Lola and the Boy Next Door(72)

Max is furious. He pushes me off his lap and stands up. “You really want to have this conversation? Right now?”

“When would be a better time? When, Max?”

He swipes up his lighter from the side table. “I thought we’d been over the age thing. I thought it was something that bothered other people.”

“I just want the truth. Do you love me? Or do you love my age?”

“How the HELL can you say that?” Max throws his lighter across the room. “In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you. You chased ME down. I didn’t want this.”

“What you mean you ‘didn’t want this’?You didn’t want me?”

“That’s not what I said!” he bursts out. “Oh, I wanted you. But guys like me aren’t supposed to go after girls like you, remember? Isn’t that what we’re talking about? Jesus. I don’t know what you want me to say. It sounds like every answer I give you will be the wrong one.”

The truth hits me with a vicious punch to the gut. Every answer is the wrong one.

“You’re right,” I whisper.

“Damn right, I’m right.” A pause. “Wait. Right about what?”

“There’s no right answer. It doesn’t exist. There’s no way this can end well.”

He stares me down. For several moments, neither of us speaks.

“You’re not serious,” he says at last.

I force myself to stand. “I think I am.”

“You think you are.” His jaw hardens. “After your parents. After Sunday brunch? Do you have any idea what I’ve put up with to be with you?”

“But that’s just it! You shouldn’t have to ‘put up’ with—”

“Did I have a choice?” Max closes the distance between us.

“Yes. No! I don’t know . . .” I’m shaking. “I’m just trying to be honest.”

“Oh.” His nose is an inch from mine. “You’re ready to be honest.”

I swallow hard.

“Honestly,” he says, “I don’t know who you are. Every time I see you, you’re someone different. You’re a liar, and you’re a fake. Despite what you think, despite what your dads have told you, there is nothing special about you. You’re just a little girl with a lot of issues. That is what I think about you.”

And then . . . my world goes black.

“Love,” I blurt. “I thought you loved me.”

“I thought I did, too. Thank you for making things so clear.”

I stumble backward in horror. For one crazy moment, I want to throw myself at his feet and beg for his forgiveness. Promise to be someone else, promise to be one person.

Max crosses his arms.

And then . . . I want to hurt him.

I step back into him, my nose against his. “Guess what?” I hiss back. “I am a liar. I do like Cricket Bell. You’re right. I’ve been hanging out with him this whole time! And he’s been in my bedroom, and I’ve been in his. And I want him, Max. I want him.”

He’s shaking with rage. “Get. Out.”

I grab my purse and throw open his front door.

“I never want to see you again.” His voice is deathly low. “You are nothing to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you for making things so clear.”





chapter twenty-five



I’m dizzy. Seeing spots. Stumbling. Walk or bus? Walk or bus? I’m walking. Yes, I’ll walk home. But then I see the bus and somehow I’m on the bus and I’m sobbing my guts out. A hipster with an ironic mustache shifts down a row. An elderly man in a baseball cap knits his brows at me, and the woman with the quilted jacket looks as if she actually wants to say something. I twist away and continue weeping.

And then I’m pulling the cord and I’m off the bus and I’m staggering uphill. Toward home. It feels like someone is clawing at my stomach, my chest, my heart. Like my insides are being ripped from my body and stitched to my skin for the world to ridicule.

How could he? How could he say those things?

How could my life change so drastically, so quickly? One minute we were fine. The next . . . oh God. It’s over. I want to crawl into bed and disappear. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to think or do anything.

Max. I clutch my chest. I can’t breathe.

Get inside, Dolores. You’re almost there.

I’m only two houses away when I see them. The Bell family. They’re wrapped in a heated discussion in the center of their small driveway. Mr. Bell—tall and slender like the twins, but with sandy hair—is shaking his head and gesturing at the road. Mrs. Bell—shor ter, but with the twins’ same dark hair—is rubbing her fingers against her temples. Calliope’s back is to me, hands on her hips. And Cricket . . . he’s staring straight at me. He seems shaken, no doubt by both my sudden appearance and how I actually appear. The rest of his body turns to face me, which reveals another surprise.