by Julia London
Since Flavia, there had been other women, but the relationships never lasted more than a couple of months. He never felt ready to get into a relationship, like he didn’t have the right mindset. He was too absorbed in his work and the path to tenure. His research had consumed him, and whatever was left of him after that was devoted to his family or laundry or the occasional trip to the gym. He could reasonably deduce that the recent lack of physical contact with a woman was the reason he’d been so eager to jump into bed with Alanna Friedman that night.
He rolled his eyes. Great decision, that.
Nevertheless, it was nice to be in the company of a woman who had nothing to do with work or family for a change. It was surprisingly nice to enjoy a lazy afternoon with dogs and Carly, laughing and talking about everything while some very lovely music played lightly in the background. It was nice to feel so comfortable with a woman who had lips that looked pillowy and soft and silky hair his fingers burned to touch. It was arousing to look into those shining blue eyes and imagine.
Oh, yeah, he imagined. He imagined a lot. He’d wanted more, so much more . . . especially now, after that kiss.
He couldn’t wait to see her again.
* * *
Max arrived at his father’s house with no memory of the actual drive over, given his distraction. He pulled into the drive, let Hazel out, and followed her to the door. They walked into the smell of something delicious. “Hello?” Max called.
“In here!” his dad shouted from the kitchen.
Sometimes, when Max walked into this kitchen, he was struck with a wave of nostalgia so strong that it made him want to sink to his knees with grief. The space looked exactly as it had when Mom had been alive. There were the pair of roosters that hung next to the fridge—her own handiwork, he thought—needle art, cross-stitch, needlepoint, something like that. She would sit at the kitchen table working on it while she waited for the evening meal to cook.
A plastic green plant that she’d picked up at some flea market was on the windowsill where it had always been. It was covered with dust—no one touched it. A porcelain tea set she’d purchased at a museum in Virginia on a family vacation sat in the middle of the kitchen table. Max could never recall his mother using that tea set. It was as if she was perpetually ready for fancy company that never dropped by.
“Hey, Maxey,” his dad said cheerfully. He was behind the kitchen bar using the vacuum seal to seal muffins in a bag. He loved that thing.
“Dude,” Max said. “Something smells awesome. What is it?”
“Chili,” his dad said proudly. “I have perfected the recipe. It’s taken some years, but you won’t find better in Austin.”
Max walked over to the pot and lifted the lid. Hazel, having already hoovered the floor, trotted past him and headed down the hall toward Jamie’s room. “That’s enough to feed an army, Dad. Are you expecting company?”
“Nope. Sandy is here for a couple of days,” he said, referring to his sister. “She’s lying down in the back.”
Max slid onto a barstool and watched his dad puttering around. His father’s skills in the kitchen had vastly improved since his mother’s death. In the weeks after she died, her friends dropped by frequently, bearing casseroles and cakes, pies and sandwich trays. Good food, stick-to-your-ribs kind of food. This continued for a few weeks without fail until one night a pair of ladies had dropped by. Max couldn’t remember their names now, but they’d stood where Max was sitting now and had howled at some joke his dad had told.
One of the ladies kept stroking Dad’s arm in a manner that could be construed to be comforting, or perhaps something more. Max could remember sitting at the table, curious as to what exactly that caress of the arm meant. He’d been so surprised by it that he hadn’t even thought of Jamie noticing. But Jamie did notice. He’d become so agitated that he had one of his more volcanic episodes. That’s what Dad and Max called them—episodes. It was an inadequate word to describe those rare times that Jamie’s frustration at being unable to communicate his feelings boiled over into a ferocious caw. When that happened, the sounds he made didn’t sound human, and he could get physical, banging his fist on breakable things or throwing them.
Needless to say, his outburst had scared the ladies.
The casseroles and cakes died off after that. Max’s dad had retreated into his new reality, still grieving his wife, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he was the primary caregiver to a grown autistic son.
Max had been living at home at the time, a newly minted professor. The Sheffington family was small, and Max understood that one day, the responsibility for Jamie’s care would fall to him. For that reason, he’d wanted to stay close, to help out his father where he could. But Max’s dad wouldn’t hear of it. “Either you’re going to move out on your own, or I’m going to kick you out,” he’d announced after one of their arguments. “I can handle this,” he’d said. “That’s my son, and I’ll deal with him.” And to Jamie, who didn’t want Max to go, he’d said, “Jamie, Max is entitled to his own life just as you are to yours. I won’t hear any more about it from either of you.”
“How, Dad?” Max had demanded. “How are you going to manage?”
“I’m going to retire, that’s how.”
Max had been alarmed, but his father had refused to listen. “Look here, Max, I don’t need your approval or your acceptance. I’m still your dad, and you will do as I say in my house. You’re a young man and you have your whole life in front of you. I won’t have you wasting it worrying about me and Jamie, got that? Just . . . just get out of here and live your own life.”
It was around that same time that Max’s Aunt Sandy had moved to San Antonio and the opportunity to buy her house had presented itself. Honestly? Between himself and God, Max had wanted to go. He’d been so tired of the sadness and the never-ending attention Jamie required.
