“My mum thinks I’m doing GCSE revision with you,” I tell Rina for the twentieth time as I walk down the sidewalk to Max’s. “I know she won’t call to check up on me, but in case she does.”
“I know.” I can’t see her, but I can hear an eye roll in Rina’s tone. “I’ve got you covered.”
“This might be the last night we have, you know? Max’s mum is at a work function in Manchester, which means we have until at least eleven. My mum won’t bat an eye at me studying with you until eleven, especially on a Friday.”
“I know. Don’t worry. Go enjoy your time with Max. I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but I probably can’t really say that.” Rina laughs.
It’s my turn to roll my eyes but I’m at Max’s door so I just say, “Thanks. I owe you.”
I press the buzzer and tap my foot. He buzzes me in and I sprint up the stairs. I’ve barely seen Max the past few days and I’ve been waiting for tonight all week. The countdown timer in my head has been working overtime and with less than two weeks left until Max leaves, I’m hanging on to every minute.
He’s standing in the doorway when I get to the top of the stairs and wraps his arms around me, swinging me around and into his apartment as he kicks the door closed. He buries his nose in my hair and says, “Hey there, stranger. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” I give him a quick peck on the lips before he lets me down. “You have no idea.”
“Oh, I think I have some idea.” Max grins and leans down to kiss me thoroughly this time.
I still feel that same zing up my spine that I felt the first time we kissed, but I pull away before it goes too far. “Wait. I brought samosas I made last night. I want to get them out before they stink up my bag.”
“Oooh. Do you mind if I have one?” Max asks.
“No, of course not.” I bend down to unzip my backpack and that’s when I see them. Suitcases stand like soldiers against the living room wall. Zipped up. Lined up. Ready to go. I pull the Tupperware from my bag and say, “You’re packing up early, aren’t you?”
Max lets out a long breath and shoves his fingers through his hair. Then he takes my hand, pulling me to him. “I got a call. They want me early.”
I grip Max’s fingers like I’m about to fall over a cliff edge. “How early?”
“I’m flying out tomorrow.” Max squeezes his eyes shut and his words come out in a rush. “One of the players got hurt and they want me to get up to speed before some big tournament in May. I found out this morning and today’s been mad, trying to rearrange everything.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday.” This is an inane thing to say but it’s all I can process right now.
“I know, but if I fly out first thing, I can be there for afternoon training.” Max wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know this wasn’t what we planned.”
A snappy retort is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m saved by the fact that when I try to wrap my own arms around Max’s waist the Tupperware container whacks him in the rib. The fact that I totally forgot I was holding it says a lot. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”
Max smiles softly and takes it from me, setting it down on the desk by the door. “I have more bad news. My mum is going to be home early, with it being my last night and all. She said she’d be back around eight-thirty.”
“Oh wow.” It was 7:10 when I got here, so we have an hour of alone time. Maybe.
“I know. I’m sorry, T. I know this is shit. If I could have done it any other way, I would have, but –”
I cut him off with a kiss. I don’t want to hear him tell me he had no choice. My rational mind knows he’d be right, but my irrational mind knows he didn’t choose me. And it hurts.
A lot.
I claw at Max’s back, pressing my breasts into his chest. My kisses grow more frantic and I feel consumed with need, want, and desperation. When Max steps back, both of us are breathless and panting.
“Are you sure this is what you want, T?” Max’s gaze travels over my face like he’s looking for clues on a map.
I reach down and close my fingers around Max’s erection. I’m not usually this bold, but this goes way beyond want for me. “I’m sure.”
Max sucks a sharp breath in and from that moment on, things are a blur. At least for me. Max takes off my shirt and in the next second we’re both naked. He touches me in the way he knows I like, but I stop him before I come because I’m afraid to lose control. I watch him roll on a condom and pray that once he’s inside of me I won’t feel so empty.
