Not the Marrying Kind Read online

  Max’s boot connected with my foot and stayed there—the lightest pressure. And the smile blossoming on his face was sweet and appreciative. “I feel the same way.”

  My mom dragged her acoustic guitar onto her lap, and she and my dad began softly playing an instrumental version of one of their first songs. It was like light background music—they literally had never been able to sit in silence. But it fit this moment, fit this little shared family that was giving me those warm-and-fuzzies again.

  “Did you get some of these details from my extremely nosy older sister?”

  “There was a play-by-play,” my dad mused. I’d given Roxy the play-by-play but trusted she’d left out the filthy, filthy sex we’d had in that closet. “She and Edward had plans already or she would have been here.”

  Sex swing was probably what those plans were.

  “Now that we’ve embarrassed Max, we brought over a few extra posters that Mateo designed,” Rafael said, elbows on his knees. “The three of us papered the block today.”

  “Just like the good old days,” Max said, with a meaningful nod towards his friends. “We’ve got less than a hundred tickets left to sell and seven days to go, so we’re trying to put this thing front and center.”

  Mateo dug through a large, leather bag. Revealed a poster in the same design as the ones he’d created for the benefit concert—black-and-white images against comic book-style backdrops. This one was a picture of my parents. Dad was jumping in the air like a jackknife, tongue out. Mom was mid-drum-solo, looking slightly terrifying. “I made this one for you guys. Rafael and I are huge fans, if we didn’t make that clear earlier.”

  My parents took it, gazing at it with sheer wonder. “Would you look at that. You painted us like heroes.”

  “You are heroes, Mom,” I said softly. “To a lot of people. Me included.”

  There were a few things Lou and Sandy Quinn felt compelled to impart upon their daughters that went beyond their devotion to music and the arts. My parents were rabblerousers to their core; they protested, they marched, they fought for what they knew was right and were always helping our neighbors. When I was thirteen, my middle school had implemented a dress code just for girls that I believed was sexist, unequal, and unfair. My parents hadn’t hesitated—they drove me right to the school board meeting with my posters and petitions and took me out for ice cream when the school finally gave in and scrapped the policy.

  We were Quinns. We always fought back.

  She squeezed my hand. “What you and Max are doing, for Pop, for our community, it means the world.”

  Pop cleared his throat. “This isn’t the first time things have been tough for us. Especially after me and Max’s mom got divorced, I was struggling to promote it. Keep the doors open.” He waved his hand at my parents. “That’s when I met Lou and Sandy. And they begged me for that Tuesday night slot. Changed everything for me.”

  My dad held up the poster, examining it from all angles. “Mateo, you captured the spirit of The Red Room perfectly. It’s so fucking alive.”

  “It’s alive at a time when this city wants more things to be dead and boring,” he said. “That’s what my gallery is all about. Reminding us that we live in the most vibrant city in the world. We should celebrate the hell out of it, and we should do that through the arts.”

  My mom stopped playing for a second, laying the guitar down across her lap. “When we begged you for that spot, Lou and I were dangling by a thread. We had bills to pay and two daughters relying on us, and we knew if we didn’t start building a fan base, a community, we weren’t going to be able to keep living our dream. You saved us as much as we saved you, Pop.”

  Pop smiled, turning ruddy-faced again. “Yeah, well. People didn’t like punk music back in the day. They definitely didn’t like it when you started headlining. But we showed them, didn’t we?”

  “No one gets to control music. No one gets to control art or inspiration or what we do with it,” my dad said. “It is our right, as humans, to reach for as much joy as possible. Even if its fucking messy.”

  Pop chuckled. “Yeah. Sometimes it gets a little messy.”

  I held my tongue. I’d helped to untangle a lot of those messes for my parents over the years. Because bills did need to get paid. But after last night’s burst of extreme joy and total, chaotic happiness, I couldn’t find it in my heart to resist what they were saying. Which I so often did. Max was messy in the best way, and my feelings for him were an unruly sunburst of sensation.

