Crush Control (4 page)

I was stunned into silence. Max, maybe a little embarrassed, changed the subject to some new song he was learning to play on the drums. Eventually, when I was no longer weepy, we hung up. I lay there for hours while the tears dried, the realization dawned on me. Even though I wasn't the most popular girl or the smartest girl or even close to the prettiest girl—even though I had weird, unfixable eyes and a boring, forgettable face and no real talent at all—Max still thought I was beautiful. Incredible. Despite all of it. Or maybe because of it.

And from that day on, I no longer viewed Max as my best friend from Georgia. Suddenly he became so much more. I spent hours imagining how after high school we'd reunite and navigate our way from friends to something more. When we were in person, our real story would unfold. Max would take me in his arms and sing,
I could write the preface on how we met; so the world would never forget.... Then the world discovers as my book ends; how to make two lovers of friends.
Of course Max didn't listen to a lot of Harry Connick Jr. In fact, he often made fun of me for my music preferences, but whatever—he'd sing
something
that would propel us from friendship into the whirlwind romance that destiny had in store for us. So maybe our destiny was to start now in high school at seventeen in Georgia. That thought exhilarated me.

Now, in our new home, I grabbed my phone off the kitchen table and texted Max that we were here and he should come over. Seven minutes later I heard the rumble of a loud muffler motoring up our driveway. I flung open the door and stood on our new front porch wondering exactly what to do. I hadn't seen him in five years—the last time we visited—but now he was here, in my driveway, and strangely, I felt a little panicked. It was so much easier to type the letters on a keypad than to say things in person.
Should I hug him? Is he going to high-five me like a buddy? How will I know if he feels the same way I do? Should I just cut to the chase and take him in my arms and kiss him?

The door of the black truck swung open and Max climbed out, grinning as he closed the door behind him. His black hair was shorter than I remembered, almost buzzed. But his blue eyes were sparkling and as familiar to me as the day we parted. He walked toward me and I stood there, glued to the front porch with my heart pounding. I tried to smile back, but I could feel my lips shaking. Why was I so nervous? This was Max!

He climbed the porch steps and stood in front of me. “Are you just going to stand there?” he asked. His mild Southern accent didn't sound as strong in person.

I relaxed a little and leaned over to hug him. He pulled me in close and I noted that all his years of karate were doing wonders for his chest and arms.

He pulled back and looked at me with a teasing expression on his face. “So,” he said, “have you been Photoshopping those pictures on Facebook or what?”

For an awful minute I wondered if he had figured out my little secret—the one where I kind of portrayed to him that my life in Vegas was filled with endless fun. That Mom's hypnosis gig was just the tiniest part of the huge awesome life I had. A stone dropped into my gut as I worried that Max was saying,
You didn't Photoshop pictures—you Photoshopped your whole life.
He was looking at me—analyzing me, actually; then a whole new fear overtook me. “Do you think I'm not as pretty in person?” My voice caught on the words. It had only been five years since he'd last seen me. Could I have deteriorated that much?

“What?” Max reached over and gently put his hand on my cheek. For some reason his touch made me want to cry. He was here, in person, my love, my destiny, but what if . . .

“I
meant
your
hair
looks different,” he said, smiling.

The knot in my stomach eased a bit. “Oh,” I said, reaching up and patting my hair into submission. “It's this humidity. It's making my hair all frizzy. It wasn't like this in Vegas. Plus I've been in the car all day. Does it look that bad?”

“I like it,” he said. “It's kind of crazy—like your eyes.” He ran his fingers through a long strand of my hair, just grazing the side of my jaw and neck. A jolt of tingles shot down my spine. Did he feel that, too? He was staring at me. We were so close—just inches away from each other. For a moment, neither of us said anything. There was an undeniable tension building in the air. I wanted him to say something, do something. When he just kept looking at me, I couldn't stand it any longer. I backed away slightly and began to joke.

