their sons become a terrible influence, and
I wont have him taking you down. He pauses, making sure he has
my full attention before saying, I want you to stay away from Max
Holden.

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