Chapter Four #2
In high school, we weren’t old enough for alcohol and stuck to sodas and lemonades, so Sal fusses over Max and serves him his first official beer at the Saloon. He even throws in complimentary tater tots to commemorate the occasion.
We claim an open booth by the papier-maché antlers.
I blend into the scene with my Levi’s, vintage T-shirt, and much-loved boots, but in a crisp, plain tee and slacks, Max gives off out-of-towner vibes, although he’s technically not.
It’s not only his clothes—his presence commands quiet attention.
Either he doesn’t notice, or he chooses to ignore the folks gawking at him, yearning for some small-town drama.
My heart races as we slide onto the still-warm leather seats because the man across the table is a stranger in so many ways—yet we know so much about each other.
For the past couple of years, I found comfort in his voice and in knowing that, although we couldn’t really be friends, I didn’t have to lose him completely.
“They still have karaoke Friday nights?” Max’s question snaps my mind back to the here and now.
“Definitely.”
“You continue to devastate everyone with your rendition of ‘Dreams’?”
“It’s been a while,” I say with a laugh as a mild melancholy hits my heart.
Since taking over The Mirage, free time has become nonexistent for me.
Most Fridays, if I’m lucky, I’m at the hotel doing check-ins.
And even if no one’s staying the night, there’s always something to do.
The girl who could pop in here all nonchalant and ready to belt out Fleetwood Mac isn’t me anymore.
Max holds his beer out to me. “Cheers.”
I tap my beverage against his and bring the cool glass to my lips.
“Whoa,” Max exclaims, gripping my forearm so I spill some of the foam onto my fingers. His hand is powerful yet gentle, and the touch zings like a static shock. “Eye contact.”
I pull a face at him.
“It’s a thing. Eye contact when you toast and take your first drink.”
“Says who?”
“Lots of European countries do it.”
“Oh,” I say, raising my eyebrows at him. “Sophisticated.”
“It’s considered bad luck if you don’t—or some people think it means seven years of bad sex.”
“Well.” A flush creeps up my neck. “We can’t have that.”
We lock eyes in a surreal sort of déjà vu, familiar and foreign. How many nights did we spend here, grease dripping down our chins and high on sugar, carbs, and conversation? But now that he’s back in this spot, I don’t know how to act.
His unwavering attention as he takes that first sip—dark brown eyes burning into mine—makes me want to look away, but I don’t. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and my mouth goes dry despite the drink.
“So,” Max says. “Kinda different hanging out in person instead of leaving voicemails for each other.”
If I could crawl under a rock, I would. The voicemail situation wasn’t something we discussed; it happened organically.
He left one for me, and I was brave enough to call him back…
when I knew he’d be sleeping because of the time difference.
I’ve thought of picking up when his name flashed on the phone, but I never dared.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Things with The Mirage get so busy sometimes, it’s easier—”
“Don’t worry.” He shrugs. “I understand. We could take turns sneaking off to the bathroom to leave a message after the beep, if you’d like.”
“Well, since you suggested it…”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and a dimple appears. “Or, you know, we could always schedule a time to chat. I’d pick up.”
I know.
“Maybe,” I say.
“You look good.” He eyes me, and I take the moment to admire the clean cut of his jaw. “And The Mirage…from what I saw, you’re doing a great job.”
“It’s a helluva lot of work,” I say, pulling a cocktail napkin onto my lap and shredding tiny tears along one edge. The compliments make my skin prickle. “But I enjoy it.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course. Might seem silly to you, but I do.”
“What you do is not silly.” A crease forms between his eyebrows. “I would never think that.”
“I always…” I shake my head, not wanting to live in the past. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me. I’ll close my eyes, and it’ll be like I’m listening to a message from you.”
This makes me laugh. Our back-and-forth voicemails are a weird habit, but he talks about them like they’re totally normal.
And maybe it’s because we’re here in a booth at Sal’s, where we’ve sat hundreds of times before, or maybe I sense some pleading behind his eyes, but something tugs at my insides—makes me want to talk about the hotel and my life and everything in person.
“Hotel management wasn’t my goal.” I rub my lips between my teeth, contemplating the right way to explain my feelings.
“The Mirage was unexpected. You know, I’d always thought I might grow up to be a ranger or maybe a wildlife biologist and work in the park nearby.
Taking over The Mirage…it just happened. ”
It happened because the alternative was unthinkable.
