Chapter 11
NOLA
Of all the titles I should’ve gone with.
‘Boyfriend’ would’ve been a much better option, though still a lie.
I drill into Emma the importance of always telling the truth, and I’d been presented the perfect opportunity to do just that.
All I had to say was, “Nobody kisses my daughter’s P.E.
teacher.” Totally terrifying and a perfectly honest threat.
Instead I went for husband.
The second that flew out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a huge mistake.
In my mind, I rewind back to the moment the woman approached our table.
Why did I even step in and feel the need to take over?
For all I knew, Max was enjoying the attention and wanted the impending kiss.
This whole situation is the pot calling the kettle black.
I literally did the exact same thing to him six weeks ago.
In this bar. Geez, women make really brash choices in this establishment.
Except, when I kissed him, he seemed amused by it. Willing. We’d flirted a little in the hallway before I got brave. When Gen Z went in for the kill a moment ago, he had the look of a deer trapped against a rock wall as the mountain lion lunges. But still . . . to call him my husband?
When I snap out of my temporary blackout, patrons have their phones out, the bar’s owner is escorting that group of women from the bar, and our server is bringing Max and me to-go boxes of fresh nachos.
Max grabs the food and takes my hand, leading me from the bar.
His hand is calloused, strong, and protective.
I follow him in a fog of embarrassment from what I did and uncertain feelings about how much I’m enjoying this.
Our fingers intertwined, holding on for dear life.
We reach his ostentatious green Land Cruiser before I can decide anything and he opens the passenger door.
“I drove myself.” My eyes shift toward where my SUV is parked.
“Get in. Please,” he says quietly.
I do as he asks, and he hands me the food before going around and opening the driver’s door. He doesn’t say anything as he maneuvers through downtown and around Fort Park Boise before pulling into the school’s drop-off and pickup lane, where he idles the car.
Max fixates on something straight out the windshield instead of glancing over at me as he speaks. “Where do you live?” Then he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. I’ve waited, expecting him to be mad, to have questions, but instead, he seems tired.
I plug my address into his GPS and a few more quiet minutes later, we’re in my driveway. We sit for a second longer, and when I reach for the door, he asks, “Can I come in?”
“Yeah, of course.” With an app on my phone, I open the garage door and let us in.
I’m quick to take stock of the state of my house.
When Emma’s gone, that laminated to-do list that keeps our lives functioning all week long goes to the wayside.
Add in the recent opportunity to land a large commission and my house is not ready to host company.
We enter from the garage into the kitchen, and I set both boxes of nachos on the bar.
Max goes around the bar and takes a seat on a stool.
Blush rushes up my neck knowing he’s facing discarded mugs and bowls that litter my counter, never quite making it into the sink.
Two pizza boxes sit on the stovetop and I swipe them, placing them on my floor by my feet out of sight.
It’s a second too late, though, and as he pretends to fiddle with the food in front of him, I catch his smirk from my actions.
Behind him the dining room table is lost under a million paints and palettes.
I’m winning.
He looks up, scooping a chip into his mouth, and raises a brow.
“So. Many. Questions. Nola.” Still, he’s calm and collected.
It’s been at least twenty minutes since the incident happened.
Tables reversed, I’d be reading him the riot act and telling him how far over the line he’d stepped.
I’d make sure he knew how I didn’t need to be saved, feminism ranting in full swing.
I wrinkle my face and internally brace myself.
I cross the kitchen and grab two cans of Diet Pepsi from the fridge before taking my spot again and handing him one.
Tentatively, I swallow my pride and play coy as I start the conversation.
With my forefinger wrapping itself around a strand of hair, I ask, “What are you thinking, Max?”
The first thing he does is nod to the lightbulb over the sink. “What’s happening there?”
“It burned out.” He’s judging me and my ability to care for Emma and myself. I can feel it.
“When?”
“Last week? I don’t know. I need to get the step stool out of the garage and change it.”
