by Emery Lord
Having my dad here helped. Not because he replaced my Grammy—I was still playing her memory like an all-time favorite song. But because she’d like that we were all here together. She’d like watching my mom open the gift from him, an oval chalkboard with a sage-green frame.
“I thought you could use it for a business name, if you decide to sell your furniture at the flea market this spring,” my dad said. “Or you could just put it up in the kitchen. No pressure.”
“Have you been thinking about getting a booth, Mom?” I asked.
“I have, yes,” my mom admitted, smiling down at her sign. “I’d need to apply soon. And come up with a name.”
“Something simple and classy,” Cameron said. “Hancock Design.”
“But you should play up the upcycling aspect.” I swiped through my vocabulary. “Renovate? Refurbish?”
“Kate Renovates,” Cameron said.
“Kate’s Kreations,” my dad suggested, spanning his hands out like the name was up in lights. “With a K.”
Cameron gestured to the back door. “Get out.”
She held a serious face for a moment and then we all laughed. Even my dad, as he exclaimed, “What? It’s good!”
“You know, I could do a booth, too …,” Cameron said. “Sell cookies. Beats working for someone else at a summer job …”
I gave her a pointed look, sure she was referencing my cinema tuxedo.
“Oh!” my mom said, clasping her hands. “Would you? Let’s do it together!”
The refurbishing theme continued as Cameron and I took my mom to the garage to unveil our present. We’d bartered down the price for a beat-up old credenza at the antique mall. It took both of us, my dad, our neighbor, and his truck to get it here. A behemoth of a thing, scuffed to hell—the roughest shape of any piece so far. A near black varnish, and outdated and chipped. But with delicate bamboo edging, hinting at a previous life. A stately foyer, a hotel mezzanine?
I glanced at my mom, wondering if we’d missed the mark, buying a disheveled Christmas present. But she was starry-eyed, running her fingers over the detailing. “Oh, this is going to be beautiful.”
After that, I opened a sweatshirt from my dad, “NYU” across the front in clean white letters.
“Before you start with ‘But what if I don’t get in,’ ” he said, “you got into the summer program, so you are an NYU student. And also, you will get in, even if you wind up deciding on a California school.”
I hugged the sweatshirt’s purple sleeves. I’d coveted NYU apparel at the on-campus gift store this summer. But could I really wear it? Wouldn’t that be mortifying if I did and then they rejected my application? Beside me, my mom smiled a bit stiffly. When I caught her, she quickly murmured, “Looks great, sweetie.”
After presents had been opened and wrapping paper cleaned up, my dad trooped upstairs for his traditional holiday nap.
Cameron, putting away her new baking supplies, sighed. “I really thought Dad might propose.”
“Cameron.” I said it in my most serious, line-drawing voice.
My mom opened and closed her mouth several times, an aquarium fish watched by two unblinking spectators.
“It … won’t happen like that,” she said finally. “Don’t expect a big proposal, okay? Your dad has made it clear that he’s invested in a long-term future. Anything else will be mutual decision making as we go.”
“Wait.” Cameron was agog, eyes flickering. “Did he already ask?”
“Cameron,” she said firmly. “I respect that this affects you—both of you. But I need to go at my own speed here, okay? I promise I’ll tell you when there’s something to tell.”
Regardless, Cameron pranced around the kitchen like Cinderella, tidying up beside invisible birds.
Once we were alone, my mom sighed. “She got her hopes up, didn’t she?”
“He did ask you, didn’t he?” I countered.
We looked at each other, silently agreeing that this topic would not be delved into any further. In the Mother-Daughter Olympics, we’d medal in repression, worrying, and aimlessly online shopping without ever buying anything.
“I’m trying to do the right thing for everybody,” she said.
I thought of her face last year, solemn across a checked restaurant tablecloth. She’d seen my hesitation—in swimming, in opening my heart up to anyone new. Tessa hadn’t been wrong: I couldn’t stop tabulating risk, weighing negative consequences until they bogged me down. But my mom understood that in me then, the way I understood her now.
