12

THEN

Isaac and Maxie sat in the living room, Maxie on the sofa, Isaac in the armchair. They didn't carry on a conversation as usual, just practiced Maxie's French. They were both too full from the Spanish dish she'd prepared. Another one courtesy of Isaac. Already they'd had French, Italian twice, Greek, and now Spanish. Every night, Maxie wondered what he would show up with next.

"Are those yours?" Isaac asked, finally. He nodded toward a pair of tiny ballet slippers sitting on the shelf in the living room.

She followed his gaze to them and then nodded.

"Yes. My first pair of pointes," she said. "The first of many."

"Maxie," he said, looking at her again. Looking at her legs, anyway. Smooth, toned, flawless, propped up so that her shorts rose, revealing her bare skin up to her thigh. Blinking, he forced his eyes to her face. She was still gazing at the slippers. "Will you dance for me?"

Her eyes widened, she could feel her cheeks flush red. "What? No. You've seen me dance already." She shook her head. "No, I can't."

"C'mon," he said, lightly, but his eyes watched her with unwavering intensity. "Last time it was for Van. And Alex. Dance for me."

"It was for you, too."

Even more intensity. "For only me."

She remembered the last time. She could only imagine what he was thinking as she had twirled and jumped and lifted her leg to impossible heights. She remembered his face, the way he looked at her, the way his eyes swallowed her whole. Her cheeks, if possible, reddened even more. Isaac laughed.

Maybe it was the wine—they'd been drinking wine often now—or maybe Maxie just wanted to see that look in Isaac's eyes again. Whatever it was, she conceded and stood up.

"Okay," she said as she walked over to the stereo system. "I'll belly dance for you."

He looked at her, eyes disbelieving, grin anticipating. "Belly dance?"

The music started, and she went to the middle of the floor and lifted her shirt to reveal her belly. He stared at the small curve of her waist, spanning out into her roundness of her hips. And she began to move her hips to the music—slow, fluid movements, flowing as easily as liquid.

His gaze followed her hips, which vibrated and shook. She twirled, bouncing her behind in small circles to the melody. As it got faster, her movements quickened, and as it slowed, her movements followed suit. Finally, the song ended and she smiled and bowed. Isaac stood up and clapped.

Smiling widely, she turned off the music and plopped down on the floor. "Great, now I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Not again," Isaac joked. She glared at him. "Hey, when you become a famous dancer—belly dancer, tap dancer, ballerina, whatever—don't forget the little people, okay?"

"Actually," Maxie said, shifting her weight so she lay on her stomach, facing him. She lowered her voice. "Do you want to know a secret?"

"Oh, yes," he said with mocking enthusiasm. "I live for secrets."

Maxie smiled. "Well," she said, looking at him. Her eyes were wide, glistening. "I don't want to be a dancer." Isaac stopped smiling. Maxie didn't. In fact, she widened her smile, and she started to laugh. "Isn't that insane? I've been dancing since I could walk. I'm in Julliard on a full scholarship, dance companies are already asking for me. And I don't even want to dance anymore!"

Isaac blinked. "Why not, Max?"

Her laughter faded, but her smile remained. She dropped her eyes, though. They weren't smiling. "I don't know. I just haven't wanted to dance in a really long time."

"What do you want to do?"

She shrugged. "My mother always loved watching me dance. She always wanted to see me on stage, performing as the highlight of some haughty ballet where people wear gowns and tuxedos and watch it through those little binoculars like in Pretty Woman. And I was all about it, too, until she died. Then I started to realize that all that time, I'd been dancing for her. As soon as I knew she wouldn't be there to watch me anymore, I didn't want it as bad. Not half as bad.

"But, then I moved in with Van's family and when I told them how I felt, they just figured I was mourning. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. Anyway, I kept dancing, got into Julliard, and when I told them that I wanted to turn down my scholarship to go to culinary school, they basically laughed in my face." She, too, laughed now. "I mean, it all works out. They don't have to pay for my schooling, so they pay for me to live. Look at Van. She dropped out of school, and now she has to work her ass off to afford her half of the rent."

