“Hey, Mr. Bosse, it’s good to be home and feel some sun.”
A soft thump beside me diverts me attention, and I see Mindi’s bag of marshmallows lying on the grass between us. Zeus quickly inhales one that’s rolled beside him, and I move to grab the bag before he can get it. I straighten and reach forward to hand her what seconds ago seemed like her reason for breathing, to see that she’s completely oblivious, her focus transfixed next door.
“Dear lord, what do those boys drink? I want some.”
Max has been my neighbor since I was ten. He’s only two years older than me, the same age as Kendall, however, he’s never paid much attention to any of us Bosse girls. Kendall had made it her personal mission to bait him one summer, spending an exorbitant amount of time and energy thinking up ways to catch his attention. Me, being the youngest, and her partner in crime, had assisted in many of her missions, but he never did more than give us the briefest of acknowledgments. Eventually she lost interest.
I like to blame the fact that I paid too much attention to Max, watching his movements and activity over the years, because of my role in playing wingman, but that’s only a half truth. Something about him has always intrigued me. He always remained slightly distant, looking at everyone with an edge of suspicion.
When Kendall and Max started high school, two summers after her failed attempt to catch his attention, she was bent out of shape for a while when Max began dating nearly every girl in their class. She brushed it off, calling him a manwhore, and focused her sights elsewhere, but I continued to watch.
I turn and follow Mindi’s gaze, and my eyes widen as I stand frozen in a moment of awe. Max has always been attractive, hence the many girls going home with him. He’d always been more built than the other guys in school. I’d quickly learned it was partly out of necessity; he and his two older brothers—who we used to refer to as Hank the Tank and Billy the Bully—would work out with each other incessantly, and then beat each other senseless. I recall my mom screaming for my dad to go break up another one of their knock-down, drag-out fights, certain that one of them was going to kill the other on multiple occasions. They never did; however gashes and bruises were frequently worn.
Before becoming better friends with Sharon, my mom deducted it was because Max and his brothers didn’t have a father, and therefore they were competing to hold the alpha male title. I’m sure she was right to some degree, but we try not to encourage our mom, the non-therapist, to psychoanalyze things.
Now Max’s arms and chest both look broader and more defined, covered with a snug fitting black T-shirt. A pair of jeans hang loose on his hips. The sight of his strong jaw and cheekbones has my fingers constricting with the desire to trace the contours, even from here. Although I’m a good fifty feet from him, I swear I can see the piercing clarity of his deep blue eyes that are such a beautiful and rare color, I’m sure Crayola would be inspired to replicate the hue.
It’s been three years since I’ve seen Max. The random framed pictures of him hanging on the walls the few times I’ve visited Sharon and my memories do not do him justice. The sight of him is distracting. Really distracting.
Catching Emily as she wanders over to us, I head inside to stop myself from staring at him any longer.
“Did I hear a motorcycle out there with y’all?” Mom asks, taking Emily and hugging her.
Emily nods and her whole body seems to bounce up and down before my mom turns to me for confirmation.
“Yeah, Max is home.”
“Oh good! Sharon was worried he wouldn’t be back in time. I’ll have to make sure your daddy took enough meat out to grill. I bet those boys can eat a ton. I guess he had to go into San Diego to file something for school. Did you see Jameson and Landon out there too?”
My mind reels, trying to take in everything she just said, focusing on the part of them eating a ton. Is she saying that they’re coming over? I shake my head slowly in response. “Who’s Landon? How’d you know I met Jameson?”
Her lips curl into a knowing smile, but before I can ask anything more, Mindi makes her way inside, loudly complaining about how hot she is and about Kendall being too close to her.
“Ace, I’m grilling. You want to give me a hand?” My dad’s soft voice is hardly coherent over Kendall bickering, providing my answer.
“Are Jenny and Lilly coming tonight?”
“No, it sounds like Jenny and Paul are going through quite the rough patch again,” he answers with a sigh. Opening the lid of the already hot grill, he begins to scrape it clean.
“Dave!” Dad and I both turn, hearing my mom. She’s smiling her too happy of a grin, a sure sign that she has something up her sleeve.
My tension rises as the reality of her smile emerges from the house. Sharon’s following my mom, and right behind her is Max. His bright blue eyes are like beacons. My fingers constrict on the cushion of my seat as I work to avoid him and focus on Zeus, who’s close on his heels.
Instantly feeling a rush of self consciousnesses, I peer down at the navy blue shorts I’d thrown on this morning after my shower. I’m glad it was hot today, requiring shorts opposed to my trademark Sunday sweatpants, but my heart drums when my eyes seem to take too long to fall to the tops of my favorite pair of black Converse shoes.
I stand to greet them, carefully wedging myself between my dad and the chair so he covers nearly half of me. My dad’s a big man, standing at six-two and weighing around two hundred and fifty pounds; my five feet six, narrow frame is pretty easy to conceal.
“Sharon, I’m so glad you and Max can join us! Ace and I are just getting the grill ready!” Their long friendship that’s progressed from professional to personal is apparent in her warm smile.
To this day it’s not an uncommon occurrence for a woman to approach my father and shamelessly flirt with him, much to my sisters’ and my mortification. I know that my father’s attractive—he’s half Puerto Rican and half French—and it’s obvious that he stays fit when looking at his caramel skin. Flecks of gray sprinkle his thick, nearly black hair, which only adds character to him, and he has the warmest dark brown eyes I’ve ever seen. People often say I have his eyes, but I know without resentment that his blow mine out of the water. On top of his good looks, my father is the smartest person I know. But there’s just something inexplicably weird about having someone hit on your parent, even when they adamantly decline any advances. We all tend to be a little sensitive to this subject, but Sharon makes it overtly clear—and always has—that her friendship is completely benign.
“I can’t believe you guys are out here cooking! You must be exhausted,” Sharon says, turning to Max. “David, Kendall, and Ace just got back from France.” I work to keep my eyes focused on Sharon, rather than looking at Max.
“It may be an early night for me,” Dad admits with a grin.
“Eric called,” Mom says, handing me my renegade cell phone. “He said he’s running late … again.” Her lips press into a thin line, and her artfully sculpted eyebrows rise showing her displeasure.
“How is Eric?” Sharon asks. Before I can respond, she turns toward Max again and explains, “Ace is dating a young man in advertising that she met at school. They’ve been dating for quite some time now.” Max raises a large hand and rakes it over his short cropped hair that’s nearly black, then pushes it forward again before dropping it loosely to his side. His eyes focus on me as though he’s awaiting a response, and it takes me a couple of awkward moments to recall one had been asked.
“Yes, he’s quite ambitious,” my dad offers, apparently sensing my inability to speak.
“I do try!” I look up and smile as Eric appears on the patio dressed in a pair of plaid shorts and polo.
“I’m Eric, Eric Boyd,” he says, extending his hand to Max, before I have the opportunity to introduce the two.
“Max.” he offers, accepting Eric’s hand in what could quite possibly be the most awkward handshake ever as Eric vigorously shakes their joined hands with forced enthusiasm.