Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  The chiming of the bells and rumble beneath my feet alert me to the approaching light-rail train. Even though it’s across the street, I still move closer to the building. It’s like that fear that the garbage disposal will magically turn on when I stick my hand in the drain to clear whatever utensil weaseled its way down there. I don’t know why, but the train freaks me out.

  “Brynn!” someone from somewhere shouts, causing me to bump into the brick wall I’m damn near hugging.

  I turn around, ignoring the stinging radiating up my arm from the brick-inflicted scratches, to see who called me.

  It doesn’t take me long. Even though the sidewalks are crowded, it’s almost as if Maxwell wanders the streets with an angel hovering above him, shining perfect lighting onto his perfect face. I haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off at HERS on Tuesday, and it’s like he somehow managed to get better looking in these last few days.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, only realizing how rude that sounded after the words floated into the air. “I mean, hey, how are you? And also, what are you doing here?”

  TK and Poppy are the only people who live around here, and they take Ace out for Friday fun every week. So there’s really no reason for Maxwell to be out and about this way.

  “I went into HERS and Paisley told me I just missed you, but that you’d probably be close by.” He fails to explain why he’s here. “You’re usually there so late.”

  “Oh yeah.” My forehead scrunches in unattractive confusion. “I’m going to my dad’s for dinner tonight. He lured me over with the promise of carbs on carbs on carbs.”

  Under the lighting of heaven, I watch as his smile falls half a centimeter.

  “That sounds fun.” The excitement in his voice sounds forced. “I was just seeing if you wanted to watch some more Parks and Rec when you got off. Sorry, I should’ve called first.”

  It takes a few seconds for my brain to recognize what’s happening here, but when it does, a weird warmth filters through my veins and causes the butterflies in my stomach to flutter. Maxwell drove clear across town, during rush hour—which has gotten indescribably unbearable over the past few years with the influx of Denver transplants—to see if I, Brynn Sterling, wanted to watch an old sitcom with him.

  “You want to come to dinner?” I ignore the warning sirens blaring in my head.

  “I couldn’t impose on your night with your dad, we can do it another night that works for you.” He aims a weak smile—that, even weak, causes my knees to tremble—at me and pulls his keys from his back pocket.

  “No!” I snatch his keys from his hand. Heat floods my face, but I manage to hold eye contact even through my cringing. “Seriously, come. My dad loves company and he makes enough spaghetti to feed an army. Trust me, TK randomly shows up to talk about construction or whatever other crazy scheme he’s coming up with, and my dad can feed him and still have leftovers waiting for me.”

  “Are you sure?” His almond eyes crinkle at the corners, but because he’s a flawless demigod, of course there are no lines.

  “Positive.” I nod, tucking his keys into my purse so he has no choice but to listen. “Then before the food coma sets in, we can catch up with Leslie.”

  “Then you lead the way.”

  * * *

  —

  “WOW.” MAXWELL PLACES his cloth napkin on the table next to his empty plate. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  Pride pools my stomach like I did anything other than bring the perfect wine to accompany the meal.

  “Thank you,” my dad says. “It’s Brynn’s favorite, and I perfected this by the time she was twelve.”

  My dad’s seafood spaghetti isn’t anything you’ll find in a restaurant. He doesn’t just stop with mussels and shrimp, and even though I’ve tried to re-create the sauce damn near a hundred times since I moved out, I still cannot figure it out. And he refuses to tell me. He told me he typed it up and put it in his will, but that is the only time I can have it, otherwise he won’t be able to use it to get me over to his house.

  It’s nice of him.

  I’m over here so much, I’m surprised he didn’t give me the recipe two years ago and tell me to leave him alone.

  “Were you a chef?” Maxwell asks.

  My dad is a HERS regular. He helps out when needed and will drop in occasionally to test the new beers I have on tap or just to chat it up with whoever is around. Because of this, my friends oftentimes tell me things about my dad that not even I know, and I just assumed Maxwell was among them.

  “No, I was an architect. My wife couldn’t cook and I enjoyed it, so it became a hobby of mine.” My dad takes a deep swig of wine, his shoulders visibly tensing as he mentions my mom.

  Thankfully, Maxwell is as observant as he is smart and talented, so he notices the sudden change in my dad’s disposition as well.

  “I’m not a great cook,” he admits. “Nancy, the chef at the Mustangs facility, always puts together a to-go box for me at the end of the day so I can have dinner that’s not from a drive-thru window or the freezer section of the grocery store.”

  “So there is something you can’t do.” I smirk. “I was beginning to think you were a bot or something.”

  “Good to know you thought I was perfect.” He brings his glass to his lips, winking at me before he takes a sip.

  My eyes bug out of my head and my cheeks flame . . . again. Never in my life have I blushed more than I have when Maxwell is nearby.

  “I did not say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Maxwell says. “Reading between the lines is one of my other talents.”

  My dad clears his throat, dropping his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. “Well then”—he pushes his chair out from the table—“I think I’m going to call it a night. Poppy’s coming over in the morning to go over the new addition again, and I don’t want to be too tired. The older I get, the more important eight solid hours of sleep has become.”