"Her mother pays half of her half of the rent," he said, unsympathetic to Van.

"Still," Maxie said. "I'm sure it's hard on her—"

"You never answered my question," he interjected. "What do you want to do?"

She beamed and stood up and walked over to the bookshelf. She returned to the couch holding a scrapbook. "I call this my Book of Sweet Dreams." She laughed as she flipped it open. He moved from his seat and sat down beside her, close to her, so close she had to pause. She looked at him, and he was staring back at her. Their faces were only inches apart, his scent overwhelmed her, made her lightheaded and warm inside. The hairs on her arms stood. She quickly looked down at her book. For a moment, though, she could feel Isaac's gaze remain on her. Then, he, too, looked down.

"What is it?" he asked, with slightly less interest than he had had before. She couldn't blame him. Her thoughts were somewhere else now, too.

"It's a cookbook. All my recipes." She ran her fingers across the pages. "I wrote down ingredients, possible substitutions, directions on how to fix the meal. I even took the pictures myself." She flipped the pages. There were dozens of elaborate meals set up against simple yet elegant backgrounds. "I have everything in here. Beef, chicken, fish dishes. Lamb dishes. Vegetarian and vegan dishes. Soups and sides and deserts. Everything that I made myself, from scratch."

"Wow, Maxie."

"Impressive, huh?"

"Very. What do you want to do with it?"

She shrugged. "Publish it. Maybe. The truth is, I'd love to open my own restaurant one day. Not a big one. Just a little diner or something. Except with amazing food. Different specials every week. I'd love to travel for a while. Travel and cook, and then come back and use what I learned to create a menu that's to die for. I want to create dishes that everyone, no matter where they come from, will remember when they leave."

"Why don't you?"

She smiled and handed him the book. "Because," she said, standing and going to the middle of the room. "I'm a dancer." She leaned forward, resting her body weight on one leg as she stretched the other out behind her, lifting it off of the ground and up above her head. "It would be such a waste if I didn't use this God-given talent," she said in a mocking tone.

Isaac's eyes moved from her pointed toes down her leg and up her torso to her perfectly relaxed face. "You could use it other ways," he said.

She laughed and collapsed to her knees. "Ugh," she said, rolling over onto the back. She raised her knees to her chest, spread her arms. "Excuse me, Isaac, I think I've had too much wine again."

"Yeah?" he said, still eyeing her. "I don't think I've had enough."

 

"This is a very interesting choice for a nail polish," Isaac said, admiring Maxie's small toes. Maxie sat on one end of the sofa, Isaac on the other, her feet resting on his knee. She lifted her leg to look at her shimmery gold-colored nails.

"You like it?"

"Very much. It's my favorite so far."

He stared at it for a moment longer, and Maxie pulled her feet back and stuffed them in between the cushions. "Okay," she said. "Stop looking."

Isaac furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Because," she replied with an embarrassed grin. "I'm self-conscious about my feet."

Isaac's eyes widened. "What?

"After so many years of dancing—"

"Don't be ridiculous." He grabbed her ankle and tugged it. "C'mon, let me see them again."

"No!" she cried, giggling. "I don't want you to look at them anymore."

But he easily pulled her feet out from hiding and sat them back on his lap, where he held them in place. "Maxie," he said, assessing them. "Your feet are perfect. They're some of the prettiest feet I've seen."

"Don't lie," she said, trying to pull them away, but his grip, though gentle and effortless, was like steel. "C'mon, let go!"

"I'll let go if you don't take them away."

"Isaac—"

"Leave them here," he said, pushing them lightly into his leg for emphasis. She sighed, stopped struggling, and he let go. She left them there.

"Van always makes fun of my toes. I'd never thought twice about the way they looked until I'd moved in with her."

With soft eyes, he replied, "You know what I think? I think that Van is jealous of you."

Maxie laughed out loud. "Van is too self-absorbed to think about anyone else long enough to be jealous of them."

"That's what she wants you to think."

