I raise a teasing eyebrow. “So where did YOU guys stay?”
“Where we always stay.” He stares back solemnly. “In our very separate dormitories.”
I snort.
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with the boyfriend?”
“Uh, no.” I stumble through an explanation about Norah being difficult and Max being busy, but it sounds hollow and forced. We’re silent for a minute. “How do you . . .” I’m struggling to find the right words. “How do you and Anna make it work?You make it seem easy.”
“Being with Anna is easy. She’s the one.”
The one. It stops my heart. I thought Max was the one, but . . . there’s that other one.
The first one.
“Do you believe in that?” I ask quietly. “In one person for everyone?”
Something changes in St. Clair’s eyes. Maybe sadness. “I can’t speak for anyone but myself,” he says. “But, for me, yes. I have to be with Anna. But this is something you have to figure out on your own. I can’t answer that for you, no one can.”
“Oh.”
“Lola.” He rolls his chair over to my side. “I know things are shite right now. And in the name of friendship and full disclosure, I went through something similar last year. When I met Anna, I was with someone else. And it took a long time before I found the courage to do the hard thing. But you have to do the hard thing.”
I swallow. “And what’s the hard thing?”
“You have to be honest with yourself.”
“Lola. You look . . . different.”
The next afternoon and I’m on Max’s doorstep, sans wig and fancy makeup. I’m wearing an understated skirt and a simple blouse, and my natural hair is loose around my shoulders. “Can I come in?” I’m nervous.
“Of course.” He moves aside, and I enter.
“Is Johnny here?”
“No, I’m alone.” Max pauses. “Do your dads know you’re here?”
“They don’t have to know where I am all the time.”
He shakes his head. “Right.”
I wander toward his couch, pick up the Noam Chomsky book on his coffee table, flip through the pages, and set it back down. I don’t know where to begin. I’m here for answers. I’m here to find out if he’s the one.
Max is staring at me strangely, about something other than my sudden presence. It makes me even more uncomfortable. “What?” I ask. “What’s that look?”
“Sorry. You . . . look a little young today.”
My heart wrenches. “Is that bad?”
“No. You look beautiful.” And he gives me that gorgeous half smile. “Come here.” Max collapses onto his beat-up couch, and I climb into his arms. We sit in silence. He waits for me to speak again, aware that I’m here for a reason. But I can’t form the words. I thought being here would be enough. I thought I’d know when I saw him.
Why is the truth so hard to see?
I trace his spiderwebs. Max closes his eyes. I lightly brush the boy in the wolf suit in the crook of his elbow. He releases a moan, and our lips find each other. He pulls me onto his lap. I’m helpless against the current.
“Lolita,” he whispers.
And my entire body freezes.