“Yeah, well, you haven't posted any pictures of you all cue ball. When did you shave your head?” I asked nervously. Max looked away briefly, and whatever was happening between us—the almost-kiss—evaporated. The moment was lost. I silently cursed myself.

He looked back at me. “You like?” he asked, running his hand over his scalp, where his once thick, messy black hair was now chopped into a clean buzz-cut.

Watching that simple gesture gave me another dose of the tingles. “Yeah,” I said, sounding flustered. “It makes your eyes look all . . .” I wanted to say
amazing
because they were—ice blue from his fair father against the olive complexion he'd inherited from his mother. His eyes looked like blue jeans—comfortable, and familiar. My heart started to pound harder. “You know, your eyes look all . . . big.”

He shook his head and laughed a little.

Again, another silence surrounded us. My hands began to sweat. I suddenly grabbed the doorknob and opened the front door. “My mom is dying to see you,” I said randomly.
Who cares about Mom? I just screwed up another opportunity!

Max walked through the open door, and once he was inside, Mom ran over to him.

“MAX!” she shouted and wrapped her arms around him with all the ease of reconciliation that I wished I had. “Little Max, my God, look at you! You're all grown up!”

Max hugged her back. “It's good to see you, too, Vicki,” he said. “My mom said to tell you she's on for dinner this week.”

“Great,” Mom said, nodding, her eyes roaming to the boxes piled against the wall. “Great. Everything's going to be great.” She said, clenching her hands nervously.

I looked from Max to the blank wall. A fresh canvas. A new start. I would no longer have to Photoshop my life. I could create the world I wanted. And it all started here with Max. I needed to stop being afraid and start taking chances. Everything could have been different out there on the porch if I hadn't chickened out. Now was the time to start the reinvention.

I gazed at Max's faded blue eyes and thought,
Yes, maybe everything is going to be great.

The three of us stood in the living room, not quite sure where to pick up the conversation.

“So,” Mom said, breaking the awkward silence. “Maybe I'll run to the store and get some peanut butter, bananas, and honey. Do you still eat peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches?” she asked Max.

Max cast a glance my way. “I haven't had that in ages.” He smiled. “This is going to be just like old times.”

Only better,
I thought, unable to take my eyes away from Max's suddenly chiseled arms
.
I had an uncontrollable desire to reach out and touch him . . . take him into another hug . . . give him another opportunity to kiss me. This time I wouldn't ruin the moment.

Mom reached for her purse and keys on the kitchen counter. She swung the key chain on her index finger, winked at us, and walked out. Max and I stood there in the living room amidst the piles of boxes, not sure what to do. It wasn't like we could climb trees and make mud forts anymore.
Kiss me. Sing to me. Tell me I'm all you think about.

“Hey, look,” Max said, walking across the wooden floor, an echo thumping from his flip-flops. He pointed to Oompa, who was curled up into a ball, snoring loudly. “It's Oompa!”

At the sound of Max's voice, Oompa lifted one wrinkled eyelid. Upon seeing Max, Oompa sprang up off the ground and ran to him, circling his ankles like a windup toy gone mad. As Max reached down and picked him up, Oompa nestled his head against the crook of Max's elbow and smiled. “It's like he remembers me,” Max said, petting his short fur.

“Of course he remembers you,” I said. “How could he forget the guy who rescued him?”

Eight years ago, a few weeks before I moved to Vegas, Max and I had boarded our bikes and ridden down the street to Poplinger Park. After we propped our bikes on the bike rack, we headed over to the pond to feed the ducks. We passed a college-age guy with a box full of Boston terrier puppies and a FOR SALE sign. As we sat down at the edge of the pond and pulled out a bag of bread, we heard something rustle in the bushes. Moments later, the ugliest little puppy emerged, his limbs all gangly and knobby, his body scrawny and his face all smashed like he'd been jammed up against the inside of his mama's womb and his face just froze that way. The puppy scurried over to us and sniffed the bread.

Max scooped up the puppy in his arms and walked back a hundred yards to the college guy and his litter of puppies. “Excuse me,” Max said, holding the puppy out. “I think this puppy escaped.”

