But that wasn’t reality. I’d lose my paycheck, lose my apartment. I couldn’t just give up my life to rely on a man. That was the epitome of stupid. I’d wanted that once, and it had turned out so badly I still couldn’t even speak his name.
And that was what it came down to, wasn’t it? That was why I was here, eight years after The Bad Thing happened, sitting alone in a car in a naughty nurse outfit, lonely and sick of it. Because of The Bad Thing when I was eighteen. The thing I still hadn’t gotten over.
Thinking about it made me cold, so I had the strength to pick up the phone again and type, Sorry, I can’t. I need the money. I have to go.
Then I turned off my phone.
Chapter 12
Max
“You got any good clothes?” my best friend Devon Wilder asked me on the phone.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I said, rifling through my cupboards for some peanut butter to put on my toast. I thought about Devon’s court dates, my dad’s funeral. “Probably.”
“Wear them,” he said. “You’re coming to the theater with me and Olivia in two hours.”
“The hell I am,” I said, just because I was ornery and the thought of putting on nice clothes was intimidating. “It’s Friday night. Maybe I have plans.”
“Yeah,” Devon said in obvious disbelief. “What are you doing right now, Max?”
“Eating peanut butter toast for dinner,” I admitted.
“Exactly. So put on some nice shit. I’ll even send a limo, because that’s what we’re doing for Liv’s sister.”
“Wait,” I said, putting the peanut butter jar down on the counter. “Liv’s sister is coming?” I knew she had a sister, but I’d never seen her.
“Liv insisted,” Devon said. “She wants me and her sister to get along, do something nice. So I got a theater box for Macbeth, but it has four seats. So I’m bringing you.”
I didn’t like this one bit, though I loved Macbeth. “What exactly is my purpose in this box?” I asked him. “Just so I’m clear. Is my purpose to be a buffer between you and Olivia’s sister in case it’s awkward? Or am I just supposed to round out the third wheel?”
“Jesus,” Devon said. “You’re still doing the overthinking thing. I thought you had a shrink for that.”
Devon Wilder was literally the only man on the planet who had a license to make shrink jokes at me, and that was only because I’d known him since I was six and I literally owed him my life. “I do,” I said. “I just hate surprises.”
“There are no surprises,” Devon said. “Your purpose, since you asked, is to show up and watch Macbeth like the nerd that you are. I’m going to guess you’ve already read it, right?”
“Since I’m semi-literate, unlike some people, yes I have,” I said. I had to get him back for the shrink joke.
“Then get dressed, Max, and be ready in an hour,” Devon said. And since he knew that my anxiety was a real thing, not some figment of my imagination, he added, “It’ll be easy. Liv’s sister is nice. You don’t have to talk to anyone else. Just come out with us and watch the play.”
“Is the sister hot?” I asked suspiciously. I’d never known Devon to give a shit about my love life, but he was domesticated now, so who knew? Maybe he wanted a setup, which I would avoid like the plague.
“No comment,” Devon said, which meant yes, and also that Olivia was in the room with him.
I flinched. I didn’t want a night with a hot woman, since I’d already been mostly dumped by the hottest woman in San Francisco. Still, Devon was my best friend. In my head, I asked Dr. Weldman what to do, and he said I should go, so I said, “Okay, I’ll get ready.”
I found a pair of dark dress pants, and a pair of dark shoes. The drape of the material was a little off on my leg—jeans always looked better—but it wasn’t enough to matter. I found a gray dress shirt and a belt, but since it was war
m out I left off the jacket and tie. Maybe, with five million bucks in the bank, I should learn to wear a jacket and tie one of these days. Today was not that day.
I checked myself in the mirror. Not bad, but my beard was getting out of hand. I had just finished giving it a trim when I realized the limo would be pulling up any minute. A limousine at Shady Oaks was an invitation for the driver to get mugged, hit on, or sold some terrible drugs, so I grabbed my wallet and hustled down the corridor as fast as my leg would go.
And it was there, waiting for me, right in front of the front entrance. As I got in, I had two crazy thoughts at once: first, that this was how rich people live; and second, that technically I was one of those rich people. Technically I could have bought my own theater box and ordered my own limo. I could have bought a thousand-dollar suit for the occasion. Technically, I could leave Shady Oaks tomorrow for something better.
Instead of the usual anxiety the thought brought on, I contemplated it calmly on the ride into San Francisco, downtown to the theater. Five million dollars. I’d used some of it to pay off my debts—debts that had been insurmountable, but had cost me only a fraction of that money. And in true Max Reilly fashion, I’d pretended that the rest of it didn’t exist, because it was too much change at once, and I hadn’t been able to think about it. It was like a building so big that you had to back up and up and up before you could really see the whole thing. If you stood at the foot of the Empire State Building, all you saw when you looked up was metal and clouds.
But now, I thought maybe I could see it. I could think about things I wanted to do. Some of the small things for myself—my leg was showing some wear and tear, and now I could afford a new one, which was far from cheap. A new apartment in a nicer area.