Over You (9 page)

While she’s wrapping her hands, her phone pings with three more successive messages: A client who’s crashing after bingeing on her family’s candy supply and can’t stop crying. A client who’s found herself outside her ex’s house with a carton of eggs and just needs to throw them at his window
so badly
. And a client whose friend is about to become a client after her ex just uninvited her from his Halloween party on Facebook and then changed his status to “single.”

A trainer offers to secure Max’s gloves for her. “You wanna use the bag?” he asks.

She shakes her head—there’s no time. She peels the strips back off and returns them to her tote for her next client, knowing she is needed elsewhere. “No. Thanks, though.” Max hustles to the elevator. “I’ll have to wait.”

By the time Max is finally able to start getting ready, the sun has long set on Ex, Inc.’s first Halloween day and she is wondering if—just like therapists notoriously dread what Christmas does to their patients—in time, her work may kill her previous love of the holiday. Every year Halloween was always an awesome night out with her new friends—the event when Max made it into their group photos, the ones that would get framed or taped up onto bedroom walls. Now she needs a night out with an old one. Zach has been coolly businesslike with her in the last few weeks. They need to cut off from work and hang out. The destination will be the Meatpacking District. She’s read about the private club Ben invited her to in
Us Weekly
, but never imagined she might go there. Apparently the manager has a kid in Ben’s class. And it’s just a few short blocks from NYU. The perfect opportunity, Max realized, to show that she can live her life in Hugo’s vicinity and be full-out fine.

After Max sprays her last curl into place and zips up her costume, she reaches into her bustier to make sure her cleavage is at full effect. Then she carefully applies the finishing touches to her eye makeup, looking frequently to the tip sheet she taped to the mirror. In the reflection she catches the fifth step up on the staircase, the one with the loose board under which sits the shoe box. Inside which is a picture of her and Hugo team-dressed as Harry Potter and Voldemort. Which, in that blahtastic community, was a big statement. Even if it wasn’t Kate Middleton and Prince William like she’d suggested. And then, her memory is overtaken. She recalls kissing Hugo with such fervor that his costume glasses broke—

She snaps the lid shut on her Cyber Gold eye-shadow compact with too much force. She shakes her head as if the memories could literally fly loose out of her ears and be swept up, with the fumbled false-lash attempts, into the trash.

Halloween night is disarmingly warm this year, making the streets extra clogged with revelers, and Max is relieved to finally be ushered into Soho House’s lobby by the bouncer. Zach is Iron Man, his boyfriend, Tom, is Thor, Phoebe is Black Widow, and Josh is Captain America. Max, in protest that Marvel Comics are so pinheadedly dude-heavy, is Wonder Woman. Maybe she doesn’t have her own movie
yet
, Max thinks, but she’s a perennial classic. And she already owned the red boots.

Yes, okay, so
maybe
she accounted for “living her life in his vicinity” in her costume. But it’s not like it’s lingerie. It’s not like her ass cheeks aren’t covered. Like trying to look her most fabulous best means anything. Full-out fine doesn’t mean frumpsville.

The super posse steps off the elevator on the sixth floor and almost trips over an honest-to-God full-sized gondola. Zach reads the welcome sign posted on the wall above the pumped-in fog. “The theme is a Venetian masked ball.”

Max looks through the French doors into the party and sees that everyone is wearing a mask, making finding Ben a challenge. Not to mention that if Hugo is here he could walk right up to her and she wouldn’t even know it. She feels that roiling suck of anxiety wetting her crimson heels. But this is Halloween—there are no masks in college, she reminds herself, unless she takes some freaky theater class and the chances of Hugo taking some freaky theater class are—oh, what the hell does she know anymore, it’s probably his new pastime. He’s probably majoring in business, minoring in mime.

“SHAKE IT!” Zach exhorts her as he slips into the crowd in his skintight red jumpsuit, the porniest take on Iron Man imaginable. She quickly shoots Ben a text with her location. Katy Perry comes on, and Max gives Zach a thumbs-up, wedging onto the floor with Phoebe and Josh, throwing herself into the music, willing this to be a night to be framed.

