Page 52 of Surviving the Merge
I hustled to be ready by then and was waiting outside when Max pulled around.
“Why am I not surprised that you drive a pick-up truck?” I climbed up and into his black F250. I almost required a stepstool, and I’m tall. Pluto stuck his head between the seats, and I absently rubbed behind his ears.
“Oh, maybe because I’m a good ole country boy from Kentucky,” he said with an authentic accent.
“Now that I think about it, I never noticed much of an accent coming from you. Why is that?”
Max pulled onto the road, adjusting his rearview mirror while responding, “I worked hard to get rid of it. It’s impossible to hide when I’m around my parents, though.”
I leaned against the door and asked, “Why’d you want to get rid of it?” Before he could answer, my stomach let out a rumble. I’d spent all day in the garden and hadn’t eaten. Max made a sudden U-turn. I had to grip the grab-handle to remain upright.
“I know a great spot to get a burger. It’ll be quick.” He shot me one of his easy going smiles, and we were off.
We drove maybe a mile before entering the parking lot of The Best Burgers in Town—according to the sign. “Is that the name of the place?”
“Yup.” He laughed, then added, “And it’s a good thing they are, isn’t it?”
“We shall see,” I replied playfully, getting out of the truck.
Wood planks covered the walls, and light oak picnic tables made up the seating area. We seated ourselves, placed our order, and fell into easy conversation. He surprisingly had more than a beginner’s understanding of ballet. I found his furrowed focus on my explained history with dance charming.
“Whoa, Ballet Master? That’s quite an accomplishment. Why would you walk away from that?” Max took a sip of his beer that had arrived not too long ago, then peeked out the window to make sure Pluto was okay in the truck.
“I want to try new things, find other interests. It might turn out that giving up dance isn’t the answer, but the road I take to dancing might be different.”
In a serious tone, he said, “In between your landscaping work, of course.” Those brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and his smile took ten years off him. I wondered at his age. He looked about twenty-five with that baby face, but his bearing gave him away as older. His gaze turned assessing, enough to make me think he was up to something. But then the moment passed.
I shrugged inwardly. “How do you know so much about ballet?”
His expression turned proud. Paternal even. “From one of the kids at the center.”
My intentions to pry were benched when the most amazing burger I’d ever laid eyes on was placed in front of me. “Am I drooling?” I asked distractedly as I reached for it.
“Why, yes, I think you are,” Max said with a staged concern.
Not having to manage every macro that went into my body was a nice change, something I could get used to. The groan I let out after taking that first bite should have embarrassed me, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Jesus,” I breathed, licking my lips, eyes closed. I swallowed and glanced up, freezing in place. Max observed me with dilated pupils, his burger midair.
I swallowed again and cleared my throat, “Sorry, I’m just... really hungry.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” His eyes traveled to my lips.
He’s interested in me.I’d known it since our first meeting. That moment would have been perfect to be honest about my situation.To let Max know I was married. And that while I didn’t yet know what the future held for me and my husband, all I could offer him was friendship.
But it felt good to be desired, to be flirted with. I wasn’t used to lacking attention, and Max unknowingly stepped in to provide me with it.
Maybe I should be seeing if there’s someone else out there for me. Blake cheated on me, so why do I have to feel bad about this?I tried to justify.
Even as those thoughts circled my mind, I understood that it wasn’t about me. Max didn’t deserve to be played with. However, instead of doing the right thing, I found myself saying, “We should hurry up. It’s getting late.”
Max got a hold of himself. He ducked his head, trying to shield me from the look of disappointment in his eyes. I questioned whether it was with himself or with me for not reciprocating his obvious insinuation.
“Yeah, I’d like to show you around and introduce you to everyone,” Max said. The awkward moment forgotten. “There’s a small crew of us that meet up Friday nights. We have a few beers and take turns tossing our problems into ‘the bucket.’ We’ve even got a name.” He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “The Misfits.”
“I’m confused,” I confessed, my forehead creased.
“I know,” Max said, and the sound and feel of coffee filled my ears when he laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain on the way.”
We settled the bill and left.