It works for a little while, but the faster he moves, the more detached I become. I make all the right noises and move my hips, but Max can tell because suddenly he stops. His face is inches from mine and his voice is soft when he says, “I love you, T. Please. Let me love you right now.” Then he kisses me softly and whispers, “I love you.”
I feel the tears well in my eyes as I whisper, “I love you, too.”
This time when Max moves, I move with him. We never break eye contact, and there’s no doubt that we’ve gone from a frenzied shag to making love, even though our kisses are whisper soft. As Max starts to quicken his pace, I dare to touch myself. I’ve done it once before when we were together, but I usually feel too self-conscious. Not that Max leaves me high and dry. He doesn’t. But today, if I’m going to lose control, I want it to be at the same time as him.
I feel myself start to fall over the edge and dig my nails into Max’s back, urging him on. He cries out and as he drives into me, my back arches and the corners of my vision shimmer as we both ride the wave of our pleasure. I cling onto him for as long as I can before easing my grip on his back. I muster up a small smile and kiss the corner of Max’s mouth as I say, “I think you broke me.”
“Why’s that?” Max grins.
“I don’t know. I feel like jelly.”
“Same.” Max pulls himself out of me carefully. I expect him to roll over onto the bed, but he stops halfway, poised above me and says, “Oh shit.”
“What? What’s wrong?” My eyes widen and my first thought is that I got my period, which would be mortifying.
“I, um…” Max shifts so he’s kneeling on the bed beside me. “I think the condom broke.”
Oh my God. Oh my God.
“You think? I feel like this is something I want you to be sure about.” I will my voice to stay even.
Max leans back and peels the condom off. It’s empty. As in there’s no cloudy liquid at the end.
No semen. I make myself think the word because if I’m old enough to have this disaster, I’m old enough to use the right words.
“I’m so sorry, Tara. I don’t know what happened.” Max’s eyes are wide and he looks pale under his perpetual tan.
“It’s okay. I think it’s okay.” It’s not okay, but I won’t know for sure until I can do the math, and I couldn’t add one plus one right now, never mind figure out my erratic menstrual cycle.
“We can go get a morning after pill. Boots at the mall will still be open.” Max hops off the bed and starts grabbing at our clothes on the floor.
“Okay.” I get up, too, because I don’t know what else to do, but this sounds sensible. “That’s a good idea.”
I’m zipping up my jeans when I hear a voice ring out, “Max, lovely? I’m home.”
Max flings the bedroom door open before I can process what’s happening. He shoots me an apologetic look and then goes out into the hallway. His voice is warm, though I swear I hear the strain underneath as he says, “Hey, Mum. What’s that?”
“I brought pasta from Delvecchio’s. I thought it would be a nice treat for your last night.” Max’s mum sounds pleased. “I thought Tara was coming over?”
I wait for him to tell her that we’re going to go to Boots and that dinner will have to wait. Instead he says, “Yeah, she’s in the loo. She’ll be out in a minute. Let me help you get this ready.”
I listen as they walk into the kitchen, pulling on my socks and tr
ainers. It’s 7:50. If we leave now, we’ll make it to Boots before it closes, but there’s no way we’ll make it if we eat first. Obviously, there’s no way Max can tell his mum that we need to go out for an hour, especially since she’s brought dinner. I can go and then come back, but I don’t want to miss out on a minute of time with Max tonight.
Which leaves only one option. I’ll head to the chemist first thing in the morning. After all, it’s called the morning after pill for a reason, right?
Chapter Thirty-Three
I’m on a late afternoon conference call with the New York office of WS when the text comes through from Scarlett: I think you should check Twitter.
That feels ominous. My stomach drops and it’s a good thing I’m sitting down because my knees feel a little wobbly as well. Before I manage to open Twitter on my phone, I’ve got a text from Gemma: Max Foster? That’s your Max????
Oh hell no. What, what, what is happening?