"That's what I know." She tried to ignore the sensation of his thumb moving back and forth over the skin of her ankle. She couldn't look at him while he was touching her that way. A pang of guilt stabbed at her gut. Casually, as if inadvertently, she tried to move her feet, but his hand quickly tightened around her ankle. "I dated this guy in high school," she said suddenly.

Isaac raised an eyebrow. "Did Van steal him from you?"

"No. She's not like that." Maxie felt another stab of guilt. "He moved away. By that time I was living with Van already, and her parents wouldn't let me go see him after school, because it was too late. So I started skipping class and riding the bus to meet him during the day. But then I got caught, so they told me I wasn't allowed to go see him on weekends anymore, either." Though she was looking down at her bracelet, she knew that Isaac's attention was on her. She could feel it. "After about two weeks of not seeing him, I decided to sneak out in the middle of the night, steal the car, and drive to his house."

"Uh oh."

She nodded. "I used to think Van was jealous of me, too. Resentful, at least. I had nothing when her family took me in. I was a mental wreck, an emotional wreck, just a wreck period. Her parents, Arnold and Kathy, gave me everything that they had in order to make me better. Van was so used to being the youngest, Mommy and Daddy's only little girl, the main focus, center of their attention, center of the universe. And then I came in, and I sort of became the center of the universe. I know that was hard on her.

"Anyway, I decided to steal the car, and just as I'd gotten the keys and was heading out, Van met me at the front door. 'What will my parents think of you if they find out?' she'd asked. 'I bet things would really change around here.' That was all she said, and I left. I took the car, drove it all the way to Patrick's house, and didn't come back until it was almost time for Arnold and Kathy to wake up.

"I really wasn't much of a rebel. I didn't know how to break rules, I wasn't very good at it at all. When I got home, I couldn't remember which side of the driveway the car had been parked on. Arnold parked on the same side every day, but I was so nervous, for the life of me, I couldn't remember which." Isaac chuckled. The small, circular motions of his thumbs turned into full on strokes, from her toes to her ankles. Neither of them noticed. "And then I get out of the car, leave the seat pulled all of the way up to the wheel, don't put the mirrors back in the position I found them in, and leave the doors unlocked." Isaac shook his head. "Needless to say, I got caught. After school the next day, Arnold and Kathy sat Van and I down in the kitchen.

'We know one of you girls was driving the car last night,' Arnold says, his eyes moving from Van to Maxie.

'We're both positive that we heard someone go back and forth to the bathroom a few times last night, which means only one of you was out joyriding,' Kathy says. She presses her palms down on the table and leans in toward the girls. 'Which of you was it?' she asks.

Neither of them reply. Arnold waits. Kathy waits. Van and Maxie say nothing. Then Arnold nods. 'We thought you'd want to do it this way. So until someone confesses, you both are grounded.'

Van's jaw tightens. Maxie looks away. 'And Max,' Kathy adds. 'Since you're already grounded, we're taking away your phone and computer privileges, too.'

Maxie's eyes widen. No phone or computer? Without those things, she won't be able to communicate with Patrick at all, none whatsoever. Her eyes well at the thought, her lips tremble. What will happen to them in this time? Could he meet another girl?

'I did it,' Van says suddenly, and as calmly as ever. Maxie's neck snaps in her friend's direction. 'Don't punish Maxie anymore,' she says. 'I took the car last night.'

Kathy glares at her daughter. 'Why would you do that, Savannah? How could you be so stupid?'

'I'm sorry. I was just bored, I guess.'

'Bored?' Arnold cries. 'What if you'd gotten pulled over? What if you'd been in an accident? Then what?'

'I'm sorry,' Van says, head bowed. She never raises her eyes to her parents. Maxie never looks away from her.

"They punished her for two months. And they rewarded me, for not telling on her. I started going to see Patrick on the weekends again." Maxie laughed at the irony. "When I asked her why she did it, she just shrugged and told me that that was what sisters did for each other."

'We're sisters now, remember?' Van says.

"That was nice of her," Isaac said.