“You’re happy?” he asks, his head tilted to the side like he’s reading between the lines.
“Knowing her dream is alive in the world makes me happy.” Some days I want to pull my hair out, but I don’t manage the hotel for me. “People can go to this beautiful place she created and experience the love she had for Harlow…that makes it worth it.”
Max pauses. “She was a legend.”
“She was,” I say, holding my glass up.
“I know you told me not to come to the funeral, but I…I feel terrible about missing it. For you.”
“Don’t. It was an overwhelming time.” I swallow. “I appreciate you respecting my wishes.”
Although my mom slots into the conversation easily with Max, I’d love to keep things light between us. That rules out benign “How’re the folks?” questions—he’s always been at odds with his parents, and I’ve already told him through our voicemails about adjusting to my dad’s not-so-new girlfriend.
“How’s work?” I ask to change the subject.
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “I’m, uh, actually between jobs right now.”
“Like a different…they’re called pop-ups, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the new one?”
“No, I, um…” He rolls his sleeves up, exposing forearms etched with lean muscle. “I’m not working for that company anymore.”
“So a new job?”
“Not quite. My work kind of blew up, and I’m…figuring some things out. Long story,” he says, waving his hands like he wants to wipe any mention of this from my memory. “Just don’t Google me, okay?”
“Well, when you put it like that, Googling you is all I want to do.” I make a show of pulling out my phone.
“Daze.” My nickname on his tongue makes me shudder. “I’m serious. I’ll tell you later, but for now, let’s just…have a nice time.”
As much as I wish he’d stop being secretive and just explain what happened, I don’t want to badger him. “Fine.” I hold up my pointer finger, and he tracks my movement as I make an X over my heart. “So how long are you in town?”
“Not sure.”
Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he can hear the questions bouncing around in my skull. What does not sure mean? A few days? A few weeks?
“Art curator openings aren’t exactly overflowing on LinkedIn,” he goes on, “but I’m looking for jobs.”
“Some place’ll wanna snatch you up.” I nod, a wave of relief and pain surging through me. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be even farther away than Ireland this time. You’ll figure it out. I know you will.”
Max was the opposite of me growing up. While I struggled in school and never found my calling, he was bound for something great. Straight A’s, talented, charismatic. Too big for Harlow. Whatever he’s dealing with, he’ll overcome it.
“Anyway.” He thumbs the condensation on his glass. “I always have a backup career as the private driver for The Mirage.”
“The Hollises mentioned you by name in their Yelp review. First and last.”
“They invited me to their kid’s birthday party two weeks from now.”
“Of course.”
“What’s that mean?” He launches a tater tot into his mouth and chews through a smirk.
“Classic you. Friends with everyone. I’m surprised they didn’t invite you into their bed.”
“Oh, they did.”
I almost do a spit take. “Seriously?”
“I’m joking. Sort of. They implied the offer more than anything.”
The confession pulls an unexpected laugh out of me, and for a millisecond, I am transported back to our high school days. “You always were everyone’s favorite.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There wasn’t a single person when we were growing up who didn’t like you.”
“The dorky kid scribbling on notepads who everyone ridiculed?”
“Aw.” I soften at the memory of adorable little Max drawing at a picnic table. “When you were older, you were Mr. Popular.”
“No, I was Mr. I’m Going to Be Goofy and Outgoing So It Seems Like I Belong. You were the popular one. People either wanted to be you or date you.”
“What?” My mouth hangs open at our vastly different memories of our teen years.
“Guys would sprint down the hallways to find you when they heard about your latest breakup. You dated nonstop.”
“I dated an average amount for a teenage girl and—”
“There was Everett, Billy, Marquez, Jack—”
“Ugh, Jack.” I grimace, which elicits a chuckle from Max. He’s teasing me, and the satisfaction of it fizzles in my belly. “I’ve forgotten all of those guys. If there were so many boyfriends, how do you even remember their names?”
“Dunno.” He pauses, then looks right at me, expressionless. “I just do.”
Relationships don’t come up in our voicemails—and for good reason, based on how tense the air has become. It’s thick enough to chew.
“Another round?” Sal asks at the end of the booth.
Max hunches over his beer, staring at the bottom of the empty glass, and something about it breaks my heart. He’s so out of place in a spot that used to be ours.
“No, thanks,” he says to Sal with a toothless smile. “Just the check.”