Page 23 of Pretty Broken Wings

“Oh. Well, you just didn’t know what movie I was talking about, and it’s like… a fucking classic.” Max takes a sip of his coffee.

I flush. Mom and Dad didn’t let me watch much TV. They thought it was sinful and would rot my brain.

I mutter, “I didn’t see it.”

“Okay. Amish girl,” Max mutters, grabbing a cookie from his bag. But it’s not said with the same biting tone my dad uses. It’s more of a tease.

It’s been lonely since college. I kept to myself and focused on my classes, and now that I’ve graduated, I try to keep as far away from my parents as possible. When I was a kid, I told Mom about Dad hitting me, and she just laughed and said she hoped it taught me some sense. She never seemed happy, even though she claimed she loved homeschooling me. Every day was tense.

But that’s not how I feel around Max. He has an oddly relaxing presence, like deep down, he doesn't give a shit what I do or say.

“Whatever, Magdaline. Martha. Mary?” Max peers at me with squinted eyes.

“Celeste.” I take a bite of my sandwich.

“No, I could have sworn the Amish don’t use names like that.” He pauses.

I smile around my bite of food. It feels awkward, and I stop immediately.

“Oh, she does smile!” Max grins widely now. “Okay, tell me what movies you have seen.”

I hesitate. I don’t watch much.

“I uh… mostly read books.”

There’s a pause, and then Max clasps his chest in mock horror. “Christ, woman! You’re not helping yourself here.”

This time, I smile fully.

He interrogates me about what I’ve done, which isn’t a lot. Max is horrified that I went to a religious college, that I haven’t drank yet, and that I am a nerd. I keep the fact that I’ve only dated one person to myself. I especially keep it quiet that all we did was hold hands. I’m getting the picture that non-religious people don’t understand. Not that I’m religious anymore. Not really. It’s hard to stick with a god who demands kids get beaten and laughs about it.

“Just one shot. Please. I want to be there when you take it.” Max is actually begging with the praying hands. “You can choose the alcohol.”

“Okay, fine,” I laugh. What can it hurt? Just one won’t make me like my dad.

“Fuck yeah!” Max pumps the air.

As we get up to get back to work, Max elbows me in the side. “Just saying. You’d be a cute Amish girl.”

I laugh, then catch the glint of the moonlight against his wedding band. Wait, he’s married?

Instantly, I sober.

“What’s wrong?” Max asks.

“Nothing.” I straighten. Why is he acting like this if he’s married?

Maybe he’s just being friendly. Right? Is this how people make friends?

Over the next few months, I learn the plant forwards and backwards. I could walk it in my sleep, and I’m pretty sure I did a few times. Max is on shift with me a lot, and he leaves little sticky notes around the building, giving me movie suggestions. After ignoring the first few, I started writing a book suggestion underneath it, and eventually, he started buying the books. He updates me on which chapter he’s in, and then I start watching his movies.

They’re crass. Not the kind of movies my dad or my church would have approved of, but I feel an odd thrill watching them. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.

Max always seems to know when I have a bad day, and he leaves stupid jokes in my lunchbox. Even though they make me cringe, they also make me laugh. I learn that he is, in fact, bald. A fact I give him endless shit for.

The day after my probation ends, Max and my other coworkers invite me to a pool party, where I take a shot of tequila at Max’s request.

It’s nasty. But everyone cheers, and that makes me feel warm.