Maxie shook her head. "She's just like that. She's always been like that. Even when she puts me down, and makes fun of me, and drives me insane, I know she'll do anything for me."

For a while after that, they sat silent—Isaac contemplating, Maxie remembering. And then Isaac looked at her.

"Well, I just have one question," he said. "What ever happened to ol' Patrick?"

Maxie smiled. "I visited him twice more before I met Greg."

 

Isaac sat in the corner of the couch. Maxie had somehow ended up on the floor at his feet. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her arms were crossed over her shins, and she stared up at him with those big eyes of hers. "I've been talking all night," she said. "You tell me a secret, Isaac."

He reached out and touched one of her curls. Her hair was out now, hanging down over one shoulder, resting on her breast. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Something good."

"Ah, something good. Let's see..." He thought a moment, then took a deep breath. "Maximilienne," he said, leaning toward her. "I have lots of secrets. I would love to share them with you. But you have to promise me something."

His face was so close to hers, his eyes unblinking, his voice low and solemn. She was entranced by him. "What?" she asked. "Anything."

"You have to promise me that my secrets won't scare you away."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Scare me away?" He nodded once. Nothing can drive me away from you, she wanted to say. Certainly not fear. But she simply replied, "I promise."

He sat back. "I killed a man, Maxie."

Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to yell sike! For him to laugh, even just grin. "That's not funny," she said at last.

"I agree."

"You killed someone."

He nodded. She narrowed her eyes. "I don't believe you."

He grinned, his gaze unremitted. "Good, Maximilienne. That's good."

She rose onto her knees, rested her hands on his. "Who did you kill?"

"No one." He gently pinched her chin. "Now, tell me something else about you. I like hearing about you."

"Isaac!" she cried. "Who did you kill?"

"You look scared," he said. "You promised..."

"I'm not scared," she said, a bit more calmly. "Just tell me."

She moved back as he slid down to the floor in front of her. "He was my aunt's boyfriend," he said, stretching his legs out. She sat crossed-legged in front of him, listening intently. "They'd already been together for some years by the time I went to live with her. It wasn't long before I realized how he treated her." He paused and shook his head. "After seeing what happened to my mother, you can understand why I was... wary. Jenny understood, too, so she always tried to keep their arguments a secret from me. But there would be those nights when she couldn't control him and I'd hear him yelling at her, cursing at, berating her. And there were those mornings when I'd come to breakfast and she wouldn't be able to hide her black eye or her busted lip." He raised his eyes to Maxie. They were so full of anguish, she nearly lost her breath. Lowering his voice, he asked, "What was I supposed to do?"

Barely audibly, Maxie said, "You killed him?"

"It was after high school. I had already moved out of the house. I was supposed to leave for Europe the next day. I went to Jenny's to pick up a few things I'd left there, and say goodbye. When I got to the house, they were arguing, as usual. I found them by the basement steps, and he was holding my aunt," he said, his eyes darkening as he recalled that night. "He was shaking her over the steps, like he was going to push her. I just... snapped."

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I didn't even say anything. I don't think either of them even knew I was there. I just walked up to them, pulled Jenny out of the way, and..." He paused to look at Maxie, to check her expression. Her eyes were still wide, her mouth hung slightly open. "I pushed him," he said, opening his palms to her. "Threw him. It felt like it all happened in slow motion. Sometimes I still hear the sound of his head hitting the cement floor of the basement. And there was blood. It just...poured out of him." Maxie inhaled. Isaac waited. He waited for her to react, but she only looked at him. "Say something," he said finally. "Do you think I'm a monster, Maxie?"

She slowly shook her head. "No."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No."

He nodded. "I couldn't protect my mother," he said. "I couldn't save her. I've had to live with that my entire life. I still live with that. If anything had happened to Jenny... I couldn't live with that, too."

"Jenny," she said. "Was she... How did she take it? What did she do?"

He dropped his gaze, shrugged. "At first, she was just in shock. She went to the bottom of the stairs, tried to revive him, but he was gone. I killed him with my bare hands. When Jenny realized he was dead, she lost it. She screamed, cried, hit me, cursed me. She told me she hated me. She told me she'd never forgive me. But then she calmed down, and she told me to go."