It takes me three tries to open my Twitter app because my hands are shaking worse than a drunk on a five-day detox. At first, I don’t see it. I see posts from people I follow – a lot of architects, news sites, a few health bloggers. Then I click on Trending.
Number five: Max Foster
Number six: Worked up an appetite
Number seven: #mysterygirl
Oh my God. This cannot be happening. My breathing is shallow and I have to sit on one of my hands because it’s trembling so much.
“Tara? Do you agree with that proposal?” comes a voice through my headset.
What? I haven’t heard anyone speaking since Scarlett’s text came through.
I clear my throat, prepared to fake it, but when I start speaking my voice is so reedy and high I end up saying, “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well right now. I’m going to have to jump off, but I’ll try to rejoin.”
I don’t wait for anyone to speak before hanging up, grabbing my mobile, and sprinting towards the ladies’ room. Bradley looks concerned through the glass walls of his office, and it’s not ironic that I’d rather he thinks I have diarrhea than whatever is really going on.
As soon as I get to the ladies’ room, I lock myself in a stall and sit down on the closed toilet lid. Then I take a deep breath and open Twitter again.
It’s half what I expected and half so much worse. Someone leaked the note Max included with my lunch and since it’s less than two hundred and eighty characters it’s there in all of its questionable glory. That’s not ideal, but it’s not what makes the words swim on the screen in front of me.
No, what makes me bang my head gently on the tile wall of the stall is #mysterygirl. From the women offering to replace me to the men making lewd and rude comments it’s…a lot. I scroll through a lot of them before pressing the little green phone icon to call Scarlett. She’s calm and level-headed. Maybe she can tell me what to do.
She answers on the second ring, the sound of horns and traffic in the background. “Hey, I’m on my way to your office. I should be there in about ten minutes. I can’t get a bloody cab, but I’m walking as fast as I can.”
“You don’t need to do that.” Although I let my back sink against the tile and I feel my shoulders go down a couple of degrees from where they’ve been hunched around my ears. I knew calling her was a good idea. Scarlett is capable and efficient, and most importantly, not panicking right now, which can only be a good thing.
“Like I said, I’m on my way. Bradley said you could wait in his office for me if you want?” Scarlett’s voice is strong and sure.
“No one knows it’s me except for Gemma and Esther.” I pause and furrow my brow. “How did you know it was me?”
“Oh, come on. Max isn’t the type to cheat on you. Although…” Scarlett’s voice turns sing-songy. “I think you have some filling in the blanks to do, my dear.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “It’s what you’re imagining times two.”
“Two? I would have thought Max had stamina for more than twice.” Scarlett laughs loudly.
Which gets the first genuine smile out of me. “Oh, he does.”
“Good to hear. We’ll have Chardonnay therapy and you can fill me in on all the details, yes?”
“Sure.” It’s useless to protest and I could use a drink. “And you can help me figure out what to do about this whole Twitter thing.”
“There’s not much you can do except maybe hope for a bigger scandal to develop. I’m sure our yobs in government will deliver for you by the end of the night, don’t worry.” Scarlett laughs again before her tone turns serious. “Have you talked to Max?”
“No.” I haven’t even checked to see if he’s messaged me.
“He’s got to have some ideas about dealing with this type of thing. If he’s not been through it before himself, I’m sure he’s had some teammates who have been involved in a sex scandal.”
“Sex scandal? This isn’t a sex scandal. He fucking sent me lunch.” I never say the F-word – a holdover from my parents’ rules growing up – but if ever a situation warranted it, it’s this.
“I know. I know.” Scarlett’s tone softens and she takes a deep breath and continues. “Maybe get in touch with him. It could help. I’m going to hang up so I can walk faster. I’ll see you in five.”
I click off and stare at my phone screen for a second before swiping up to look at my notifications. I have six messages, which isn’t a good sign, but I clench my teeth and open them.
Gemma: Are you okay? I’m here for whatever you need. xx
Bradley: I’m heading out to a meeting. My office is yours if you need it.
