by Brenda Benny
I can see Max watching me, just off to the side.
“It’s raining, Serena!” Vanessa says sharply, like I’m crazy. “Well, whatever.” She spins in the opposite direction, calling after Emily. Grace shrugs sheepishly and follows along behind her.
I turn towards the doors that lead outside from the auditorium. Max follows. There’s a part of me that wants a few minutes alone – just enough time to let down my defences – a few moments away from the prying and judging eyes. But there’s also an undeniable comfort in knowing he’s close behind me.
Finding a relatively dry spot from the cover of the roofing overhead, I lean against the brick wall, with my head back, looking up towards the sky’s grey ceiling.
“You okay?” he asks, his shoulder pressing against the wall, countless inches above mine.
It’s damp and cold, and I rub my hands along my sleeves trying to warm up.
“Sure. Yeah. It’s just… it’s just hot in there, that’s all.”
God, I want to forget all this stuff about my mom; I want everyone to stop telling me that I need to deal with it, and that I need to move on; and I want this suffocating weight to move off my chest so that I can breathe! I want to feel like I can feel again.
Max is quiet until I finally glance sideways to find him staring down at me. He chews at his bottom lip, and his eyes narrow with a look of worry before he speaks.
“Serena,” his hoarse voice strains and then stops. I can see his Adam’s apple move up and down again as he swallows, and then he tentatively reaches his fingers out to touch my shoulder. His fingers smooth along my collarbone, moving gently on their way to my neck. When his thumb strokes over my jaw, I close my eyes and let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Without even thinking about it, my body turns towards him. And when I open my eyes again, he’s searching my face with such intensity I can’t tear myself away from the sapphire blue of his eyes. Max leans down slowly, his lips parted, but his eyes still cautious. He stops only a breath away, like he isn’t sure this is a good idea.
I don’t care that only moments ago I’d been on the verge of an emotional breakdown. I don’t care that half the school is on the other side of this wall. All I care about is the feel of his calloused fingertips on my cheek, and the way his breath is mingling with mine. I’ve wanted to kiss Max for days now.
My tongue quickly wets my lips as my hands reach up to his jaw, my fingers gently pulling him closer to meet me. I close my eyes when our lips brush against one another, and it feels like something lights up inside me that I’ve forgotten was even there. It’s deliciously sweet, and hungry, and shattering.
When our lips come apart, I open my eyes to see a mesmerized expression on Max’s face. We both let out a short gasp before our lips meet again, like we feel an urgent desperation for this connection, yet his kisses remain soft and tender. Max holds me so carefully, his other hand stretching widely across the span of my lower back. It feels like being embraced by a cloud.
Our kissing finally slows, and he draws back slightly, this time with a huge grin on his face. “Still okay?” he asks, the humour obvious in his tone, but maybe edged with concern.
I swallow and manage not to drop my gaze, my hands now resting on his shoulders. “Better,” I admit.
Max drops his head forward and lets out a sound of relief. “Oh, thank God!” He laughs, shaking his head.
My pulse is still racing. There is no question: that was definitely my best first kiss ever.
“So I just want to say,” he starts, raising his head again, and sounding frightfully serious, “that it is shockingly cold out here. And even though I can’t think of a better way to keep warm, I’m a little worried that your vocal cords and my fingers will be entering a state of deep-freeze momentarily.”
Max is wearing a t-shirt. I haven’t even noticed until now that we are both trembling – although I’m not entirely sure it’s from the temperature. I can’t help but smile at his ability to distract me with his sense of humour when I need it most. Folding my arms around the back of his waist, I hug in close to him.
“Max?”
He has his arms around my back, his cheek resting against my hair.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” I squeeze my arms a little tighter.
He doesn’t say anything, and I feel closer to him because of it. It’s like he understands what I’m telling him: thank you for not pressing me to talk; thank you for just being here for me; and thank you for making me feel this way again.