"Go?"

He nodded. "She told me to get what I came for and leave. Told me that I'd never been there, I had no idea what happened. And that's it. So I left. The next morning, I was on a flight to Europe."

"That's it?"

"For the most part."

"Well, what happened? What did Jenny do? You just got away with it?"

"You know something, Maxie? To this day, I'm not a hundred percent sure what she did. I always assumed she told the police he fell down the steps. The guy was a piece of shit. He had enough assault charges and domestic violence complaints against him, the police probably didn't even try to disprove whatever story Jenny cooked up for them. We've only ever brought it up again once. One time. The first time I went back to Ohio to visit after leaving for Europe."

It's quiet at the table. There's so much to be said, yet so little purpose in any of it. What difference would it make? What problems would it solve? So neither Isaac, nor Jenny says a word. They just sit there, eating in silence.

The entire weekend carries on like that: Isaac, avoiding his aunt, avoiding the resentful look in her eyes, avoiding the lingering bitterness in her voice, avoiding the aching silence. He wonders if she'll ever laugh with him again, smile at him. Hug him, kiss him. He almost wants to regret what he'd done six months before. He almost wants to take it back, if only to fill the gaping emptiness Jenny wears on her sleeve now.

Almost.

He would rather her hate him than end up like his mother.

The last night of Isaac's trip, he joins her at the dinner table where she sits, her face red and puffy and glossy eyed over her plate. Isaac wants to ask what's wrong, but he's afraid of an answer.

'You're my nephew,' she says at last. 'My boy. The only family I have left. Practically my own son. And I love you to death, Isaac. I love you. But God, right now, I also hate you. I hate you more than you can imagine for what you did. So excuse me if I haven't been exactly hospitable toward you this weekend.'

Isaac sits, on the verge of tears himself. 'I couldn't let him hurt you anymore,' he whispers.

'Thank you,' she replies, 'for your concern. And as badly as I don't want to, I do understand. But you need to understand that I'm not your mother, Isaac. He wasn't going to kill me. I wasn't going to end up like her.'

Isaac nods. 'I know that, Jenny. Because I made sure of it.'

 

Maxie was speechless. After a moment or so, she asked, "Did she forgive you?"

"I don't think so, no. Not fully. Our relationship hasn't been the same since it happened. I don't think it ever will be. There's..." He paused, lowered his eyes. "There's a darkness in me, Maximilienne. A black shadow over my heart."

She shook her head. There was no blackness there. There was nothing but warmth and light. And every time he spoke to her, she could feel it radiating through his skin. "No, there isn't—"

"The things I've been through, the things I've seen... They left some black smudge across my soul, Max. And as I get older, the blackness just spreads—"

"Isaac, no," she said.

"I don't regret it," he said, his gaze suddenly turning hard, his tone grave. "I've killed roaches that I've felt more sympathy for. Do you understand?" Slowly, she nodded. "Do you think I'm a monster?"

"No," she said.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"No," she said.

 

Maxie got up to clean the kitchen. For a while, she said nothing, and Isaac remained on the couch, looking at the television but not really watching it. Finally, he stood up and went to her. "Should I go?" he asked.

She turned to him. "What? No. I mean..." She dropped her eyes. "If you want to go."

"I don't."

"Then don't."

He nodded. "Let me help you clean."

"No, no. I'm fine, I'll do it." She gently pushed him back toward a chair. "Just sit, alright? I'm almost done."

He sat down at the kitchen table and watched her as she moved about, collecting the dishes, wiping down the counters, putting away their meal. Cleansing the kitchen of all traces of him. He saw himself all over her face, though. Traces of him stained her skin, lingered in her eyes, on her mouth. How did Van miss it? he wondered.

"Will you teach me how to fight?" she asked, not turning away from the sink as she loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.

Isaac chuckled. "Who would you ever fight, Maxie? Who would ever want to fight you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I'd just like to know I could kill someone with my bare hands if I wanted to."