But finally she can’t take it anymore, the holding her spine a little too straight, the self-consciousness that her dancing has to be Beyoncé backup worthy, the constant effort of keeping her boobs safely confined in her eagle-embroidered bustier. She gestures to the neon sign for the restrooms and heads off.

She is just reapplying her lip gloss when Zach comes out of the stall behind her. “Um, hey, party crasher,” Max says, pointing at him with the wand.

“Now, you don’t mind little ol’ me, do you, ladies?” Zach asks the primping crowd and they all smile, amused. He spins to Max, leaning a hip against the tiled sink counter. “Tom is breaking my heart.”

“What?” Max asks, her hands flying to her own.

“No, no, not like that.”

“Zach,”
she admonishes, “you cannot use that phrase casually with me. It’s like telling a cop Tom is trying to kill you.”

“But he is! He has been bumping and grinding with that Care Bear for an hour!”

“Five minutes—tops. But if it bothers you, Zach, tell him.”

“I can’t crowd him!”

“Don’t make yourself miserable trying to be Perfect Boyfriend. If he’s doing something that bums you out, give him the opportunity to change. Because if you don’t—and then you dump him—”

“I’m no better than any of our clients’ exes,” Zach says, finishing her sentence.

“Yes.”

Zach kisses her on the cheek with a loud smacking sound. “You’re so right. You’re always so right!”

Feeling good to be right, she slips her arm around his waist as they step back into the chaos—the mob of masked revelers—the acrobats dressed like Harlequins—the strippers dressed like courtesans—when out of the corner of her eye she sees a tall, blond guy wearing a Donald Trump mask and instinctively yanks Zach to a crouch behind a purple velvet sofa. They both look in shock to where her nail has snagged his red suit. Forcing herself, Max stands and cranes her head. The blond walks past—not Hugo. Bad move. So very, very bad. Zach climbs back up, and they look into each other’s eyes. “I need some air.” She turns before he can respond, pushing away to the far wall and then inching along until her hand feels a doorknob. It opens to a stair landing, and she quickly descends a floor to a door marked LIBRARY.
That sounds quiet,
she thinks.

It turns out to be a large, ironically book-free room, crisscrossed with tufted leather couches and anchored by a long zinc bar at its far end. The lights from the neighborhood pour in from the windows, and Max feels no need to flick on the lamps as she drops onto a couch, letting her shoulders slump, her décolletage sink, her skin dry. She unzips her boots and lifts out her feet. She feels the point of her crown digging into her forehead and flings it off. Then she reaches under her perfect barrel curls to where the layers of Elnett are making her itchy and gives her scalp a good scratching, instantly feeling better.

From across the room Ben watches Max, wondering if he should announce himself before she fully disrobes. He’s always wondered if any of those getups girls wear on Halloween are comfortable. He knows he’s supposed to be blinded by the display of thigh and boob, but every Triple-X Bo Peep he passes he just thinks,
That looks like it’s digging into you somewhere
.

“I was just checking my phone.” He tugs at his bow tie as Max whips her head up. Ben sticks his hand out from the wingback chair and waves, suddenly happy that Taylor guilt-talked him into staying out.

“Oh my God, are you watching me scratch my head like a deranged chimpanzee?”

“Did you get my text—we ran late. Which kind of sucks because I have to be up and taking on my future at the ass crack of dawn.” He crosses to her while she pulls out her phone.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t feel it vibrate. Probably because the whole floor upstairs is. That sucks about your seminar tomorrow. Can I recommend espresso? I think those energy drinks are gonna bore holes in you. And it’s the hair spray—it makes me itchy.”

“I’ve heard,” he says as he sits next to her behind the oversized coffee table.

“Oh?”

“Friend’s little sister, takes ballet, comes home, and scratches out her bun until she looks like Einstein.”

Max smiles, finally feeling comfortable for the first time all night. “How’s your Halloween going?”

Ben reaches into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulls out a box of Dots, two Snickers, and a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. “Best costume ever. I’m only wearing ones with pockets from now on.”

“And who are you supposed to be?” she inquires as she rips the wrapper off one of the Snickers.