  When my dad is put in an awkward situation of any kind, he rambles the most unnecessary details.

  Maxwell stands and rounds the table, extending a hand to my dad. “It was very nice to meet you, sir.”

  Dammit.

  He’s all chivalrous and shit.

  “It was nice to meet you too.” Color tints my dad’s white-stubble-covered cheeks. “Hopefully I’ll see you around soon.”

  Even my dad looks like he’s at risk of developing a crush.

  Like daughter, like father I guess.

  “Most definitely.” Maxwell glances over my dad’s shoulder and makes quick eye contact with me.

  Or does he?

  Between the wine, food, and his eyes, I might be hallucinating.

  “You staying the night, Brynn?” my dad turns and asks.

  I blink hard, trying to anchor myself to the here and now and not the fantasyland where Maxwell looks at me every chance he gets.

  “You know it, Daddy-o.” I put my plate on top of Maxwell’s, starting to clear the table. “Driving on a stomach this full is a ticketable offense.”

  “All righty then,” he says, and I struggle not to laugh at what a nerd he is. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “See ya.” I snap my finger into a finger gun while simultaneously clicking my tongue and winking. Then I grab the plates and try not to run to the kitchen, mortification that I’m a bigger nerd than my dad ever was weighing down my legs.

  I don’t even have the water turned on when Maxwell is at my back.

  He pulls the plate out of my hand, his fingers brushing lightly again mine. “I’ll do the dishes, you go get Parks and Rec ready?”

  He’s close, so close that I can feel his warm breath against my ear. Goose bumps cause the hair on my arms to stand on end, and the chills down my spine make me shake. And thank goodness I forgot to put on m
y Apple Watch; I’m pretty sure the heart monitor on it would alert me to seek medical treatment.

  “Uh, I could, um . . . I mean . . .” Holy shit, Brynn! Pull your shit together! Remember the phone call! I bite my lip to prevent any more bumbling words to escape. “I can do the dishes. The remote is on the coffee table, you can go turn something on until I’m finished.”

  “Does your dad have some dish-washing routine that I’m not aware of?” he asks, still not handing me the dish back.

  My eyebrows knit together. My dad is a single man. Half the time he doesn’t even rinse plates before he shoves them into the dishwasher with such disarray that I cringe just thinking about it. “Uh . . . no.”

  “Then I’m doing the dishes.”

  He steps back, allowing just enough room for me to pass him, but not enough that I can do it without our arms brushing against one another.

  I’m almost out of reach, my heart rate starting to make its return to normal, when his hand reaches out, snaking into mine.

  “Thank you for inviting me over.” He squeezes my hand once before releasing it and turning his full attention to the sink. “I love spending time with you.”

  I don’t say anything. I couldn’t even if I knew how to respond to that.

  I walk in a Maxwell-clouded haze to the living room, grabbing the remote from the spot on the table my dad would probably label if it wasn’t just him living here, and fall onto the couch.

  I turn on the TV, switching modes so whatever streaming device my dad is trying out this month is on, and click my way to the Parks and Rec home screen.

  I put the remote back in its spot, barely registering the sound of running water still coming from the kitchen. Instead, all of my attention goes to the picture hanging on the wall. The picture I’ve told my dad to take down at least a million times over the years.

  The ornate frame with intricate carving and notching accentuated with gold leaf doesn’t match the new comfy, modern decor. But it’s not just about the frame. It’s the picture inside. A picture of my dad, my mom, and an awkward fourteen-year-old me. Whenever I come over, I avoid that picture, my eyes trained to look anywhere but at the eyesore anchored to the wall.

  Resentment and anger that I try to hide, resentment and anger that feels so natural that even the therapist I went to for years thought I had divested of it, rises from where it’s always lingering just below the surface. The naivete of the bright-eyed girl who wore the same outfit as her mom. We are standing in front of my dad, our matching smiles both overtaking our faces, our heads thrown back in laughter, our fingers intertwined while my dad looks down at us, his warm eyes shining with pride and love.

  A few months after that picture was taken, I came home to my dad, his face tearstained, sitting on our old couch, the framed picture over his head like some fucked-up joke taunting us as my dad told me Mom had left. That she had met somebody else and had to choose what made her happy.

  And that it wasn’t us.

  That it wasn’t me.

  How blind was I that I didn’t realize she was already cheating on my dad . . . cheating on us? The hours-long trips to the grocery store that would yield only a gallon of milk—I ignored all the signs. All the phone conversations she’d abruptly end when I’d walk in the room. Phone calls like Maxwell had?

  I wonder if what I’m feeling with Maxwell is how she felt. If she ignored all the hints that something wasn’t meant to be, or if she let the excitement cloud her judgment until she had none left.

  I feel a warmth flow through me as if my veins are pumping with hot chocolate and my heart squeezes in my chest at just the thought of him. Electricity shoots up my spine at the barest bit of contact. And I feel like for the first time in my life that I’m finally living and if he were to suddenly disappear, nothing in the world would ever sparkle the way it does when he’s around.

  Are these the same feelings that made my mom throw her family and life in the trash with such careless abandon that she couldn’t even tell me she was leaving? The reason she didn’t even reach out to me for an entire year, and when she did, it was because the luster of Heath had finally faded and she was left with nothing?