The next four messages are from Max:
I heard about Twitter. I’m so sorry. Xx
I wasn’t thinking – obviously – and I’m really sorry. Xx
Did I tell you I’m really sorry yet? Xx
Come on, T. Please respond. I’m freaking out. I’m sorry. Xx
I can imagine Max shoving his hair back from his face, pacing. I’ve seen that look before and I know exactly how he gets. The image of it makes my stomach churn because, for how anxious I’m feeling, it’s got to be ten times worse for him.
My fingers fly over the screen on my phone: Hey. Sorry. I’m not ghosting you, just freaking out a bit, too.
My phone rings in my hand, startling me so much I almost drop it, but I manage to catch it before it hits the tile floor. Max is talking before I’ve got the phone up to my ear. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about that note. I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“It was really nice.” I let out a shaky breath. “Thank you, by the way. The food was delicious.”
“I’m glad.” Max pauses and when he continues his voice is stronger and firmer. “I talked to Coach once I realized what was going on. He said that the biggest issue might be people trying to figure out who you are.”
So much for the tension in my shoulders easing. They’ve gone so tight I feel like I’ve got a screw in the middle of my back.
Max continues, “It wouldn’t be hard because whoever leaked the note must know.”
Of course they would know. Max would have given them my name and my work address for the delivery. I try to swallow down the bile rising in my throat as I say, “Right. That makes sense, unfortunately.”
“He suggested we go public – stop the speculation before it starts.” Max hurries to continue. “We don’t have to, and I’ll follow your lead on this, but I’m a little worried.”
“Go public?” The screw between my shoulder blades tightens another notch. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll make a statement about you as my girlfriend. I don’t have to name you, but…”
Max is still speaking, but I’ve stopped listening. He wants to introduce me as his girlfriend, but I’m not. That title belongs to the sixteen-year-old version of me who was young, naïve, and hopeful. Twenty-eight-year-old me is none of those things.
Not when it comes to Max Foster.
I cut him off mid-sentence. “I don’t
want to go public, at least not yet. I feel like making a statement only feeds the fire and hopefully it will die down on its own. If it doesn’t, then we can talk about Plan B.”
“Okay. I’ll follow your lead,” says Max, but his tone is wary. “We’ll see how it goes over the next few hours.”
“Great.” My tone has turned business like. “I’ve got to run but let’s talk later.”
“Okay, great. I’ll –” Max says.
I don’t hear anything else because I press End on the call. It’s rude. I know that. But I don’t want Max to try to talk me into changing my mind, and I don’t want him to apologize again. The right words will have me wrapped around his finger agreeing with him, just like old times and that’s the last place I need to be.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Twelve Years Ago
The early May sun is flickering through the edges of the shades in my bedroom and I wake up drenched in sweat and tangled in my sheets. I turn to glance at my phone and it reads 10:15 – way too early to be up on a Saturday when I have nothing else to do.
I roll over and grab my phone, checking for messages. Spain is two hours ahead and Max will have been up for hours already. He’s still texting me every morning and even though I know he’ll stop one day, I like hearing from him. Sure enough, his morning text is waiting on the screen: Hey, T. Fancy a FaceTime tonight? LMK. Xx
I stare at Max’s message for a few minutes. We still message a lot, but we don’t talk very often, and I suspect it’s because it makes the whole situation harder. At least it does for me. “Seeing” Max, even on a screen, reminds me of what I’ve lost. We can’t keep a relationship alive long-distance for two years. It’s impossible, especially without visits to look forward to. Neither Max nor I have the money for plane tickets, so our end is pretty much guaranteed. One day.
We should have broken up, but we didn’t. At least not officially. So instead, we’re limping along, dragging our waning relationship behind us like a toddler with a rag doll. It’s awful. Except for the part that involves not talking to Max at all, I would have ended it already. But that prospect is way worse.
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