Page 29 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?

THIRTEEN

Garlic, Vinegar, and Dread

F ive days later, and Ella couldn’t read any more of these steamy books in fear of what kind of sex monster she’d create.

She set her newest client’s most recent release on the end table and closed her eyes.

The hot and heavy scenes were too much for someone who, ahem, had a lot of pent-up sexual energy and no actual means to expend it.

She thought about Max and their various encounters more than she’d care to admit. She fantasized about what would have happened if each one of those illicit moments had been allowed to play out without interruption. The practice generally left her dizzy, hot, and a whole lot bothered.

The truth was that either one of them could have reached out to the other and suggested a meetup. Neither had. But they hadn’t exactly stayed away either. There were good morning text messages—flirtatious exchanges and sometimes, at night, naughtier ones.

“So, who’s the woman?”

“What?”

Rachel stood in the doorway of her room, watching her with folded arms and a smile.

“The woman you’re thinking about, and don’t for a second say that’s not what you’re doing. I’ve known you your entire adult life, and that’s exactly who you’re thinking about.”

A quick calculation told Ella that there was no way out of this one. Rachel was right. She knew her too well. She swallowed and decided to be honest.

“Okay, here’s the deal.” She took a deep breath, unsure of how to go about this, but feeling compelled to try. She was stuck in neutral with both Rachel and Max and had to find a way forward. “There is a woman. From my book club?—”

“Ariana. I knew it. You mentioned her name the other day. Plus, I heard you on the phone with her and caught the tone in your voice.”

“When she called about food allergies?”

“Yes. You also had this look on your face.” It was such an inconsequential call and it had lasted all of two minutes.

Ari had been preparing a dessert for book club two weeks prior and wanted to ensure Ella wasn’t allergic to any of the ingredients, given that she was new.

How in the world had Rachel inferred that she was into Ariana? “No. It’s not like?—”

“It’s pointless to deny it. It’s cute, is all.” She hopped onto the bed next to Ella and bumped her shoulder. “Give it time, and I guarantee you’ll get more comfortable with her. You always were a little awkward and timid when it came to meeting women. A sweet little underdog.”

Ella swallowed. She didn’t love the characterization, but, honestly, maybe that’s who she was.

Wouldn’t Rachel know? The unassuming wallflower that people had to reassure and pat on the head.

“That’s me. Work in progress.” She attempted a smile because sometimes those made you feel better when slugged.

“But you settled in with Britney eventually, right?”

“Except she left me.”

“Right, that bitch. Well, you can do this, Ella Bella. I promise.” She popped up like a groundhog. “Hey, speaking of women, I got hit on again today. Not my type at all, but she had beautiful green eyes, so I gave her my number anyway. Who doesn’t love a free martini?”

“But you want to get to know her, too, right? Maybe she’s nice.”

Rachel stood and shrugged. “Maybe. Gonna make a big salad with those amazing feta sprinkles. Low calorie. Amazing. Want one?”

She didn’t. She’d had a cheeseburger like the underdog she likely was. “That sounds awesome, but no, thank you, madam.”

“Suit yourself, madam. I’ll leave you to think about sex with Ariana.”

“Rach! No!”

“You know I’m right.” With a final circle of her shoulder, she disappeared, bound for the land of healthy salads and women who asked her out randomly at department stores.

The entire conversation had sucker punched Ella’s ego and distracted her from the cause.

She hadn’t had the chance to set the record straight about what was going on with her and Max, and now it felt like the moment had passed.

Dammit. What was wrong with her? What kind of friend makes out with an off-limits ex and then doesn’t have the courage to be up-front about it?

“Hey, do you want to watch a randomly selected Sandra Bullock movie and stare at her?”

“Yes. Obviously,” Ella shouted back.

“Then get your ass in here already. I’m gonna make my phone bot pick one for us and pray to God it’s the outer space one where she looks so hot I melt into the couch like a Slurpee in summer.”