It is dangerously close to the fifteen minutes we were granted, so I pull away from him. He grabs my hand and gives it one last squeeze before he reaches for the door. We manage to sneak back during the reconvening chaos, just before the teachers call for everyone’s attention. But the rest of the rehearsal is a complete blur, with the buzzing sensation of Max’s lips lingering on mine like the hum of a sweet, seductive melody.
Chapter 7
Max
It’s a rare clear November evening sky when we arrive at the restaurant. We’re ten minutes late because I lost track of time walking the shores of Jericho Beach, taking photos after school. I thought Jonathan was going to have a conniption fit. But, even so, Hayden and his dads are still standing at the reservation desk, waiting for a table.
When Charles sees us, his palms fly up like he’s exasperated. He’s wearing a bright orange and yellow paisley shirt that makes me think he’s ready to stop traffic for us to cross safely. “They tried to seat us near the bar, but I told them they should check the reservation again.” He forcefully exhales, irritated, before saying, “Francis would not be pleased, at all!”
Next to the Mardi Gras colour palette of his dad’s partner, Hayden looks like a lawyer in his blue button down and dark pants. I lean over to him and ask, “Who’s Francis?”
“The owner,” Hayden mutters. “Charles just pulled a Kanye on the hostess. We’re waiting for a ‘better’ table.”
“Right,” I say, looking out across the uniform, sparkling sea of designer glass tabletops shimmering in the backlighting. We roll our eyes in tandem. It’s the first time we’ve shared anything close to a smile with one another all week. After last Sunday, I’ve avoided meeting up with him at lunch, choosing to sit with Serena instead, or walking down to one of the cafes on Fourth Ave.
The hostess returns to lead us to our table, but when I fall in line behind everyone, I feel Hayden’s hand grab my elbow. I stop short and look over my shoulder.
“Wait,” he says, still holding my arm for a moment before letting go.
We’re as close to eye-to-eye as we can get, given the few inches of height difference between us. I can tell he’s looking for something in my gaze, some indication of readiness for what he’s about to say.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eventually. I shove my hands in my jeans pockets, waiting for him to go on. “I said some shitty things to you. I didn’t mean to be such a jerk.”
I’m not entirely sure that’s true. “You didn’t?” I ask, my question laced with skepticism.
Hayden’s shoulders heave, and then, looking towards the bar, he blows out a long breath before he turns to face me again. “I was trying to be a friend – but ended up being an ass.”
I nod at him, accepting his admission for what it is. We’ve moved on from worse fights than this – like the time he “borrowed” my first iPod, and left it in his jeans pocket – which his mom threw in the washing machine. “Okay,” I finally say.
Walking side by side, in the silent understanding that we’re now on speaking terms, we move past the restaurant’s presumably “bad” tables, to find our families seated in a section that straddles the inside glass-roofed area and the outdoor heated patio tables. There’s a bathtub-size, gas fireplace made of stone that separates the spaces, and I can feel the chill taken out of the air immediately.
Hayden’s dad, Gary, reaches over to squeeze Charles’ hand and gives him a reassuring look. I overhear him say, �
��The view is wonderful from here, honey.”
Across the harbour, Stanley Park is lit up by the streetlights encircling the seawall trail, where the grey downtown blends into green. There are rows of boats and large yachts in the nearby boat slips, and still more boats moored out in the bay. But beyond them, you can see the colossal giants that stand in the dense forests throughout the park.
Our server is at our table straightaway, taking our drink orders. She looks like so many of the servers at these high-end restaurants we go to – striking, blonde, and probably a model or aspiring actress. There’s a prolonged discussion among the four adults about the wine list, appetizers, and recent reviews. You’d think that the girl would be annoyed by the eternity it’s taking them, but the longer they banter back and forth, the more amused she appears. I recognize this look of hers – it’s the one where she’ll head over to the other servers to tell them about “the cute gay couples” she has at her table. I’m never sure if I should interpret this as acceptance or condescension. When they’ve finally selected, she turns to Hayden and I, and says, “And what can I get for the pair of you?”