  Of course my dad gave her money. Every month, still to this day, my dad sends my mom a check she doesn’t deserve. Whether it’s from kindness or pity, or to keep us clear of her toxic energy, I’ll never know.

  But that picture?

  It’s a reminder of why I limit my life to friends and flings.

  People let the temporary adrenaline distract from the permanent consequences that follow. And I might be a carbon copy of my mom, but I will not repeat her mistakes. I won’t repeat my mistakes and ignore signs that are staring me right in the face.

  No matter how tempting it might be . . . how tempting he might be.

  As if on cue, the water turns off and Maxwell walks into the living room.

  “All right.” He claps, his solid muscles straining under his smooth skin. “Let’s go.”

  I reach for the remote, but before I get there, Maxwell grabs it.

  “Real fast,” he says, tossing the remote from one hand to another. “I was wondering if you wanted to come to the game this weekend? I know game day is a busy one for HERS, but it’s a big game and it might be fun.”

  If I hadn’t made a bad habit of watching Maxwell and studying his every expression over the last few months, I might not have noticed the way his jaw clenches twice after he asks or the way he looks everywhere but at me until after he’s finished talking. But I did, so I’m well aware of the nerves he’s trying not to show.

  “Sure, I’d love to,” I blurt, like I wasn’t just sitting here lecturing myself about rash, sexy-man-based decisions.

  “Cool.” He sits on the opposite side of the couch, tossing the remote back to me. “Now I want to see what crazy shit Leslie’s up to.”

  Crap.

  So much for not giving in to the sexy man haze.

  Thirteen

  I’ve never actually been to a Mustangs game before.

  Of course Marlee and Poppy and the rest of my merry crew tried to talk me into going over the years, but HERS was just getting started and I never wanted to feel like a pity date. So when I mentioned that I might be going to the game, I almost had to physically pick jaws up from the floor.

  Maxwell offered me his tickets, but when I told Vonnie that I was going and she told me I could sit in the suite with her, I was all over it.

  Poppy and Marlee had some weird thing about sitting in the stands and not wanting a suite.

  It’s one thing we do not have in common.

  Free food and drinks in a temperature-controlled room is much more my idea of a good time. And who knows when I’ll ever come to another game? I want the VIP treatment while I can have it.

  Let me tell you, I am very content with this decision.

  “This is fucking amazing.” I spin around the suite in awe. It’s actually nicer than my house. The counters are a beautiful white granite, the floors are those tiles that look like wood planks, the seating is plush with buttery soft leather, and there are three flat-screen TVs scattered around the room. Hell, even the bathroom has nicer fixtures than mine.

  “It better be for how much we pay for it.” Vonnie pulls out a glass, pouring a healthy amount of rosé in it. “But with these monsters?” She waves a hand in the general direction of her kids as they pick through a bowl of gummy bears. “I couldn’t do it any other way.”

  She hands me the filled-to-the-rim wineglass and I take it from her diamond-covered hands, feeling a little underdressed.

  Witnessing the extravagance that comes with Wednesday meetings, I should have been prepared for this. But Vonnie is decked out in a way I’m not sure I could’ve prepared for. I thought maybe she’d be in a crystal-covered jersey and some heels.

  So. Wrong.

  She’
s not wearing a jersey at all. Instead, she’s donning a black blazer that has “Mrs. Lamar” spelled out on the back, Justin’s number—94—on each sleeve, and the Mustangs logo over her right breast . . . all in crystals. But that’s not the end. The tight tank she’s wearing underneath also has a blinged-out 94 on it. Her Louboutins are covered in ombré crystals fading from navy blue to orange, and she has a Chanel bag that’s also been defaced.

  Taking in her clothing and accessories that already cost an arm and a leg before sending them off to be covered in thousands of crystals, I decide it’s the level of rich I aspire to be. To be so rich I can just recklessly decorate items I can now barely afford to window-shop for.

  I’m wearing a Mustangs hoodie and my navy glittered Keds that were on sale over the summer.

  “So . . .” I take a much larger sip of my drink than anticipated. “Who are we playing again?”

  “New England. We lost to them last year, it should be a good game.” She walks to the table in the middle of the room and pulls out two chairs. “No more gummy bears or I’m taking you to the day care,” Vonnie yells at her kids, who look like wide-eyed chipmunks with their mouths almost overflowing with candy. “‘Have kids!’ they said. ‘It will be fun!’ they told me.”

  I struggle to keep a straight face. “But they’re so cute.” Vonnie’s boys are like a mini fraternity chapter. They are insane, but I wasn’t lying, they are three of the most handsome kids I’ve ever seen.

  “They’re lucky they are too. That’s the only reason I keep them some days.” She narrows her eyes at Jax, who is trying to sneak his way back to the gummies. He sees that his mission has been compromised, but instead of shriveling up from the fierceness of Vonnie’s glare, he starts giggling and runs out the door to our exclusive set of stadium seats, where his older brothers are waiting. They don’t look back, but I have no doubt they sent their brother on the suicide mission so they could claim plausible deniability.