So it happened that the universe lined things up when Max and his family needed it most. Aunt Sandy moved. Max moved around the corner. His father quite ably handled Jamie’s supervision. He also seemed happy to be retired. He liked to putter around his workbench in the garage and build things he thought were useful. He liked to drive Jamie to work at the ACC and back again, stopping off to have coffee with his friends. That he had no life for himself didn’t seem to bother him much. Or if it did, he never mentioned it.
Once, Max had asked him if he had any regrets. His father had looked confused. “Regrets? Now why would I have any regrets?” he’d said in a curt tone that suggested he thought his son was an idiot. “I was married to the best woman who ever lived. I have two wonderful sons. I’m healthy and I’m fortunate enough that I can put a roof over their heads and food on the table. What the hell would I have to regret?”
Max didn’t ask again.
He looked at his dad now as he finished up sealing his muffins. “How long is Aunty Sandy in town?”
“Hmm? A couple of days. I’ve got a few plans. Got tickets to that new Broadway musical that’s come through town.”
That was surprising—Max had never known his dad to be a Broadway kind of guy. “What . . . Hamilton?”
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t know you were into musical theater.”
His father laughed. “Well, I’m not, really. But”—he looked up, and there was a twinkle in his eye—“let’s just say I’ve got a new friend who is.”
Max’s first thought was that the friend was a fishing buddy, which he quickly discarded due to the gleam in his father’s eye. It reminded him of the ray of sunshine he’d been feeling in himself today. “Oh. This is news.”
His father leaned backward so he could see down the hall, and when he was sure they were alone, he said low, “I’ve got a new friend, Maxey, and I’m sort of feeling my way through it right now. Not sure what it’s all about or where it’s going. But I’d like to explore it a little.”
He grinned.
Max gaped. “You’re dating?”
“I’m doing something.” The old man laughed. He was beaming.
“That’s . . . that’s great, Dad,” Max said, and he meant it. And yet, he was so caught off guard he didn’t know what to think.
“Well, I hope so. Like I said, we’re just friends and I like her a lot. Now Jamie, he’s not quite on board with it, so, you know . . .”
“Yeah,” Max said.
Hazel’s bark interrupted the many questions he wanted to ask—like how and where did he meet her, and how long had this been going on. He slid off his stool and walked into the hall just as Jamie came out of his room, wearing his PUGS, NOT DRUGS T-shirt. “Dad,” Jamie said.
“He’s in the kitchen. Where’s Hazel?”
“Max! Is that you?” Aunt Sandy appeared from one of the bedrooms. She had short gray hair in perfect looped curls all over her head, and wore a red and white striped sweater that stretched over her ample frame. She smiled and tousled his hair like he was a kid. “Your dog came to announce herself with a lick to my face.”
The guilty party trotted out of Max’s old room. “I’m so sorry. She has some very bad habits.”
“Loyal Dad,” Jamie said.
“He is, buddy,” Max agreed.
“Do you smell that chili?” Aunt Sandy asked. “I’m starving. Are you hungry, Jamie? Toby! Do you need some help?” she called, and continued on down the hall toward the kitchen, yawning.
Hazel barked again. Jamie looked at the dog and clucked his tongue. Hazel sat.
“Let’s go check out the chili,” Max said to his brother, and turned in the direction of the kitchen.
But Jamie caught his arm and squeezed it. “Loyal Dad,” he said. “Loyal.”
“He is, Jamie,” Max said. “Of course he is.” He put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Loyal Dad,” he said, and led his brother down the hall.
Dad was putting bowls around the kitchen table. He’d also made cornbread and salad, apparently, as they were in the center of the table next to the tea set. “It looks like you’re feeding the masses,” Max joked.
“You’re sure going to make someone a good husband, Toby,” Aunt Sandy said as she took down some glasses from a cabinet and began to fill them from the fridge. “I always told Melissa that you were the best catch.”
“Loyal Dad,” Jamie muttered under his breath.
“What’s that, Jamie?” Dad asked cheerfully, and spooned chili into his bowl. “Hey, Max, did you hear? Jamie’s getting a dog!”
“I did hear that—Aunt Sandy told me. I didn’t think you were up for that.”
“Why wouldn’t I be? Jamie is the best with dogs, aren’t you, Jamie? There’s a black Lab out there at the ACC that follows him around. He’s already adopted Jamie.”
Hazel had made her way under the table and pushed between their legs to Jamie. She nudged his hand. Jamie responded with a caress of her head.
“Duke is his name,” his dad added as he continued putting chili in bowls.
Aunt Sandy handed glasses of water around, then slid into her seat. “When’s Duke coming home?”
“He has to be neutered first, so a couple of weeks after that.”
“Labrador. Loyal dog,” Jamie said. “Intelligent and loyal.”
“Oh, that is so true,” Aunt Sandy said. “And such happy dogs, too.”
“Loyal dog. Loyal Dad,” Jamie muttered.
Max looked at his father, but he didn’t seem to notice Jamie’s muttering. Jamie wasn’t usually so talkative.
“That’s what I’ve always heard,” Aunt Sandy agreed. “Labs are the number one dog of choice in American households, did you know that?”