He slides a mimed pistol from the breast pocket of his tux and pivots. “Bond.”

“Original.”

“My friend’s idea. He’s wearing garbage. Together we’re junk bonds.”

She smiles. “You definitely got the better end of the costume.”

“I borrowed it from my dad—there’s still rice in the pocket from his wedding.” He pulls out a couple of grains.

“To your mom?” she asks. “Do you mind if I …?” She gestures to her side zipper.

“Be my guest. Yeah, they split last year.”

“Ahhhh.” Max inhales deeply as her ribs fluff and resume their rightful place. She holds the front of her corset up with her forearm. “At least yours were married. My parents were a grad-school fling.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. They get along pretty well, considering they were practically strangers thrown into the joint project of raising a human.”

“Where’s your dad?” Ben asks, unwrapping the Reese’s.

“Florida.”

“And you get to visit him?”

Max nods.

“I’m jealous. Other than overnights for baseball, I’ve never gone anywhere.”

“Where do you want to go?” She reaches to dislodge a wad of caramel from her molar.

“Everywhere.”

“Me too. Eventually. But strictly places they write guidebooks about. No one has written
Fodor’s Wichita
or
Let’s Go Buffalo!
”

Ben laughs.

“Next year you’ll be somewhere brand-new, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, realizing, compared with how intriguing everything about hanging with Max feels, the comfort of Kenyon is feeling less appealing with every passing week. “So why’re you disrobing in an empty room?” Ben changes the subject, again pushing the thought of his known future away.

“Well, I tried to disrobe upstairs—make some extra cash—but no one was having it.”

“Fools,” he says, allowing his eyes to drop for an instant to where the curve of her breast is visible in the gape at her side. Wondering if he was a moron not to ask her out on a date when they first met. Now they’re falling into the friend box, and it would be weird. Mostly, as he watches her lick at a stray string of caramel, he just wants to kiss her. Wants to take her face in his hands and plant his mouth on hers, let her arms find the back of his neck, her top falling down—

“Ben?”

“What?”

“I asked why you were sitting in the dark.”

He can’t tell her the truth. “My friend kind of has social ADD right now. He, like, can’t sit still. He thinks
Maxim
’s Hot One Hundred are going to be at the
next
high school house party. We’ve trucked through six places tonight—and all I have to show for it is candy. He wouldn’t even let me slow down to take a leak. So when he wanted to leave here for some party uptown I was just like, dude, I’ve got an early morning.” And, really, even though he should be heading home, he had to wait to see if Max texted back.

“Now you’re stuck here with me.” She twists her red lips in a smirk.

That does it. Not letting himself think himself out of it he leans forward—

“Max!” Zach bursts in, trailed by Tom, Phoebe, Josh, and every other Marvel character they found upstairs.

“We’re avenging the crowding and creating our own
private
party! Woo-hoo!” Ignoring her dishabille, Zach leaps up onto the coffee table. She smiles in gratitude as he makes an instant dance floor for her to enjoy herself unobserved. Knowing Hugo would never let himself be seen in a comic book costume—even if he might want to.

Phoebe goes over to a sound panel in the wall and somehow turns on the speakers, accessing the system upstairs. Pink asks everyone to raise their glass. “Would you?” Max asks in turn, pointing down. Ben zips her boots while she tugs up her top. She holds out her hand, forcing herself not to be the other take on her costume—not to
wonder
—even for a second—if Ben Cooper was about to kiss her.

She tugs him onto the coffee table, finally
really
giving over to the music, getting sweaty, mussing her hair, making pouty faces with Phoebe and Zach—the respite lasting exactly four songs. Word of the party-within-the-party spreads, and just as Max throws her hands up to Alejandro, the masked-many fill the room around them, crashing their sanctum. Max’s looping mental track of
isthathim?isthathim?isthathim?
resumes, making it impossible for her to stay on the beat. Seemingly oblivious, Ben smiles at her as he swings his blazer overhead, but all she can think is that, at NYU, no matter what great friends she makes, what fabulous parties they go to, what pouty faces they share—Hugo will always
maybe
be there, making it impossible to even begin to think about other very charming—and actually very cute—boys who might want to kiss her.