  Setting deadlines and task-oriented outcomes to that sunburst would take away all the fun.

  Not that I’d ever tell my sister she’d been right… again.

  “Luckily, we got Max and Fi and Mateo and Rafael and that fancy English dude, Edward, all helping out,” Pop continued. “I guess I forgot that people care or whatever.”

  “They do care, Pop,” Max said. “Or whatever.”

  My dad was still fawning over the poster, asking Mateo questions about his medium and which materials he used. Rafael watched his fiancé with loving adoration, the kind of look I saw happen a dozen times a day between Edward and Roxy, between even my parents, who’d been together for decades now. The way Rafael gazed at Mateo—like he was responsible for the moon and the stars—had never been a factor on any spreadsheet or contract of mine.

  My mom opened the cooler by her feet and handed a beer to Max. “Much obliged,” he said, raising it towards her.

  “Congratulations on your new job,” my mom said. “You must be so excited, although we’ll miss you terribly. Seems like you just rolled back into town.”

  Pop’s brow furrowed, but he stayed silent.

  Max, however, was all easy confidence. “Thank you,” he said. “To be honest, it hasn’t really hit me yet. I’ve been a little distracted.”

  I stared down at the floor to hide my blush.

  “I guess you could say it’s a dream job. Doing custom motorcycle builds for celebrities out in L.A. Plus I’ve lived all over but not spent much time on the West Coast. It’s time for me to take these itchy feet on out there probably.”

  I fiddled with my beer label, trying to appear as relaxed and casual as Max.

  “How exciting,” my mom said. “Sounds very creative.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “That’s the thing. Being a mechanic is in my blood, but it can be a little predictable. It’s a job I like that lets me play with bikes and live all over. This one could be different though.”

  If Max and I kept seeing each other right up to the day he left, it would still mean we’d been dating for barely a week. So blurting out my very confusing feelings about wanting him to stay, to search for a job here, felt much too fast and way too intense.

  Right?

  The truth of the matter was that if I’d just gotten the job I’d always dreamed of and a man I was dating asked me to stay, I’d be on the first plane out with nary a wave back.

  I just couldn’t, couldn’t, deny the twisting in my gut at picturing Max climbing on that bike and riding off into the literal sunset. Away from me.

  “I’m going to miss it here, though,” Max continued. He tapped my foot with his boot, getting my attention. “It was easier to leave when I was younger.” He paused, caught my eye. “It’s much, much harder now.”

  Pop rubbed his head and looked uncomfortable. I’d known Pop most of my life and figured he’d rather pull his fingernails out than tell Max how he really felt.

  My mom cleared her throat next to me. “Yes, well, with the things they have these days, like all that video chatting, I’ve heard it’s so easy to stay in touch.”

  Max pressed his boot hard against my foot. “I heard the same thing. Would love to give that a try.”

  My heart danced a fucking jig in my chest.

  “I’ll go grab our dinner,” I said, standing up quickly. “There should be enough if you guys want to share?”

  “There is nothing I want more,” Mateo said.

  “Amazing.” I so
unded nervous. But Max’s words had made me so. “And I’ll find the paper cups, grab some plates.”

  “Fiona Quinn, you are a fucking genius,” my dad cheered.

  “Oh, I’m well aware.” I slowly backed out of the garage, only fully exhaling when I was inside our house and on the second floor. I dug through our hallway closet, barely suppressing the urge to organize it. But I pressed on, cups in hand, stomach all jumpy.

  Which is why I screamed when strong fingers grabbed me around the elbow and yanked me into my old, dark bedroom.

  30

  Fiona

  Max pushed me back against the door and crashed our mouths together. It wasn’t a rough or sloppy kiss, though—it was sweet, tender, and full of yearning. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on tight. He tilted his head, deepened the kiss, groaning low in his throat. We stayed that way for a few long, dreamy minutes until we finally surfaced for air.