Jamie started to rock in his seat. “Loyal, loyal, loyal, loyal.”
Max’s dad finally looked up. “What’s the matter, Jamie? You don’t like the chili?”
Jamie suddenly pushed back from the table and went down on one knee to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Hazel and laid his cheek against the top of her head.
Max exchanged a look with his dad. His dad shrugged.
“Jamie, your supper is going to get cold,” Aunt Sandy said.
Jamie did not let go of Hazel, and Hazel seemed happy to let him hang on.
“Yep, we’re going to be shopping for a dog bed and some food bowls this week, aren’t we, Jamie,” his father said as he sprinkled cheese on top of his chili.
Jamie said nothing.
“Jamie? Hop up here and eat your chili,” Aunt Sandy said again.
Jamie reluctantly stood up and resumed his seat. He picked up his spoon and stuck it into the bowl. “Loyal dog, loyal Dad.”
“Very true,” Aunt Sandy said. “Intelligent and loyal.”
“Loyal. Loyal. Loyal Dad. Loyal Dad,” Jamie repeated, and looked at his father, then at his chili. He began to rock back and forth again.
It was not unusual for him to rock, and the repeating of words, the echolalia, was often seen in people with autism. But still, Max knew his brother well enough to know that something was bothering him. But the hell if he could figure out what. “I have an idea,” he said. “I don’t have to be on campus before ten tomorrow. What if Jamie came to my house to hang out with me and Hazel? I can take him to work in the morning.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea, isn’t it, Jamie?” Aunt Sandy chirped.
“You want to go with Max?” Dad asked.
Jamie glanced up and glared at his father, startling Max. “Loyal Dad, loyal dog.”
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Max said. “Jamie.” He waited for his brother to turn and look at him. “Loyal brother. Are you coming with me? We can watch an Air Bud movie,” he said, suggesting a series of movies that featured a dog.
Jamie’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes,” he said. And then he attacked his chili with gusto that made Aunt Sandy happy.
* * *
It was nothing, Max decided later. Something had aggravated Jamie. Dad had probably done something that had annoyed Jamie, but whatever it was, Jamie had clearly forgotten by the time they arrived at Max’s house. He sat on the living room floor with Hazel’s head on his lap, his attention glued to the Air Bud movie.
Max decided it was a good time to attack his kitchen on the chance that Carly might grace his house with her presence again. He was happily imagining that as he worked, sort of smiling to himself, when Jamie appeared at the end of the kitchen bar. “Dog show.”
Max looked up. “Yeah. The DVDs haven’t come in yet.”
“Loyal dog, Max. Loyal Dad. Dog show.”
Jamie was clearly trying to tell him something, but Max couldn’t understand what. “You want some popcorn?” he asked.
Jamie clapped his hands and made a high-pitched sound of delight.
Max spent the rest of the evening on the couch on his phone while Jamie watched the Air Bud movie two times through.
He kept thinking about Carly.
He plucked absently at the arm of the couch, and finally, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he picked up his phone.
Bad news. Hazel just watched Air Bud and I think she’s in love with a golden. How will we explain this to Baxter?
Dr. Sheffington, what were you thinking, letting her watch Air Bud? He’s so much hotter than Baxter. His heart will be broken.
Max’s phone pinged again—Carly had sent him a picture of Baxter in his current state. He was racked out on his dog bed, with his head firmly in the corner.
If I may offer my professional opinion here, I believe that Baxter’s hippocampal volumes are severely reduced.
I don’t really know what that is, but I think it’s impossible all the same. Have you seen the size of his skull? It’s enormous and I can imagine all kinds of hippos swimming in there. I think he really misses
Hazel. And I don’t mind telling you that we are both looking forward to Tuesday.
I don’t mind telling you that Hazel and I are, too. Very much.
Are we flirting? Because neither of us knows when that is happening, remember?
I’m not sure, but I think so. I will consult my textbooks.
I am oddly charmed by your scientific approach. It’s surprisingly sexy and makes me want to know more about you. Like, how nerdy are you?
You are in for some dry and tedious detail. I want to know more about you, too. Like, how did you decide on public relations, and who thinks circles of wood are fine art, and what is your favorite ice cream, and what was your second grade teacher’s name.
That is so weird! I was going to ask you if you prefer red or white, and where is the one place you would go if you could leave tomorrow, and how many brains did you have to dissect to be a qualified brain genius, and when did you first learn to ride a bike.
Ladies first. Start with ice cream.
I ALWAYS start with ice cream.
As Jamie started the Air Bud movie for the third time, one hand flapping with pleasure, Max scooched down on the couch next to Hazel.
He and Carly texted until two in the morning.
He could not wait for Tuesday.
Thirteen
One of the worst Mondays to visit Carly in a very long time—remarkable in and of itself, given her luck recently—arrived with a bang. First, she was late getting up—she and Max had texted every last thought in their heads until the wee hours. When she woke, it was to several text messages left by her sister, complete with exclamation marks, exploding head emojis, and capital letters, complaining that their mother was not answering her phone calls and was probably dead in the ditch, but that Mia couldn’t check on her because Will was gone again and she was stuck home with the kids.
