bro. I’ll let you know if I feel sexually threatened.”
“You want to take point, show us how to find the eats?” I suspected he must have a ride.
In reply, Michael jingled his keys. “No problem. Follow me.”
Somehow I mustered the last echo of a good upbringing and said good-night to Mr. Cooper without a sneer. I put some more warmth into it when I spoke to Jim and Carol, then we rolled out. Max was quiet as we got on the motorcycle. I didn’t try to talk to him; there would likely be a lengthy deconstruction in the room after we ate. The snarl of the engine drowned out my growling stomach, at least.
The diner was small, a hole-in-the-wall place on the corner of Broadway and a cross street whose name I couldn’t read. On the bike, we didn’t have to worry about parking, though. Michael stashed his retrofitted Scion down the block; I watched as he rolled down the rear ramp and closed things up. Max moved like he’d go help out but I grabbed his arm.
“This is his life, you know? I’m sure he hangs out with his friends.”
“Yeah. I just... I can’t square it in my head. Last time I saw him, he was hooked up to tubes, frail as hell. Now he’s—”
“Fine.”
“You’re such a perv, Kaufman.”
I punched him in the arm. “Not what I meant and you know it. Did you seriously think he’d be sitting in bed, pale and sad for, like, five years?” At the flicker of his eyes, I raised my brows. “God, you mentally had him dying in a Victorian tuberculosis ward, didn’t you? You watch Tombstone too much, I’ve always said that. And Doc Holliday looks nothing like Val Kilmer.”
“What’re you guys talking about?” Michael asked.
“Westerns,” I answered before Max could get awkward. “What’s your favorite?”
Max kept quiet as we found a table and moved a chair so Michael could wheel up. The resulting conversation carried us past ordering, and Max eased up once we switched to action flicks, something he had a lot to say about. He and Michael discussed the underappreciated genius of John Woo, then moved to the interesting stuff currently being filmed in Hong Kong. I added less than nothing to the convo, but since I had chicken tenders, I didn’t mind. The fries were homemade, fresh cut, and the coleslaw was decent; I ate it so I could pretend the veg would counteract all the fried goodness. In the immortal words of Max’s dad—gotta feed dat ass.
But midway through dinner, Michael said, “We should really talk about something Courtney cares about, too.”
“Kaufman’s fine. You are, right?” Max turned to me with a raised brow. He had nice ones, thick enough to make a statement, not wild enough to give him an evil-genius air.
“Yep. I could go for pie, though. Is it any good here?”
“Do you like pecan?” Michael asked.
“Do I like it? I almost married it. But my sweet pastry felt like I was getting all codependent, so we had this huge, messy breakup, and now I have sole custody of the tartlets. It’s hard, man.” Biting my knuckles, I dropped my eyes, pretending to wipe away the tears.
Max was used to my weirdness but Michael seemed startled for, like, ten seconds, then he cracked up. “Okay, no nut allergies, check. Try the pecan pie if it won’t trigger a flashback.”
It had been a while since I hung out with high school kids, basically since I was one, and I didn’t remember guys being so mature and poised at sixteen. But that wasn’t something I could comment on without it seeming strange and/or insulting. Max would also chide me for the third time about hitting on his brother, and that might open a hell mouth or something.
The waitress came over in response to Max’s chin lift. One of these days, I had to learn that. To get a server’s attention, I practically had to get out glowing batons and signal a plane.
“We’ll have three pieces of pecan pie and the check.”
“Any coffee?” she asked.
Before I could reply, Max said, “Nah. It’s too late for me, the kid’s too young and the lady doesn’t like it.”
I was kind of surprised he remembered, but Michael was glaring. He didn’t speak until the girl moved off. “Too young, fuck you. Too young.”
“So opposable thumbs are pretty cool,” I said.
But things were melting down too fast for me to head them off. Max waded in with boots on, not that I knew why. “You’re a kid, Mickey. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I can see why you’d think that, considering you haven’t even seen me in five years. Guess what, I grew up while you were out.” He took a deep, deep breath, brown eyes flashing. “Your phone doesn’t work, Max? Dad said you had a reason for disappearing on us, and I’ve been waiting to hear it.”
Part of me wanted to defend Max, but I bit my lip. This isn’t your fight, and you only know his side of the story. Things probably looked much different to Michael.
Before Max could answer—tell his brother what he’d told me about being kicked out of the house—the waitress showed up with pie. By the time she walked off, Michael was seething too hard to listen.
He shoved away from the table and wheeled around with a dark stare. “Never mind, not in the mood for dessert. Nice meeting you, Courtney.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “How is it humanly possible not to be in the mood for pie?”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Because Max stood up and stalked out, stranding me in a strange diner in Providence.
In reaction to my predicament, I ate one and a half pieces of pecan pie.
Michael was right; it was delicious. Then I asked the waitress to box up the rest. I mean, how bad can the situation be if there’s pie? Once I had my leftovers in a sack, I paid the check and stepped onto the sidewalk. Part of me hoped I’d find Max pacing, maybe smoking a cigarette like he did when he was really upset or completely hammered, but the bike was gone.
By this point, it was half past nine. Swallowing hard, I went back inside. The waitress didn’t look pleased to see me, but I rode it out. Local info could make all the difference.
“So I’m wondering if there’s a decent motel within walking distance. I don’t mind if it’s crappy, just not a hellhole.” I hoped she’d know what I meant.
“Oh.” Her annoyance softened, leavened with sympathy. “Your boyfriend ditched you?”
It didn’t seem worth it to clarify. “Yeah. There probably isn’t a bus out tonight anyway.”
I felt slightly bad for putting that on the table. If I left tomorrow, I’d fly back to Ann Arbor and ask if Nadia could pick me up. But the waitress wouldn’t feel like helping me
