Page 68 of Find My Way Down to You
“Max, stop!”
She flinches. I haven’t yelled at her like that since that day she wanted me to get ice cream. This time, I couldn’t help it. Something claws under my skin, desperate to burst free. I wait until it settles beneath the surface again.
Swallowing thick saliva, I whisper, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…I need more time.”
Max smiles dimly. “Okay.” She won’t make eye contact. Her gaze flits around my room. “We really need to get you some furniture.”
A quiet grin flexes the corners of my mouth. “Does that mean you’ll help me carry it upstairs?”
I think about the last time. All the complaining she did. How we went in without a plan of attack and immediately regretted it.
Max is obviously thinking about it too. She grimaces, then says, “Hell no. We’ll hire someone.”
“With what funds? My tips?”
“Mytips,” she corrects me.
I let out a low laugh. It feels like we’re back to normal. Almost.
When Max’s phone vibrates, she checks the screen. “I’m gonna go.”
“Okay. Phone and location on at all times.”
Her smile slowly widens. “Answer every text. Pick up every call—you know, that thing you didn’t do last time.”
“I answered!” I squawk.
“And then abandoned me for a hot guy you won’t admit you like,” she half mumbles.
I toss a pair of balled-up smelly socks at her. She ducks. We hear Diana’s claws skittering on the floor as she chases the ball.
“Don’t break curfew,” I warn in a teasing voice.
“Whatever, Dad.”
Max hesitates, one foot out the doorway. A bridge of silence reaches between us. With an exhale, she says, “I’m here, Auggie. I know I’m not…” Her voice trails off.
But I don’t need her to fill in the gap.
Once more, my fingers hook around my bracelet. They tug hard. Until I no longer feel like I’m being yanked by an undertow.
“I’m here,” Max repeats, quietly.
“That’s the problem,” I joke with a forced smile. “You’re supposed to be on a date. Go. Lake’s waiting.”
Her nose wrinkles. She looks like she’s a second away from steering the subject back the other direction. I hold my breath.
Finally, she says, “I’ll be home late,” with a wicked grin. “Or in the morning. You know, after we’re done—”
“Maxine Cho, I don’t need that mental image!”
Her laughter echoes through the apartment long after the front door slams shut.
It’s another thirty minutes before I relocate to the living room sofa with a cup of instant noodles. Diana joins me. She perches on the coffee table, cleaning herself as Netflix cues up one of Max’s favorite baking shows.
I sit in the dark, slurping loudly. There’s a broth stain on my T-shirt. A hole in my joggers. Pizza sauce under my nails.The annoying, unfunny British host knocks over someone’s mixing bowl and the weak laugh in my chest never rises any further.
This is my Saturday night. This iseverynight. Shoving noodles into my mouth, trying not to think. Counting down the seconds until sleep comes for me. Hoping I ache a little less tomorrow.