  His face was far too handsome, backlit by the setting sun through my open bedroom window. “So.” He smoothed my hair from my face, kissed my forehead. “This was a fucking setup, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. My parents called Pop, Pop got you here, then they called me.”

  “Do you think they like me?”

  I burst out laughing. “Lou and Sandy have loved you and your dad for two decades. Even if you are, technically, sneaking into their daughter’s childhood bedroom to kiss her brains out.”

  He broke into a wicked, wicked smile. Tilted my chin up with one finger. “Sneaking into bedrooms is kind of my thing, princess. And I’ll take any opportunity I can get to kiss those pretty lips of yours.”

  “Such a fucking flirt.”

  “You like it,” he said, lips brushing mine. I kissed him this time, brushing my tongue against his, enjoying the illicit feeling of his palms skating down my back to squeeze my ass. I hissed in a breath.

  “Still sore?” he asked.

  “In the best way.”

  He gave me one last kiss before slowly untangling us. Wiping his mouth, he stepped back. “One more minute and your parents would really hate what I’d be about to do.”

  “Save it for that second date, huh?”

  He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I turned to go but he stopped me. “Can I see your room? I’m guessing it’s a shrine to good grades and studying.”

  I flipped on the lights, revealing a princess-pink room full of books, wall calendars, and framed achievement awards. “You’re not wrong.”

  “Holy shit, Fiona.” Max was smiling, walking around my old room, looking sexy as sin in his black tee shirt. The muscles in his arms rippled with tattoos, biceps bulging as he brushed his dark hair from his forehead. In high school, I would have certainly enjoyed sneaking Max into my bedroom. Or sneaking out to go meet him.

  “This was my sanctuary.” I leaned against my white desk, placing my hand on a faded stack of wedding magazines. The bookcase next to it was full of my favorite books, neatly arranged by spine color. “My parents expected Roxy and me to get good grades, but their definition of good was pretty loose. And they were always more concerned with education that took place outside of the classroom. I was pretty self-motivated to score those straight A’s and would hide up here, with earplugs, when this house was too loud and chaotic.”

  He looked at me over his shoulder. “I can see how that could happen. Before you showed up, your parents were playing a Misfits album at ear-splitting decibels while giving us a tour of their garage that included a lot of drum simulations.”

  “That’s them, all right,” I said. “They’ll smother you with love, but it does come at an especially loud volume.”

  He walked over to the bookshelf, picking up a framed picture of me and my sister in our ballerina costumes. “Tiny terrors, I bet.”

  “We certainly scared a preschool teacher or too. That’s from our ‘Young Americans’ performance.”

  He looked up. “You’re somethin’ else, Fiona Quinn.”

  Max wandered back to me, sliding his fingers along the top of my hand, where it rested on the stack of magazines. I thought he might ask, but instead he tugged me toward the door. “We should get back. Before I ravage you here and ruin my squeaky-clean reputation.”

  I took his hand. But didn’t miss the strange way he looked at those magazines covered with brides and grooms on their special day. I was still leaping, still willing to drop into the scary parts of being with someone. But Max knew where I stood on weddings and marriage—which were still a far cry from dating.

  I hushed those thoughts as quickly as I could, instead focusing on his fingers entwined with mine, and the protected, comforting sensation that gave me. Grinned as we passed picture after picture of my family with Max stopping to examine each one. By the time we slipped back into the garage, Thai food in hand, I’d convinced myself it was a trick of shadow and lighting. Nothing to be too worried about.

  My parents were both laughing uproariously at a story Pop was telling.

  Mateo glanced up at and shrugged at Max. “Sorry, hermanito. It’s the ‘Embarrassing Max Story Hour’ in here.”

  Rafael shook his head. “We didn’t even tell them about the time you dated two cheerleaders at the same time who fought over you in the school cafeteria.”

  I shoved a smirking Max hard in the arm. “You did what?”

  “It’s only embarrassing because they spent weeks in a fight over it. But then ended up falling in love with each other.”

  “Miranda and Claire are extremely happy together now,” Rafael said.

