Page 53 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?
Yeah. That was the problem.
Sheknewexactlyhow Rachel would feel if she had all the details of Ella’s recent history. She hugged her pillow tighter as Rachel hit play, and Sandra filled the screen, charming and a complete klutz.
Rachel has no idea.
No idea that Ella had been making out with her ex behind her back. No idea that every stolen moment with Max made Ella crave more. No idea that, right now, as Rachel laughed at thescreen and lusted after Sandra, Ella was lusting after someone else entirely.
She was so very screwed.
Max’s childhoodhome hadn’t changed very much since she’d last lived in it nine years ago, when she started law school. Her dad’s dark-blue La-Z-Boy sat in the corner of the living room, worn in and soft. Her mother hated that chair but tolerated it all the same because she loved the man who came with it. Her parents were affectionate in unconventional ways. A smack to her father’s arm. A ruffling of her father’s hair. A loud smack to her mother’s cheek. Nothing too sincere. They nagged, as well, in their own unique way of showing they paid attention to each other’s trajectories.
When Max arrived at the narrow two-story house, her mother must have been well into dinner preparation, because the rich, garlicky scent of chicken adobo filled the house, intermingling with the sharp tang of vinegar and soy sauce in a way that instantly transported Max back in time. On the stove, her mother stirred a pot of sinigang, the tamarind broth bubbling as it embraced tender pork and a scattering of bright-green kangkong. The interesting part of the whole scene was the Taylor Swift music playing loudly from the speaker in the corner. As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, Max was surprised to see her mother not just bopping along to the music but shaking her hips and shoulders. And who knew she was such a good dancer?
“Hey, there. I was going to ask if you need any help, but I don’t want to interrupt a full-blown BeyoncéRenaissancemoment,” she said, placing her bag on the back of one of the chairs.
“The what?” Her mother turned, hand on hip. “I’m dancing in the kitchen,” she shouted above the music.
“I’m aware.”
“I’ll set you a place! You’ll eat with us.”
“That would be fantastic.”
Her mother offered another hip shake and went back to the stove.
The whole scene had caught Max wildly off guard and, honestly, left her a little relieved. It was not at all what she had expected in the days following the news of her mom’s diagnosis. Max had worried endlessly about how her mother might be feeling, both physically and emotionally, which is why she’d made a point to swing by, despite the mountains of paperwork that’d have her up until midnight tonight. But this chipper, dare she say, sassy woman in front of her was the opposite of what she’d been expecting.
Her dad, wearing his Commanders ball cap, wandered into the kitchen for a soda refill and broke into a smile when he saw her. “Hey, hey. You staying?”
“I’m staying. What’s going on?” she asked, and jutted her chin in her mother’s direction.
“She’s just decided this thing is not gonna get her down.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a good thing. Don’t you think?”
He gave her a sideways squeeze. “I do. I do. How’s the busted-up marriage business?”
“Today I had a pair of husbands. One is accusing the other of stealing his style and demanding that he return it promptly. That kind of thing is a little harder to enforce on paper.”
“If somebody steals my sporty chic look, they’ll pay,” he said with the darkened look of someone who means business.
“But … who would do that?”
“Oh, you wanna wrestle?” he asked, and hooked Max into a headlock she was all too familiar with. Her arms immediately went around his waist, and she squeezed like the wrestler he’d taught her to be, which often made him drop his hold. If he’d wanted a son, he’d never let on, teaching Max how to roughhouse and watch sports like a champ. Was he an emotional guy? No. Not at all. He wasn’t there to talk to when things were rough at school, or when she started to understand she liked girls. But he showed up for fun like clockwork, which counted for something.
“Get your hands off my child!” her mom called, hands on her hips. Always in charge, her voice rose above the chaos and was all the prompting her dad needed to let go of Max, hold his palms up, and return to the fridge for his refill. He knew the pecking order.
“You got off easy this time,” he said, pointing at Max.
“Yeah, yeah. But I have to tell you, I think your muscles are wasting away,” she said with a shrug. “Age.” That made him lunge for her, prompting her to duck and weave.
“You two stop that,” her mom yelled, pointing at them with her stirring spoon. “Dinner is in five minutes. Maxine put out the napkins. You,” she said to her husband, “come back in five minutes and don’t be late.”
He did as he was told and slunk away, returning the kitchen to his wife, who offered an uncharacteristically warm smile. This was all so … nice. Was there a second shoe waiting to plummet onto Max’s head?
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she set the table.
“Tired, but not too bad. I can’t complain.”