“Honestly, it can’t go wrong with any of them,” Ella said, glaring at the discarded romance novel that tortured her as she trudged into the living room, her pillow clutched to her chest. Surely, a really attractive brunette on the screen wouldn’t lead her to lustful thoughts about Max pressed up against a wall.

That was definitely not a possibility. No daydreams about Max’s perfect mouth.

Or her annoyingly sexy confidence. Or the way she always smelled like raspberries and something just a little bit spicy. Nope. No thoughts like that at all …

Ella dropped onto the couch, tucking her legs under her, and watched as Rachel held up her phone like it was a magic wand about to dictate their fate.

“Okay, here we go,” Rachel announced. “Random Sandra Bullock selection commencing in three … two … one …”

A beat of silence. Then Rachel pouted dramatically. “ Miss Congeniality. ”

Ella balked. “What’s wrong with you? That’s a bad thing?”

Rachel sighed. “No, but I was hoping for Gravity so I could be emotionally devastated while also very attracted to her.”

“Fair. But this one has a makeover montage, and I know you love those.”

Rachel waggled her brows. “I forgot about that. You know me too well.”

Yeah. That was the problem.

She knew exactly how Rachel would feel if she had all the details of Ella’s recent history. She hugged her pillow tighter as Rachel hit play, and Sandra filled the screen, charming and a complete klutz.

Rachel has no idea .

No idea that Ella had been making out with her ex behind her back. No idea that every stolen moment with Max made Ella crave more. No idea that, right now, as Rachel laughed at the screen and lusted after Sandra, Ella was lusting after someone else entirely.

She was so very screwed.

Max’s childhood home hadn’t changed very much since she’d last lived in it nine years ago, when she started law school.

Her dad’s dark-blue La-Z-Boy sat in the corner of the living room, worn in and soft.

Her mother hated that chair but tolerated it all the same because she loved the man who came with it.

Her parents were affectionate in unconventional ways.

A smack to her father’s arm. A ruffling of her father’s hair.

A loud smack to her mother’s cheek. Nothing too sincere.

They nagged, as well, in their own unique way of showing they paid attention to each other’s trajectories.

When Max arrived at the narrow two-story house, her mother must have been well into dinner preparation, because the rich, garlicky scent of chicken adobo filled the house, intermingling with the sharp tang of vinegar and soy sauce in a way that instantly transported Max back in time.

On the stove, her mother stirred a pot of sinigang, the tamarind broth bubbling as it embraced tender pork and a scattering of bright-green kangkong.

The interesting part of the whole scene was the Taylor Swift music playing loudly from the speaker in the corner.

As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, Max was surprised to see her mother not just bopping along to the music but shaking her hips and shoulders.

And who knew she was such a good dancer?

“Hey, there. I was going to ask if you need any help, but I don’t want to interrupt a full-blown Beyoncé Renaissance moment,” she said, placing her bag on the back of one of the chairs.

“The what?” Her mother turned, hand on hip. “I’m dancing in the kitchen,” she shouted above the music.

“I’m aware.”

“I’ll set you a place! You’ll eat with us.”

“That would be fantastic.”

Her mother offered another hip shake and went back to the stove.

The whole scene had caught Max wildly off guard and, honestly, left her a little relieved.

It was not at all what she had expected in the days following the news of her mom’s diagnosis.

Max had worried endlessly about how her mother might be feeling, both physically and emotionally, which is why she’d made a point to swing by, despite the mountains of paperwork that’d have her up until midnight tonight.

But this chipper, dare she say, sassy woman in front of her was the opposite of what she’d been expecting.

Her dad, wearing his Commanders ball cap, wandered into the kitchen for a soda refill and broke into a smile when he saw her. “Hey, hey. You staying?”

“I’m staying. What’s going on?” she asked, and jutted her chin in her mother’s direction.

“She’s just decided this thing is not gonna get her down.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a good thing. Don’t you think?”

He gave her a sideways squeeze. “I do. I do. How’s the busted-up marriage business?”

