Page 39 of Find My Way Down to You

The air is knocked from my lungs. “I didn’t,” I wheeze.

She wiggles her eyebrows. “Yes, you did! You rushed out of the party. When I called, you were clearly distracted.” Her finger circles me from neck to belly. “And you’re still wearing the same clothes fromlast night.”

My eyes lower. She’s right. I’m still in what I wore to the party. What I had on in Aides. While my outfit is wrinkled, there’s no sign of sand or water.

More flashes of Aides streak across my brain:

Cary’s arms wrapped around me. His sweet scent. Calm, black eyes holding my gaze as we drifted deeper and deeper.

“Nothing happened,” I blurt.

“Liar,” Max scolds playfully. “You’re blushing! I didn’t even hear you come home last night.”

I wrinkle my nose. There’s a gap in my memory. Betweenthe river and waking up in my bed. A void I can’t force my way past. How did I get back to the apartment?

Max scrapes a moderately charred waffle off the griddle. She hands it to me on a plate. “I’m glad you’re getting out there. Dating is good for you.Tryingis good, Auggie.”

“I didn’ttry,” I argue.

I don’t want tosits unsaid, an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

Before I realize it, the tide inside me churns. Tears bite at my eyes. I squeeze my free hand into a fist, forcing the grief back underwater. I hate how it’s so easily triggered. How everything in my life revolves around it.

Max frowns. “I’m not pressing you,” she says quietly, “but when are you really going to give people a chance again?”

I look away.

“You deserve to be happy,” she adds.

I lift my chin, defiant. “Who says I’m not?”

Max kicks my shin on the way to the living room. “The fact that your only friends are me andour cat.”

“She’s great company,” I say, sinking onto the sofa with her. “Unlike you.”

“I can call my mom,” Max offers. She searches the cushions for her phone. “You don’t have to meet with her. She gives great referrals.”

“I don’t need one.” I bite roughly into the waffle. My anger is beginning to eddy. The new version of August pushing at his cage. “I can handle this on my own, Max. I don’t need help.”

A shadow falls over her face. I’ve seen a hundred different varieties of this expression. From my parents, classmates who I used to sit with and talk to, who’d known me for years.

It’s disappointment. As if turning down their solutions to fixmy griefoffends them. As if I owe them for offering a solution in the first place.

I don’t need anyone to “fix” what I’m feeling. This thing I’ve been experiencing every day since London died. I need them to leave me alone.

For a moment, Max eyes me. Then she lets it go. “I’m going out.” Her face brightens. “Meeting Lake for a brunch study date.”

I blink, confused. “Who?”

“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.” She tugs the strap of her bag over one shoulder. “I know you think I’m falling too quickly.”

I might. If I knew who she was talking about. The exasperated edge around her mouth says I shouldn’t test her with more questions.

Shrugging, I say, “Have fun.”

Max pauses at the door. “Do you have plans?”

Hope lies belly-up in her voice. She’s hoping I won’t spend my entire morning in bed, in yesterday’s clothes, gazing at my blank walls. It was my first thought.