I swear she says this like we’re a couple. I wish this didn’t bother me so much.
“A Coke please,” I order, realizing I’m unconsciously leaning away from Hayden.
“I’ll stick with water, thanks,” he says. He will, undoubtedly, empty his glass, only to refill it from one of the wine bottles during the meal.
After she walks towards the bar, Charles is suddenly pressing his palm theatrically to his chest and saying, “I’m so sorry Gary had that gallery opening, and that we had to duck out early on your anniversary party, of all things! How did it all go?”
Jonathan looks at Peter and smiles before smoothly answering, “A wonderful celebration. The house was quite a disaster afterwards, but we were fortunate to have Hayden drop by to visit and lend a hand with the clean up.”
Four pairs of proud eyes land on Hayden. He lets the praise paint him a picture of perfect. It immediately reminds me of our argument in the kitchen that night. I know he’s apologized, but I still don’t understand why he’s so wary of Serena.
“And sweet Nana Rose? Has she returned home?” Gary asks Jonathan.
“We took her to the airport early this morning,” says Jonathan. “You know my mother. I tried to get her to change her ticket and stay through the weekend, but she insisted she needed to get home for a weekend luncheon with her Scrabble club.”
They all laugh.
“And I heard there was a special present between the two of you.” Charles winks and leans into Gary’s shoulder suggestively.
Peter smiles, and says, “We’re planning a trip to Napa Valley.”
“Lovely!” cries Gary. “You must visit the Redstones Vineyard while you’re there!”
The cute blonde server returns, balancing a tray of drinks and appetizers. We place our food orders, and the conversation soon turns away from art galleries, wine tours and the municipal election candidates, to circle around to Hayden and me.
“Max, have you started your applications to university yet?” Gary asks.
There have been endless discussions about this very topic since our junior year. Schools were suggested, websites searched, and there seemed to be an infinite stream of advice coming from all directions – whether we wanted it, or not.
I wipe my hand across my lips, sticky from chicken wings, and catch a glance of Jonathan giving me a look that suggests I use a napkin. “My nana wants me to consider one of the Toronto schools, where I can be close to her. I might apply to places like McGill and Humber – but maybe one of the schools in Los Angeles. I’m not sure yet.”
Without a doubt, there will be several students, like Tim Poon and Marianna McArthur from our senior class, who will audition for places at Julliard and University of Michigan. I love playing music, but I’m not sure I want double bass to be my whole life. High school has been so focused on the evaluation of every performance – I don’t know if I want that all through college or university.
“Hayden, have you made any definitive decisions about next year? I know you were considering York and the National Theatre School, of course,” Peter says.
Hayden and I have always talked about going to a school in the same city – maybe living off-campus together, in a cheap apartment.
“I’ll still consider those,” he says. “I might also apply to NYU. It’s got one of the best theatre programs. There are a few people from the playhouse that went to UVic, as well. But, I might just travel for the year. Maybe look into some theatre groups in Europe.”
“It’s hard to imagine the two of you apart – each going in a different direction,” Peter says, and everyone around the table smiles.
“Travelling? Since when?” I burst in, unable to hide the surprise in my voice. I knew about NYU, but the other options hit me completely out of the blue. Almost.
Hayden levels his gaze on me. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”
Hayden and I spent the entire summer of grade ten plotting a trip through Europe after graduation. We came up with the ridiculous plan that we would busk, me playing bass and him singing, while discovering places like London and Rome together. Somehow, it seemed, the whole dream got long forgotten during the clutter of guidance counsellor meetings, university websites, and application forms. I can’t believe he hasn’t said anything to me about this.
“It already feels like you’re drifting away from us a little every day,” Jonathan comments, sounding melancholy.
Suddenly, Charles turns to me, and asks, “Speaking of the theatre group – what do you think of Bryan, Max?” He sounds eager for my opinion.