Max stopped over in the early evening to exchange presents, though it took almost an hour for my family to let us be. Once alone in the living room, I handed him a tellingly rectangular gift, wrapped in red-and-white-striped paper.
“Whatever could it be?” he joked.
Max had always been more of a comic and graphic novel reader, but he loved The Phantom Tollbooth in that specific way of childhood books: the ones that are yours completely, signposts that marked the person you were becoming. Over the summer, I’d found a used copy in a rummage-y city bookshop. It wasn’t a first edition, not a signed copy. But someone had added marginalia: Ha! and magic and assorted questions filled the otherwise blank spaces. Those ballpoint pen scratches gave this copy a story within a story—a past life, a singularity that I thought Max would appreciate.
He turned it over in his hands.
“I love The Phantom Tollbooth,” he said, sounding surprised. Like I wouldn’t have remembered this small factoid from an early conversation.
“Look.” I pressed my fingertip to the first word on the first page, which had been underlined. There. I turned to the last page and pointed to the last word of the book, likewise marked. Here. “I never noticed that when I read it in school.”
“Me neither.” He ran his thumb over the words, over a tale about going from there to here. He grasped the book to his chest for a moment. “Officially my favorite book I own. Okay, open your gift.”
Reaching my hand into the gift bag, I felt a momentary flash of panic—what if he’d gotten me something fancy? And I got him an old book?
Beneath sparkly tissue paper, I unearthed two white candles in pretty glass jam jars. I never splurged on candles, and when I received them as gifts, I burned them slowly, trying to make them last.
“Here, guess.” Max unscrewed the silver lid and held the first candle out to me.
“It’s …,” I said, inhaling. Subtle, oaken. Wood shavings.
My eyes welled up. Not because the scent was particularly strong, but because it smelled like mid-August, like fresh starts, like jitters.
“Number Two Pencils,” Max said, too excited to wait.
“Yes.” To be known this way—I felt socked in the gut. The other candle was called A Formal Library, hints of old leather and pulp.
I kissed Max in the glow of tiny white lights, reflected doubly in the windows. Pulling away, I glanced toward the kitchen, where my parents and sister were doing a Christmas puzzle and working on yet another batch of cookies, respectively. They couldn’t see us, but I wondered about eavesdropping, even over the sounds of The Carpenters. “Kind of wishing for a Home Alone family disappearance right about now.”
Max laughed. “Kind of wishing you were coming upstate with me. Maybe next year.”
The annual Watson-Chase ski holiday usually took place in upstate New York. It was easy to daydream: Max and me reading by a fireplace in a lodge. Snow drifting down outside. But a whole year from now?
“Maybe,” I said.
“Have you talked to Tessa?” Max asked, and I flicked up eyes heavenward, an eye roll and a prayer for patience. As much as I’d wanted to vent to him, Tessa’s words rang in my ears—blaming my hesitation, saying I was creating problems with Max. How could I repeat that to him and explain?
“No. She’s clearly having a blast in Tulum.” I said it as snottily as I could muster. Tu-loooom. I didn’t even have a passport.
Tessa had posted a picture o
f the ocean water like blue agate, captioned: View | Tulum | 12.24. The luxurious beauty of it and her nonchalance made my point for me. It felt like an intentional slap in the face. Before it, I’d been expecting an apology text. Now I didn’t even want one.
“Janie,” Max said. “You really can’t tell me what happened?”
If I told him that Tessa and I’d fought about college next year, about her mixed-up priorities and her obliviousness about money, he’d take it personally. Max was about to leave for a nice vacation himself. I had almost cried spending twenty-five bucks to replace my black work shoes, rubber soles worn down from the past six months at Cin 12. “It’s best friend stuff.”
“I know, but …” He sat back.
“It’s fine. We’ll talk when she gets home. If she’s not too busy with Laurel.”
“Paige,” he said, surprised at me. “She’s just doing what she thinks is best for her.”
“And I’m happy for her. I know distance is hard,” I said, voice cracking. “That doesn’t mean you alter your life’s whole path.”