He looks over his shoulder, his eyes taking in what he can see of the house from his vantage point. With furrowed brows, he asks, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“My guess is you’re going to whether I want you to or not.”
His lips tug up ever so slightly before he catches himself. With impassiveness returned, he asks, “Is Emma’s dad in the picture?”
Oof. That’s not at all what I thought he was going to ask me. I guess he’d have found out eventually since he plans on being friends a year from now. I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
His brows narrow as he pieces together what little information he’s learned from me in those two words, and I save him from the mental gymnastics as well as the discomfort of being expected to guess.
“I was married. When Emma was three, my late husband passed away in a freak accident.” It’s been eight years and I’ve said the line dozens of times but each time I repeat it, the sting lands fresh all over again.
Max sets aside his food and there’s an understood sympathy in his eyes.
He knows what it’s like to lose his parents.
“I’m so sorry, Nola. My parents were flying from L.A.
back to Palm Springs on a chartered plane when I was ten, and it crashed near Banning Pass—a wind gust came from nowhere and the pilot lost control. ”
I nod. “I read something about that and I’m so sorry, too.”
His lips quirk up and he sits up straight. “Something? You read something, huh? Somebody do a little google search on good ol’ Maxford Hutchings?”
“Maybe.” I take a bite of a chip smothered in nacho cheese and guac. The earlier tension has broken, and he seems more at ease, like back at the bar before I embarrassed him.
He takes a sip of his soda, like I hadn’t dropped a heavy backstory into his lap a minute ago. This night is getting so weird. “How long were you married?”
“Almost seven years. He—Elliott—went snowboarding two weeks before our anniversary. There was a whiteout and he went over the side of the hill. The next day he passed away at the hospital.”
Max takes that in and scratches the side of his face before hoisting his can into the air. “To unexpected weather that ruined our lives.”
This makes me snort as I clink my can against his. “Cheers?” Is that what you say when the salute is really depressing? “Wouldn’t you think it’s bad juju to toast our misfortune?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs and swipes a chip around his box, scooping on topping. “It’s happened and there’s nothing we can do about it, you know? That really sucks, though happening right before your anniversary.”
I lean my hip into the corner of the counter where it meets the bar, cross my ankles, and take a drink. “He was always off doing something wild. There was a part of me that always figured someday I’d get a phone call I didn’t want to get. Then it actually happened and I was mad for a long time.”
He takes a sip and narrows his eyes in a studying manner. “Don’t take this the wrong way but you’re kind of . . .”
“Dull?” I offer.
“I was going to say low maintenance.”
I can’t help but smile. “I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome. How’d you two end up together if you were low maintenance and he was a risk-taker?”
“You know what they say about opposites attract.” On paper, we had nothing in common, but we’d made it work.
“When he died is when your career imploded?”
I push off the counter and nod toward the living room. “Let me show you something.”
The thing that sold me on this midcentury modern was the architect’s use of brick along the entire long living room wall that houses the fireplace.
The owners before me had painted it a fresh white and with its subtle texture, it does a little trick on the eyes when paired with artwork, elevating it to next-level displaying.
It’s my favorite feature in the house, from my standpoint as an artist.
We stop between the coffee table and couch to look at the wall.
Three large canvases are framed and hang above the fireplace.
Each represents a different part of my art life: the abstract era; the dark canvas that changed everything; the twin of the original Sawtooth Mountain painting Stella loves so much at the assisted living center.
“These are yours?” Max lowers himself onto the sofa and leans his elbows on his knees. He squints at the three paintings intently, studying them. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”
Sinking into the corduroy reading chair next to the couch, I say, “Well, I started out as a student of Jackson Pollock and studied him extensively in art school.”
“From what I read, you were being compared to him in your artsy circles.”
I look over at him and arch a brow as high as it will go, then tap my nose twice and point at him. For somebody who had teased me about searching his name online, he is just as guilty.
“What? The things I read about you were impressive.” Instead of being embarrassed in the slightest, he flicks his wrist and says, “Go on.”