Page 20 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?
“Book club?” Amanda practically shouted. “Well, slap my ass and call me Nancy Pelosi. You’re a reader, too?”
A couple of dudebros arrived to beat on a bag, so Max stepped out of the space and dropped her volume. “I love to read. And it was her first meeting. I kind of doubt she’ll be back given what’s happened since.”
Amanda nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I would take that bet.”
“You think she’ll be back?”
Amanda stared at her. “I know she will be.”
FIVE
Rivals and Revelations
The Uber dropped Max off twenty minutes early for book club, and for a second, she stayed frozen in the back seat, pulse tapping high in her throat. She hated how nervous she felt, how the air seemed thinner just thinking about walking through Stevie’s door and seeing Ella again. She’d told herself it was better to be early than to walk into the group cold, but, really, she was hoping for a quiet moment to steady herself. Maybe Stevie would be in the kitchen, and they could chat—nothing deep, just something to anchor her. She wasn’t ready to face Ella. Not yet. But being first gave her a chance to breathe.
As always, she let herself in and found Stevie doing Stevie. In other words, prepping gorgeous trays of food for the group and grooving to Celine Dion’s greatest hits in her kitchen.
“What’s up, M? You came to see me shaking my ass?”
“I came to help,” Max said and offered a hip bump. “Put me to work.”
“My lucky day. You can slice the salami,” Stevie said. She handed Max the knife. “And here’s the chub.”
“Stevie.” Max stared down at the whole salami in her hand, laughter bubbling. “Please tell me that this phallic tube of meatis not called a chub. Stop it. That can’t be true. I won’t survive this knowledge.”
“It is,” Stevie said and joined her. “Some butcher years back had a good ole time naming that one.”
“Looks like a chub,” Max said, using the voice of a gruff male butcher. The laughter took over, her eyes filling with tears. “Just gonna call it a chub.”
“I’ll take one chub!” Stevie said, asking as a customer.
“What’s so funny?” They looked up to see Ella standing there, wine in hand, smile on her face. She looked to Stevie. “Last time you said just to come on in. I hope that’s okay.”’
“Of course, sweetheart. Come in. Come in. I’ll take that,” she said, stealing the wine and beckoning Ella to join them in the kitchen.
“You’re early,” Max said, eyeing her, nerves firing. “And you came back.”
“I realize that last part might be surprising,” she said, meeting Max’s gaze. “But I enjoyed the club and can focus on the group.”
“Fair enough. Glad you did.”
“Thanks. Me, too.”
If there had been a literal ocean between them, their exchange couldn’t have felt more distant.
Stevie had been taking in their conversation like a riveting tennis match, and finally jumped in. “Ella, how are you at slicing fruit?”
“Oh, it’s what I was born for. How can I help?”
Stevie slid her a cutting board and a carton of strawberries, giving her a brief rundown of how she usually cuts them herself.
“Any reason you showed up ahead of schedule?” Max asked, keeping her eyes on her own project. Ella stood next to her, slicing. She smelled like orange blossoms and vanilla.
“I wanted to see if Stevie needed anything. You?”
They’d still not looked at each other. “Same.” They cut their respective contributions in silence until Max couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, Stevie. Is Dominic around?”
And just like that, Stevie, who stood at the sink, burst into tears. For a moment, Max didn’t move. Stevie, the kind of person the word spitfire was made to describe, had never come close to crying in her presence. What in the world was happening, and more importantly, how should she handle it? She and Ella turned to each other in the same moment.
