Chapter Twenty-One Keely
Chapter Twenty-One
Keely
She’d never been to the Simmonses’ house. Not this one, at least. The one she’d visited a handful of times for pizza parties and birthdays was on the other side of town.
In middle school, when Max moved, it plucked him from her school. And his crude comment about her being a nerd had plucked him from her life.
Apparently, though, their mothers had stayed in touch—enough for Facebook friends and Christmas cards and an updated address now plugged into Keely’s phone.
So here she stood on Max Simmons’s new front porch, clutching a casserole dish to her chest like armor against her dumbest decisions. Her mom’s car was parked on the curb, and she would have left it running for a quick getaway if she didn’t know so much about carbon emissions.
She hadn’t let herself think about what she would do if someone other than Max answered the door. She tried to avoid thinking about him at all, if she could help it.
Which she absolutely could.
Most of the time.
When she wasn’t standing on his doorstep.
The door swung in, and Keely blanched. “Mrs. Simmons.”
Faint lines—the same ones that graced Max’s face whenever Keely weaseled especially far under his skin—bloomed at the corners of her eyes. “Virginia, please.”
Keely pressed her mouth into a line; Max’s mother, however, did not try to smother her own smile.
“No, no, it’s okay. You can laugh. A woman named Virginia who lives in Virginia?” She rolled brown eyes the same color as Max’s. “Original, I know.”
Keely pulled the casserole more firmly into her chest. She needed to get this over with. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but—”
The sound that left the woman’s pale, flat mouth was almost a scoff. “Don’t you dare try that, Keely Sinclair. Bring your ass in the house.”
Compared to the mid-move disarray of her own home, Max’s was near pristine.
Or maybe just lived in. Shoes kicked off by the mat, blankets hung precariously over the back of the couch.
There was art on the wall, rugs underfoot, an air freshener tucked away somewhere doing its very best to mask the subtle scent of dog she recognized from the shelter.
Keely followed Virginia to the kitchen and sat the casserole on the counter. “My mom and I made this for you. It’s a lasagna bake.” She pulled the recipe card from her back pocket and sat it on top.
Was there something else she was supposed to say, an explanation of sorts that she shouldn’t have to worry about dinner when her husband was in the hospital?
But Virginia only nodded, letting Keely off the hook as she moved toward the refrigerator. “That’s very thoughtful. We’ll have that tonight.”
When she pulled open the door, half a dozen other casserole dishes were stacked like little soldiers on the shelf.
Virginia didn’t need Keely to explain something she knew better than anyone. She shut the fridge with her hip and dusted off her hands. “Now.”
Now? Now, what? Keely hadn’t expected a now.
Max’s mom closed the space between them, throwing her arms around Keely for a hug.
Then the front door slammed, and Keely’s teeth clanged against Virginia’s collarbone as she jumped back.
“Mom. Whose car is that?”
Max.
Her pulse kicked up. If she’d come ten minutes earlier, she could have missed him altogether. And if she left now, it’d be obvious she was avoiding him.
Max came into the kitchen. He stopped short when he saw her.
“Mine,” Keely said. “Well, my mom’s.”
Any hope that his sallow features were because of the poor grocery store lighting died out. He looked worse than yesterday; though his cheeks were still pale, more color rimmed his bloodshot eyes, and the stubble around his mouth was thicker.
He threw a set of keys onto the counter and propped a hand on his hip. “What are you doing here?”
“Max. Keely brought a casserole,” his mom said, a warning clear in her tone. Outside, dogs barked in tandem long howls, and Virginia blew out a huff. She pointed at Max. “Make her feel welcome. And you—” she bopped Keely on the chin “—make yourself at home.”
Max snorted under his breath, which set off Keely’s alarms. If his mother found out about their. . . animosities, it was only one step away from finding out about the scholarship. And Virginia might tell Keely’s parents.
That wasn’t an option.
So she improvised.
Keely smiled at him. The one she gave people who made her laugh or held the door open for her. Sincere and wide and showing far too many teeth.
For a second, Max only blinked, sluggish, like whatever was making him look that tired on the outside had started working on his insides, too. His throat bobbed. Then he came back to himself, giving his head a little shake as he looked away. “I need a shower.”
“I can wait,” she said in her most convincing tone. The one that, more often than not, got her whatever she wanted.