“Today I had a pair of husbands. One is accusing the other of stealing his style and demanding that he return it promptly. That kind of thing is a little harder to enforce on paper.”

“If somebody steals my sporty chic look, they’ll pay,” he said with the darkened look of someone who means business.

“But … who would do that?”

“Oh, you wanna wrestle?” he asked, and hooked Max into a headlock she was all too familiar with.

Her arms immediately went around his waist, and she squeezed like the wrestler he’d taught her to be, which often made him drop his hold.

If he’d wanted a son, he’d never let on, teaching Max how to roughhouse and watch sports like a champ.

Was he an emotional guy? No. Not at all.

He wasn’t there to talk to when things were rough at school, or when she started to understand she liked girls.

But he showed up for fun like clockwork, which counted for something.

“Get your hands off my child!” her mom called, hands on her hips. Always in charge, her voice rose above the chaos and was all the prompting her dad needed to let go of Max, hold his palms up, and return to the fridge for his refill. He knew the pecking order.

“You got off easy this time,” he said, pointing at Max.

“Yeah, yeah. But I have to tell you, I think your muscles are wasting away,” she said with a shrug. “Age.” That made him lunge for her, prompting her to duck and weave.

“You two stop that,” her mom yelled, pointing at them with her stirring spoon. “Dinner is in five minutes. Maxine put out the napkins. You,” she said to her husband, “come back in five minutes and don’t be late.”

He did as he was told and slunk away, returning the kitchen to his wife, who offered an uncharacteristically warm smile. This was all so … nice. Was there a second shoe waiting to plummet onto Max’s head?

“How are you feeling?” she asked as she set the table.

“Tired, but not too bad. I can’t complain.”

“You seem to be in great spirits.”

“I am. I have everything to lose, so I’m going to enjoy my time even if there’s not much.”

Max paused, salt-and-pepper shakers in hand. “Mom. No. You’re not going anywhere. You told me yourself, the numbers are on your side.”

“But not everyone is lucky. I’m going to get my life in order and make sure everyone I love is cared for and happy, and you are at the top of that list.” She deposited a serving platter of chicken adobo on the table, placed a kiss on Max’s shoulder, and went back to the stove.

What was happening? A shoulder kiss? Since when?

Surrendering to fate instead of staying strong? Max frowned, feeling uneven.

“Are we still on for your appointment tomorrow?” she asked, adjusting the forks just so, the way her mother had always insisted. No large gaps at the bottom. Silverware should never float toward the center of the table, Maxine!

“I’ve been thinking, and you don’t have to accompany me.”

Max straightened. “Well, I am. I cleared my calendar.”

“I refuse to be a burden,” she said in a singsongy voice, almost as if she’d just declared it was Wine Down Wednesday.

“You’re not a burden.”

“Good. Then I’ll go alone.” She adjusted one of the knives, probably because it wasn’t just so, and then on second thought, knocked the sucker askew.

“Who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

“I’m a fun mom now. I’m dying.”

“Hey. You are not. Stop that.”

But nothing she said stopped it. Throughout dinner, her mother oohed and aahed over how vibrant the food tasted, how Max’s top made her eyes look especially beautiful, and how her father had smartly figured out how to fix the leaf blower without having to take it in for repairs.

In other words, this woman bore no resemblance to her actual mother.

Next to them, her father ate his meal happily, enjoying all the new compliments, while Max moved her food around her plate, taking it all in with concern.

A sense of doom had fallen over her in the past thirty minutes.

Her hands trembled, and her skin felt clammy.

Her mother was sick and no longer herself, and her father didn’t seem to register the shift on either front. It fell to her to steer the ship.

By the time she kissed her mother’s cheek and gave her father an affectionate smack on the arm, she was almost overcome with fear, and her mind moved at a rapid pace, conjuring all sorts of horrific scenarios and playing them out one at a time.

She needed a distraction or a salve. Honestly, she knew how to achieve both.

There was only one place she wanted to be, and that was next to Ella Baker.