"You know," he said, lowering his voice, "I can do a lot of other things with my hands. Nonviolent things."

She stopped. Even from where he sat behind her, he could see her face redden. Then she continued to rinse the dishes. "Will you teach me?" she asked.

"The nonviolent things? I would love to teach you."

She shook her head. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. I know what you mean."

When the last of the dishes were in the washer, she came to the table with a pie. "Midnight snack?" she asked, setting it down before him.

"You mean three AM snack?"

A sigh escaped her. Was it so late already? That meant he had to be going soon. She got two small plates and two forks and cut them each a slice. By the time she got through with hers, he was already halfway through his second.

"You like it?" she asked. "It's a new recipe I'm trying."

"Mm," he said, swallowing a mouthful. "It's delicious. And I never eat sweets. Never."

She smiled, more than pleased. "Van hates when I make sweets. She doesn't want to eat them, but when they're here, she can't help it. So sometimes I make low-fat ones, even though they're never the same. I just don't see the point in low-fat snacks."

He nodded. "I agree. It's a double negative. Even though Van could stand to put on a few pounds. She's perfect now. But if she loses anymore weight..." He let his voice trail off and shook his head.

"Alex thinks I should lose weight."

Isaac's eyes shot up to her. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words, but he hints, you know?" She shrugged. "I mean, I can't blame him. He's used to the tall, skinny, model type girls he shoots with—"

"Do me a favor, Max, and don't make excuses for him."

Maxie shut her mouth but her eyes widened. "I'm not," she murmured.

"Good," he said. "Don't."

She frowned. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said nonchalantly. Too nonchalantly. "I just don't understand how someone like him manages to keep someone like you."

"You don't know me, Isaac."

"I know you well enough. You try to please everyone. You smile even when you're sad. You close your mouth when you have something to say. You make excuses for the people who treat you like shit, maybe because you think you deserve it. Is that it? You think you deserve to be treated like a maid? Or a trophy?"

"Well, what about you?" she snapped, finally looking up at him. "Aren't you the one who parades in here with groceries so I can cook you dinner? Aren't you the one who's come every night and told me exactly what you want to eat and watched television while I made it for you? Have you complained as I've served you, or refilled your glass when it was empty, or took your plate away when you were finished with it?"

Isaac glared at her from across the table, his eyes dark, his jaw taut. And then he stood—grabbed his plate—and left the table. "Wait, no, Isaac," she said, raising her hands to stop him. She stood up quickly, knocking over her chair. He placed his plate in the sink and turned to her.

"You're right. I'll go."

"No. That's not what I want. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did," he said.

She shook her head. "No, I didn't. I'm sorry, you just upset me—"

"It's me you stand up to? I'm the one you lash out at?" She bowed her head.

But it wasn't shame. It was because he had taken a step closer to her, and she couldn't stand to look into his beautiful face for a second longer. He was gorgeous when he was angry.

"Maxie," he said, his voice calmer. "I ask you to make me dinner because I know that you want to cook. But honestly, my coming here has very little to do with the food."

There were so many things she wanted to say. There were even more things she should have said, like You shouldn't come here anymore. Van wouldn't like it. But instead, she said, "Please, sit back down. Have a little bit more pie." And then, "Don't be upset with me." I can't take it.

He couldn't take it. Not her standing before him, her big eyes raised to his so innocently. Her small voice, her words. None of it.

Sighing, he moved past her and sat back down at the table. She went and fetched him another plate and picked up the knife to cut him another slice of pie, but he took it from her. "I'll do it."

The next night, Isaac arrived not with groceries, but with sandwiches. A bag full of sandwiches, all peanut butter and jelly, and a pitcher of lemonade. Maxie couldn't help but smile as he spread it out on the counter before her. "What is this?" she finally asked.

"Dinner," he replied. "I made dinner."

She picked up one of the sandwiches. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

For a moment, she stared at him as he stared back at her, her heart so full she thought she would explode with emotion any moment. Finally swallowing down the lump in her throat, she asked, "Want to go eat on the roof?"

"I'll grab the wine," he replied.