It worked this time too. With a sigh, Max flicked his gaze to his mother, then nodded. “Five minutes,” Max mumbled.
As Max thundered upstairs, Keely found her way to the living room.
A television was nestled inside light-gray built-ins, a talk show rerun playing on low volume with trinkets and coffee-table books tucked into the open spaces.
On a higher shelf, one single trophy glinted in the sunlight. Max’s, no doubt.
“He thinks he’s so good,” she muttered, then threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone. She didn’t know where the other Simmons brothers were, but in a family this big, people could appear out of thin air.
Framed photos stylized the remaining open spaces. One that looked like Max from here caught her eye, and she stepped closer to get a better look.
Her hand flew to her mouth. It was Max, fifteen-or-so years younger, running into the arms of someone Keely instantly recognized as Wade Simmons.
Zoey would classify Max’s father as a DILF.
Keely didn’t let herself think about him in those terms, because the conventionally attractive features of light brown hair and a wide, sturdy set of shoulders were the same ones Max had inherited.
He was the perfect amalgamation of his parents, two gorgeous people who had created, if she were being completely honest, another gorgeous specimen.
That was biology, and she respected the hell out of good genes.
She looked for more evidence Max hadn’t always been so. . . how he was now. Max, posing with his brothers. Wade and Virginia’s wedding photo, which Keely vaguely remembered from the other house when she was younger.
And Max mid-race, one muscled thigh stretched out in front of him, the other kicked back, timed in a way that made him look like he was floating.
But this wasn’t Max. The photo was too grainy, taken before today’s high-resolution cameras. The build was off, the shoulders not as defined as Max’s.
Not that she knew Max’s shoulders by heart. They were just fresh on her mind because she’d seen them earlier.
She took a step back, eyeing the lone trophy on the shelf above it. She went to her tiptoes to read the inscription:
1994 USATF NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIPS
100-METER DASH
3rd PLACE
WADE SIMMONS
The truth smacked Keely in the face so hard, she gasped.
Max’s dad ran track. At one point, his body had been honed like Max’s, carrying him across finish lines.
And now it was killing him.
Memories slotted into place, recolored until they were the shade of a violent bruise, deep and dark and tender. I don’t need it any less than you, Max had said about the scholarship.
He was telling the truth.
This was likely Max’s only chance to show his dad that he’d followed in his footsteps—literally.
As she ran her fingers over the engraving, Keely’s heartbeats pounded out in heavy thuds, almost rattling the foundation.
“Please don’t touch that.”
She snatched her hand back, curling it into a fist over her heart. Max stood in the open archway, wearing an expression she’d never seen before. A black T-shirt stretched over his chest and arms, and dark gray athletic shorts hugged his thighs and cut off several inches above his knees.
His hair was damp. It made her think of the water droplets that slid down the side of her face in the locker room, the ones Max followed all the way to the curve of her jaw. His mouth, his lips—
Neck hot, she stared at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Just. . .”
“Just what?” she prompted. There was an entire living room between them, and she couldn’t decide if it was too much space or not enough. Every time she blinked, the last time they were alone together flashed behind her eyes.
“What are you doing here, Keely?”
His tone was still biting, and she grabbed at her opposite elbow to rub some warmth back into her suddenly chilly skin. “Your mom told me to make myself at home.”
He remained unblinking. “And?”
Wasn’t that enough? “And—I don’t know. Could we talk for a bit? Just until she loses interest and I can sneak out.”
His face was completely unreadable, and Keely, who’d been reading since age three, was more upside down than ever.
She bit her lip, then released it. It was still tender from the locker room yesterday.
Max blew out a slow breath. “Whatever,” he said, jerking his chin toward the couch. “Sit down, I guess. We’ll. . . talk. You’re freaking me out standing there like that.”
She sat on the end of the brown sectional closest to her. A little tuft of dog hair floated in front of her face.
Max plopped down with only a cushion between them, which was smart. Virginia might suspect something if he were any farther away. One eyebrow inched up his forehead. You wanted to talk, it seemed to say. So talk.
“Were you at the hospital with your dad?” she asked, then regretted it. Of all the topics, she had to pick the most uncomfortable.
A quick dip of his chin was all he gave her at first. She tried to convey her sincerity with her eyes, and he shifted on his cushion. “I’ve been staying there at night,” he said eventually. “We usually take turns.”
“You and your brothers?”
“Mom, too.”