Chapter 14
Fourteen
Flynn
Do not imagine what’s underneath that romper. Do not imagine what’s underneath that romper.
Or what isn’t , for that matter. A single, unavoidable glance down her body tells me she’s not wearing a bra, and while it shouldn’t affect me in the least, it does, in fact, affect me.
“Oh, slushies.”
Her delighted exclamation snaps me out of my thoughts, and I can’t help but grin when she skips forward, stops in front of the slushy machine set up in the foyer, and turns back to me with a wide, unfettered smile.
And just like that, I’m transported into the past. Max’s tongue red from a cherry slushy while Milo and I chose blue raspberry. Taking our drinks down to the beach and watching the surfers ride waves while we talked about our day-to-day lives. And afterward, Milo and I grabbing pizzas and taking them back to our room, where Max met us with cheap wine and Twinkies for dessert.
Laughing our asses off at raunchy comedy movies.
Silent study sessions where I watched Max’s brow wrinkle in the cutest possible way whenever something stumped her.
Max hilariously narrating the video game battles Milo and I would engage in, squeezed between us on the couch with our thighs pressed firmly together.
“Blue, right?” Max asks, saving me from falling down a bottomless well of memories.
“Always,” I say with a smile, and she returns it before pouring me a drink. “And red for you.”
“Good memory,” she says like she expected me to somehow forget anything about her.
Impossible.
Drinks in hand, we head for the library. Once inside, we both marvel over the sheer number of shelves and books, but in the end, we decide an empty library isn’t what we’re looking for right now. Leaving the room, we go in search of the theater.
“This proves a bit more promising,” I whisper when we walk inside.
Peter Edgewater––the other biographer in attendance––is seated near the front with James Griffin, who’s authored a few popular war novels. They’ve just started a comedy, and Max gives me an eager nod before slipping into the back row of reclining theater chairs. Handing her my drink, I head over to the popcorn machine in the back and fill up a bucket for us to share.
When I slide into the chair beside Max, and she takes the popcorn while handing my slushy back to me, I feel myself tense up a bit. It’s dark in here. We’re cozied up together, sharing popcorn.
It feels like a romantic date.
Shit. I can’t think like that. It’s definitely not a date. We’re just two quasi-friends enjoying a movie together. Nothing more.
I try to relax and reach over to grab some popcorn, and of course, Max reaches into the bucket at the same time and our fingers touch. Somehow, I refrain from jerking away, and so does she. We both just carry on like it didn’t happen at all, and when Max laughs at something happening in the movie like she hasn’t a care in the world, I wonder if she didn’t even realize we touched.
Or if she did, it didn’t affect her in the least.
I don’t know which would make me feel worse.
This is getting ridiculous. It’s like the last five years never happened, and I’m that twenty-two year old guy who’s smitten with one of his best friends. And she was.
Even though Milo was technically my best friend, Max was right there with him. And it was because of my close relationship to both of them that I never would have acted on my growing feelings for her if she hadn’t initiated it, herself.
If she hadn’t gotten drunk and decided to fuck with Milo by climbing all over me and kissing me, I don’t think I’d have ever known what her lips felt like against mine. I wouldn’t now know what I’m missing, and the craving for it wouldn’t torment me so badly.
It was bearable after a few months of being away from her. Like a memory that has faded along the edges, making its bitter bite duller than before.
But now? Being this close to her? That memory has blipped back into sharp focus, slicing at my insides as I fight to regain my self-control. God, it was so much easier when I pretended to hate her. I did such a good job, I almost had myself believing it.
But I never hated her. I hated what she did, sure, because it hurt far worse than I’d ever admit to anyone. But I didn’t hate Max. I couldn’t. Not really.
By the time the movie ends, we’ve finished the popcorn and our drinks. Lunch is being served, but neither of us is all that hungry right now, so we snag a couple of wrapped sandwiches from the lunch buffet table and head upstairs.
“I’ll see you later, I guess,” I say, feeling awkward as we prepare to part ways in the hallway outside our rooms.
Max smiles, and it’s so bright and genuine, my heart stutters in my chest,
“I had fun today,” she says, and I nod.
“Me, too.”
“See ya,” she whispers, and I mimic her with my response.
She smiles again and heads into her room, closing the door softly behind her. Heaving a deep breath, I unlock my own door and stroll inside just in time to see her side of our connecting doors close gently before the lock engages.
I consider closing and locking my side, but in the end, I just walk right past, leaving it wide open. If Max wants to see me or talk to me for any reason, I don’t want anything discouraging her.
If she opens her door and finds me walking around naked in here, so be it.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Thoughts like that will bring nothing but trouble. Moving forward, I push the door on my side almost all the way closed, leaving it open just a crack. That way, she has the option to knock so I can make myself decent should the need arise.
God, I’m putting way too much thought and energy into this. My meeting with Barnard is in just a couple of hours, and I should be focused on that. I need to be perfect. I need to keep my head in the game and ace this interview.
No more distractions.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
Right .