I’m still reeling from Hayden’s admission that he might actually fulfill our tenth grade daydream travels without me, when I turn to Charles and ask, bewildered, “Who’s Bryan?”
Gary raises his eyebrows at Hayden, who suddenly looks uncomfortable. “You haven’t introduced him to Max yet? I think our house has turned into Bryan’s favourite restaurant over the last three weeks,” Gary comments.
I level a disbelieving look at Hayden. “You’re dating some guy named Bryan from another high school, and travelling next year instead of going to university?”
“He’s not in high school,” Hayden says, and I’m not sure if he’s annoyed with Gary for bringing it up, or at me for alleging that Bryan is a high school boy. “He goes to the BC Institute of Technology.”
Our food arrives at that moment, and the adult conversation turns to a typical detailed critique of the menu. I tune it all out. I can’t stop thinking about the distance I’ll be putting between my dads and me – and possibly Hayden – and how distant that makes me feel. Why does it suddenly seem like I’ve lost touch with Hayden? I know that he’s met a few guys through the playhouse on Granville Island where he does some singing and acting. Still, being in the dark about this guy, plus hearing about what he’s planning for next year: it feels like a bizarre kind of duplicity, not knowing this stuff.
I stare at Hayden, sitting beside me, and wonder why he hasn’t told me any of this. When he brings his fork up to his mouth, I notice Gary at the end of the table, like a mirror image of Hayden: they’re both holding their utensils with the same grip – their eating bizarrely in sync. And even though their styles of dress are completely different, and Gary’s hair is grey around the temples, their jawline is identical, and their eyes a matching butterscotch colour – not to mention their indistinguishable laugh. There’s no question that Hayden is Gary’s son. I watch my own parents eat, and there’s none of these similarities. Besides the height and the hair colour, I don’t think I look anything like Peter. And Jonathan, with his dark hair and eyes, and his stocky build, looks nothing like me at all. Sometimes, it feels like I’m growing further away from them with each division of my cells. On a fundamental level, I will never grow up to be “just like dad”. How could Serena not tell that I was adopted?
“Max,�
�� I hear Jonathan call across the table. All eyes are trained on me. “Where are you tonight?”
“Oh, sorry. Did you ask me something?”
I realize, now, that I’ve been mechanically placing bite after bite into my mouth and chewing, but I haven’t been following any of the conversation going on around me.
Just then, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. We have a rule about this in our house. You’re not allowed to check your devices when we’re eating as a family. But I can’t help but look. Serena has already texted me a few times this week. I try to hide it under the glass table – although it’s not exactly a veritable shield. I’m thrilled to see her name glowing in the rectangular box.
Serena: Movie tomorrow night still?
I try to covertly type with my left hand while bringing the last bite of potatoes to my mouth with my right hand. You’d think I’d be better coordinated at this, given my musical talents, and all.
Me: Yeah. 4 sure. Where?
I don’t wait long.
Serena: My place. 8?
Me: K
Peter clears his throat meaningfully from across the table. My eyes dart up to his and find he’s glaring at me – but lines of amusement bracket his lips. “Someone important texting you?” he asks. Heat rushes into my cheeks. I don’t know if it’s from being caught, or thinking about Serena tomorrow night.
“Just his girlfriend,” Hayden says casually.
My head whips towards him, my mouth gaping. I can’t believe he just said that out loud!
Charles is choking on his water, and Gary is saying, “Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend, Max?”
I’ve never had a girlfriend in high school – not the kind you’d bring home to meet your parents. Sure, I’ve kissed girls. That started in Grades Four and Five under the red slide in the schoolyard. You know, that type of kissing that happens because Kelly dares Madison to kiss you? I did it because the girls told me to – because that’s what their moms and dads did at home. But I knew that things were different at my house. I’d needed questions answered by my kissing dads, and had been bewildered, trying to figure out what my parents meant by advising me to “listen to what your body is telling you”. Most of the time, my body was just telling me that I wanted an ice cream cone, or that I needed to go pee.
