Page 47 of Wished

He smiles at that, then he nods. “Go on.”

“You enjoy British crime dramas, and although I can’t be sure, I suspect you always know whodunnit before the show ends.”

“Almost always. I’m not perfect.”

I grin at that, and then I get carried away, because the way he’s looking at me makes a warm, happy glow light in my chest.

“You like to listen to classical music while working. You never lose your temper, although you don’t mind when other people do. You like Charles Dickens before bed, although I could never figure out if it’s because you love how he spins worlds or because he puts you to sleep?—”

“I like his honesty,” Max says, watching me with increasing interest. “He was honest in his portrayals of people.”

“That makes sense. I should’ve known. I always thought Freud was one of the worst things to ever happen to western literature. Before he came along, characters were living and breathing. They were flesh and blood on the page, you know? What they did, what they said— there were so many layers. And then along comes Freud, and people were no longer acting out of their own will or their own choices. Instead everyone was a puppet on the strings of past trauma. It scarred western literature. Truly. People aren’t marionettes, jerked about by their mother’s neglect or their father’s abuse. We have free will. We have the ability to reason and choose and react ornotreact. By winnowing a human being’s choices down to his past? Maybe that’s a comforting view for some. Oh, he hurts others because he was hurt. Or she’s scared to love because her husband died. One and one makes two. Red and blue makes purple. But don’t you agree that one thing we should never forget is that people are infinitely more complex and our motivations are immeasurably more nuanced than any of us can ever know or explain even after the fact? Subsequent explanations can never do a human justice, and wrapping them up in a nice neat explanation, like “Oh, his mother was negligent,” is a failing of modern times?”

I look at Max. He holds his coffee cup halfway between his saucer and his lips. I don’t think he realizes he’s still holding his cup upright. We hit an air pocket and the plane lurches. The coffee sloshes over the side and spills on his hand.

Max swears and sets his cup back on the saucer. I grab my napkin from my lap and dab at his hand.

“Thank you,” he says.

I nod, dabbing at the coffee on his shirtsleeve.

When I’m done I fold my napkin into a square and set it on the table. “I got carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s my fault. I was so involved in what you were saying that I forgot to set my cup down. I’ve often wondered why I like his characters so much. Now I know. I suppose I wish I was them, unburdened by Freud’s specter.”

He grins at me then, and I smile back.

“Don’t worry, I won’t think the only reason you don’t want passion is because of your parents. I know there are plenty of other reasons.”

“Oh?”

I nod, picking up my spoon again and taking another bite. “You like neatness. You like order. I’ve never cleaned another house where a bachelor makes his bed every morning with perfectly tucked corners. Where he hangs his towels, always puts his laundry in the hamper, stacks his dishes perfectly, and puts his fruit and vegetables in the proper drawers. You prefer things to be tidy. Passion isn’t tidy.”

“I’d agree with you, except I have a host of memories telling me I like untidy things very, very much.”

“There’s also the guilt you feel over your family’s deaths,” I say at the same time.

He glances at me quickly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The plane dips a bit, and we fly through the wispy confines of a white-gray cloud.

“No. Tell me what you mean. How you gathered that when we never spoke.”

I look out at the fingers of the thin cloud leaving strands of condensation on the window. The chill air from the overhead vent licks across my skin. Max watches me, waiting for my response.

“Well. They died more than a decade ago. But the house ...” I pause, trying to think of how to explain it. “It could be so full of life, but instead it’s in this half-life stasis, as if living fully isn’t allowed. Most of the rooms are covered in dustcloths and gloom. When you walk the empty halls, it almost feels like you should apologize for your footsteps making noise. The wine cellar, which clearly was once full to the brim, is entirely empty. In your brother’s room there’s a photograph of the two of you and the frame is shattered, and he looks like such a?—”

“What?”

“Unfriendly sort.”

Max’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah. I never met your family. Never saw them. I only know I’m not going to pretend that they’re the reason you are the way you are. I’d like to give you more credit. I expect you can make your own choices.”

“Unless a woman comes along and wishes me into marriage,” he says.

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