  “Yeah?” Max brightened. “Good for them. And what can I say? I bring people together.”

  I rolled my eyes as we set the food out, not missing the secret glances my parents kept sneaking over at Max and me. I’d never brought a ton of men home to meet them—because rarely did I have a relationship last long enough to do so. The fact that Max was a person they’d known and loved for a long time made this entire evening seem heavier, more important, than if he was some random guy.

  “You guys take the couch for a bit,” Mateo said with a wink. I scooped up a plate of pad thai, grabbed my beer, and snuggled on the couch with my feet tucked beneath me. Max joined not a second later, laying a firm hand on my knee and squeezing. Keeping it there, tethering us together, while still looking relaxed. Maybe he was feeling it too, that sense of connection that existed between our families.

  “What was Max like as a kid?” I asked Pop.

  “Charming and handsome,” Max said.

  “He was awkward as the rest of us, sadly,” Mateo said, shoving Max’s knee. He laughed, gave me another little squeeze.

  Pop leaned forward a little. “Me and Max were a real team, especially after the divorce. But even before then, we did everything together. Go to the park, watch movies. Max would do his homework in the office at The Red Room while I worked.”

  “Mateo’s mom would cook us dinner sometimes when she knew Pop was busy,” Max said. “And Mateo’s dad would help me with my math homework since I was terrible at it.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Pop was smiling. Really smiling. “But Max, I don’t know, he always loved people. He’d shoot the shit with bands coming through like he was a reporter for Rolling Stone. Made friends with everyone. All his teachers always told me he was their favorite.”

  Max laughed beneath his breath. “Yeah. We had a lot of fun together, didn’t we, old man?”

  Pop nodded. Coughed.

  My mom was strumming on her guitar again, plucking at a melody that was pleasant with a pop music hook. My dad hummed a little, matching her perfectly. “You must have a ton of friends on the road,” she said to Max. “Or is it hard to connect with people?”

  I saw Max’s jaw tighten—but it was probably imperceptible to everyone else. He lifted a shoulder, cool as can be. “It’s pretty easy to meet people, especially when I take jobs in bigger cities. I usually hang with mechanics from the shop, meet some folks out at bars and stu
ff.”

  “That sounds nice,” she said. “Lou and I always meet the most interesting and unique people on the road. I do miss this, though, this community. Hard to build when you’re always on the move. Although that might only be my experience, not yours.”

  Max glanced at Mateo. “It’s not always the same. You’re right. I’m a little more on my own, to be honest.”

  I’d always thought Max’s lifestyle sounded lonely, although I understood that was mostly because it wasn’t the right lifestyle for me. But every time he talked about it, there was an air of forced levity I couldn’t place. Maybe he was lonelier than he realized.

  “It’s why I’ll always campaign for Max to stay here,” Mateo said. “We’ll be slicing the tires on that bike from now until eternity.”

  Max drank his beer, shrugging again. “Nah, it won’t be so bad. A week after I’m gone, you’ll barely miss me.”

  But Mateo didn’t joke back. And I busied myself with eating instead of clinging to Max’s arm like the girlfriend I actually wasn’t.

  “I’ll tell you right now, that won’t be the case,” my dad said with an extra-kind smile my way. “Regardless of where you end up, Max, you’ll always be family around here.”

  “Thank you,” Max said. “And, uh, are we gonna see an intimate Hand Grenades show or what?”

  “Yes, you damn well are,” my mom said. She spun out of her chair. “I see Vanessa and Hank coming up the walk now.”

  “I’ll order some more Thai food,” Rafael said. “And beer.”

  The rest of The Hand Grenades members appeared, setting the practice in motion, and it wasn’t long before the garage filled with the sounds of my parents practicing the songs they’d be playing at The Red Room benefit show. We shared food and shared beer and even more stories.

  Max tucked me against his side, one arm holding me tight, and kept his lips in my hair for most of the evening.

  And I worried—desperately—that even after one date, I was already too far gone for him.

  31