“It doesn’t mean that for you.” He said it gently, but I knew what he meant: I wouldn’t change my plans for him. Not college and not even an internship that I’d chosen over QuizBowl. But I couldn’t do this—not here, not now. Not under gauzy Christmas tree lights, with my perfect present.
“C’mon,” I said, climbing up. “She’d never admit it, but Cameron totally has her heart set on you decorating cookies with her.”
I held out my hand to him, and he took it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The day after Christmas was a Cinema 12 nightmare. Every showing of every movie, packed. We sold out of Reese’s Pieces, which is how I learned what a grown man’s hissy fit looks like. My back ached, and I longed for my pajamas in a way that felt like hunger, like thirst.
Somewhere after the halfway point of my shift, in the sea of grumpy, scrunched-up faces, I spotted Max. He mimed drinking and thumbed behind him, toward Alcott’s across the street. I wanted to cry from the relief of his familiar face and the possibility of getting away from the madness. I held up a finger and grimaced toward the clock, and he nodded.
“Your ticket machine out front isn’t working,” the next man in line began. “It’s just ridiculous. I bought tickets online, and—”
Max got to the front eventually, and I nearly whimpered. “Gosh, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I didn’t think I’d get to see you before your flight.”
“Figured it might be a rough day here. You get a break, right?”
“Yeah. Eventually.”
“I’ll hang to the side,” he said.
Hunter appeared a few minutes later, looking fresh. Untainted by the past four hours of mayhem. He had, of course, persuaded Donna to schedule him for a shorter shift. I gave him a helpless, harried look.
“Go,” he said, slipping behind the counter. He’d brought my winter coat from the break room. “Get out of here. I’ve got it.”
“I have never been happier to see you,” I muttered.
“Now, that’s saying something! Considering my face.” He held my coat open like this was a between-scenes quick-change in the wings of a theater, and I slid my arms into the sleeves.
“Back in thirty,” I said, fastening buttons, hurrying on my way.
“Merry Christmas, The Boyfriend!” Hunter called to Max. Then, to the restless crowd, “Sorry, folks! Quick change of elves. Let’s keep things merry for you, shall we? Next!”
I followed Max, who was walking a step too fast for me. Snow had started to fall over the parking lot, tiny white feathers against black sky. When we reached his car, I looked up, dots of cold pecking my cheeks. Max had his hands shoved in his pockets, looking perplexed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Max.”
“Sorry. That guy is just …” He gestured back to the theater. “Very obviously into you.”
It took a second to register, and I almost laughed. “Wait, Hunter? He is definitely not.”
“Okay,” Max said, sarcastic. I’d heard Max’s sarcasm plenty, but never at me—never to dismiss something I said.
Suddenly, I couldn’t feel the cold anymore. Heat scanned down my body, a warning flash. “Are you being serious?”
It was partially a rhetorical question, directed at his behavior. But was he serious? He thought Hunter was into me? Hunter Chen, who once called me “indoor recess in human form.”
“You know he is, Paige.” He sounded genuinely frustrated. Hurt, even.
“That’s his personality with everyone. He’d try to charm a mannequin. It’s, like, a hobby for him. Ask him! He’ll tell you.”
It was hard to form a coherent defense when I was so baffled. Why would he start this fight when I was at work? When he was leaving for almost a week? When I’m caught so off guard that I don’t know what to say?
“I don’t think of myself as a jealous person,” Max said. “But I’m not sure at what point I’m just being dumb.”
My exhale puffed out, the breath a cloud in the cold air. I closed my eyes, trying to visualize all the parts of this argument, charting how we’d arrived here. “It feels like you’re accusing me of something. Like you don’t trust me.”
He shook his head, alarmed that I’d think that. But how could I not? “I do. I just …”
“Okay.” I took both his hands, trying to channel my feelings to him like warmth. The Cinema 12 marquee reflected in his glasses, obscuring my view of him. “Then trust me. It’s maximum Max over here. No one else.”