The college guy's face reddened. “Oh yeah,” he said unconvincingly. “He must have.”

Max and I looked at the box full of fat, adorable terriers and back at the squished runt. “You know what?” Max said suddenly. “I'll buy him. How much is he?”

College Guy waved his hand in the air. “Nah, man, you take him. No charge. Enjoy.”

Max let me hold the squirmy dog as he walked our two bikes to his house, where he went inside and begged his mom to let him keep the puppy. She agreed. Max loved that puppy. He took him everywhere with him.

Two weeks later, when Mom and I loaded up the car, ready to take off for Vegas, Max came over and handed me the dog. “I want you to take him,” he said. “I named him Oompa.” Max sniffled. It was unclear whether he was emotional about giving up the dog or me moving. Maybe both. “I think he kind of looks like the Oompa-Loompas from
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
.”

For the next eight years, every time I looked at Oompa's squishedup face or petted his round belly, I remembered Max. I knew that there was a boy who could find the runt of the litter, look past its imperfect façade, and still find a reason to love.

Oompa hadn't seen Max since our last visit five years ago, but I guess he never forget who rescued him.

Max continued to cradle Oompa in his arms and sat down on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. “Where's the TV?” he asked, swiveling his head around.

“Oh, the TV's still in the box.” I pointed over toward a large flat box near the wall. “I haven't hooked anything up yet. You know Mom's not good with all those wires and cables and five different remotes so I have to do it. But I've been trying to fix my stereo. It broke in the moving truck.”

Max looked over at the stereo on the kitchen table, with the front end cracked open and wires poking out. He got up and put Oompa down on the couch. Oompa let out a loud, wet
phrumph
. Max walked over to the table and began to fiddle with the wires.

I leaned over his shoulder. “Yeah, I tried that.”

“Hmm,” he grunted and used the pliers to yank at something else.

I had heard that familiar
hmm
many times on the phone while Max tightened wires on his guitar or examined his truck engine. It was different, though, to see the facial expression that accompanied it—the slight furrow of his forehead, the small wrinkle of concentration between his brows. It startled me to think there were pieces of him that were unknown to me.

I sat down next to him, smelling the clean smell of soap on his skin, wondering what else I didn't know.
When he told me I was incredible and beautiful back in eighth grade, did he mean beautiful as a sister? Incredible as a friend? Or were his feelings the same as mine? The lingering stare and silence on the porch felt like an impending kiss but could I have misunderstood? Could all the romantic tension I felt lurking beneath the surface of our late-night conversations just have been a misinterpretation stemming from my own desires?

Max plugged the cord into the wall and pressed the power button. The stereo remained quiet. “Sorry.” He shrugged. “I think it's a goner.”

I nodded. “That's what I figured.”

He walked over to the large box against the wall and unpacked the flat-screen TV. He picked it up and placed it on the media console. He plugged cords into the wall and hit buttons on the remote to power everything up. “At least this is working.” He smiled as the TV scrolled through the channels, linking the remote appropriately. He looked over at me and smiled, squaring his shoulders with pride.

“Thanks,” I said. “So, you weren't lying about your handyman capabilities.” I tried to lift my voice a notch and adopt a flirtatious tone. “You know, we could use—”

“Uh-oh,” Max said, pointing out the window and interrupting my painful attempts to seduce him.

“What?” I looked out the window. Outside, Mom stood at the front of the Toyota, where white clouds of steam poured out the seams of the hood. She stared at the car with a long, thin tree branch in her hand like she was about to use the stick to pry open the hood.

“No!” Max yelled, banging on the window.

She looked up at us and threw up her hands in a helpless, clueless gesture.

Max tore out of the living room and down the front porch steps. “Wait!” he said, a little breathlessly. “There's a latch.” He opened the driver's side door, reached inside, and pulled a lever.

As I raced down the steps and stood by my mom, we heard a little
click
, and the hood popped up. Max came over, lifted the hood, and used a long metal bar to prop it open.