“Okay.” He shook his head, snowflakes bright on his dark hair. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said, though I still felt puzzled.
He kissed my cold nose. “Let’s get you some food.”
“Could you take the side exit?” I asked as I buckled myself in. And simply because I didn’t want to delve into the remnants of my car accident, I added, “It’s usually faster with the timing of the light.”
“Really?” Max said. “Huh.”
On the outside, we had a brief, nice coffee date before he returned me to work.
Internally, I retreated. I spent a lot of time with Hunter out of necessity—we were together with time to kill at work, and that meant I sometimes wound up telling him things. He was an unbiased third party. And then, right as Max and I were walking out the front doors, my phone buzzed. Hunter, clearly texting from a phone hidden in his pocket.
Donna got herr don bee late
I glanced at the message, mouthing the words as I deciphered. “Ah. Hunter warning me that Donna’s back from break.”
Max laughed—a sound with sharp corners. “I mean, you do see where I’m coming from, right?”
“Not really,” I said, honest. “You and Tessa text all the time.”
“She’s your best friend.”
“Make friends with Hunter, then!” I said. Max glanced around, fearing bystanders. It wasn’t like me to cause a scene, but more and more, I couldn’t find it in me to care.
“I don’t get the impression he wants to know me, Paige, considering that I don’t merit a first name.”
We climbed into his car, the too contained space like a pressure cooker. I crossed my arms so defiantly that it seemed like they should make a sound—a clank as I closed myself off. Max went through the main intersection, and I squinted my eyes shut, pretending I was somewhere else—anywhere else. Part of me waiting to be rocketed sideways, Max’s car T-boned. Part of me praying he wouldn’t notice my fear, lest I have to reveal every undreamy fixation that my brain compiled.
By the time he pulled in to park, Max’s side of the car had eased. He turned all the way to me, twisting in his seat. “So, um, apparently I’ve been bottling this up, and it all came out at once. You started hanging out with him, and then all of a sudden you seemed more excited about IU, and Ryan’s brought up the idea of rooming with him? And …”
“I’ve always liked IU,” I poin
ted out. “You do, too!”
“I know. But have you seen that dude, though?” Max said, trying for levity. “He’s like … one of those guys in teenager magazines at the grocery store.”
“Teenager magazines?” I stifled a smile. Oh, Max, talking about heartthrobs like someone’s grandpa. And maybe he had a point. If he spent a lot of one-on-one time with a beautiful girl I didn’t know—one who was really great to him—I might not love that.
“And I kept thinking, I’m going to leave for a week, and you’re here with him, and—”
“Excuse me,” I said, the anger rumbling back up. “You think the only thing keeping me from being a cheater is your relative proximity to Cin 12?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Okay,” I said, one hand up and final. “I’m about to be late. I hope you have a good trip.”
“Paige,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not mad,” I said, surprised to find that it was true. I felt … sad and defeated, a little hurt. “Text me when you land.”
“I will,” he said, and I pulled my coat around me, to head back into the bedlam.
We were sweeping up one of the last theaters, finally in a lower gear, when Hunter said, “You’re quiet.”
“Mmm.” I reached down for a discarded candy box, M&M’s still rattling inside. Honestly, who didn’t finish their movie theater candy? Who didn’t take it with them? “Not a great day. Week.”
“Aw. Shitty Christmas?” He glanced up, excited. “Hey, there’s your holiday movie title. Trademark Hunter Chen.”
In other circumstances, I would have remarked that “shitty Christmas” was basically an entire subgenre of film. But I just smiled wanly, unable to muster the energy for casual conversation.
He was still looking at me—I could feel it. “You wanna talk it out?”
I tried to say No, thank you. I really did. But when I opened my mouth, instead of answering like a calm and rational person at her workplace, I began gushing out words like a three-tiered fountain of emotional repression. “It’s just that I’m upset about stuff with Max, and I’m upset about stuff with Tessa, and I’m starting to think I must be doing something wrong because I’m the common denominator there, right? Everything is falling apart, and also senior year is somehow already halfway over, and—”
