Over You (10 page)

“A
speed bump.” Max assesses Bridget’s crisis a few evenings later from Bridget’s living room. “That’s all this is.” Having doffed her parka, Max slides her spine down the frame of the picture window that looks out on Bank Street, the cause of Bridget’s 911 text.

“Speed bump?” Bridget snaps from where she hides behind a cabinet door in the open kitchen, all lights extinguished because of Taylor’s decision to spend the day hanging around his front stoop with his buds. Any movement Bridget makes is visible through that picture window, which takes up almost the entire front wall of the Stetsons’ ground floor.

“Okay, a road block,” Max concedes in the dark, tapping her cell on her tucked knees, her brow furrowing as the skateboarding boy-shaped shadows zip back and forth across the room.

“I’m being
held hostage
.”

“How’s your happy place?” Max asks, despite that there’s no denying hers will now be known as: Place She Will Spend Four Years Covered in Flop Sweat and Hiding in a Crouch. “Om?”

“He’s skating on it.” But at least Taylor will graduate high school and leave. Hugo has barely unpacked.

“Okay. Taylor’s been outside since when?”

“Noon. It’s
nine
. Taylor’s been racing around in front of my house on that crap skateboard for nine hours. They closed off the block for a street stoop sale. What’s everyone selling? Don’t know because
I’ve been in here
! For
nine hours
! Punished because my parents, who are happily enjoying the ballet, don’t believe in drapes! Trapped in darkness since the sun went down! And with your stupid rules about running into him, I missed the street sale, my cousin’s birthday, and now
Project Runway
night. Toss whatever transportation metaphors you want at it, just get—me—out—of this—house.”

From the street, the whirring gathers in volume, erupting in a clatter and a round of, “Dudes!” from Taylor’s friends. Max watches Bridget hit her breaking point, her palms pushing into the sides of her head like she’s attempting a “My Name Is Pudgy” face. Max doesn’t bother assessing Taylor’s friends in any detail. The point is there’s a potential audience. “Bridget …” Max buys time. “I’m just highlighting the larger truth here, in general you’re moving in a forward direction. This may feel like a setback—”

“This feels like torture.”

“But so do the SATs! And they’re moving you forward, out of high school. What we need to do …” Max drops below the sight line of the window ledge, which sits all of two feet from the floor, and crawls around the couch to the kitchen island. She pictures herself doing the same thing across the floor of the NYU student center.

“What we need to do?” Bridget prompts from where she stands above.

“What we need to do is, um, not be …” Max reaches a hand up, and Bridget pulls her to her feet. “Demoralized.” The two stare across the dim living room, out to where Taylor and his untiring crew are upgrading their skate ramp with a second trash can.

“I’m demoralized.”

“Bridget.”

“I am. That un-helmeted redhead used to cry before going to sleep because he loved me so much he couldn’t handle it. Now he doesn’t care if I live or breathe, and I’m the one trapped in the dark. In the dark, Max!”

“You were going to a
Project Runway
night. At whose house?”

“Lindsay’s. Now her and Shannon will just—”

“You’re hosting.” She puts her cell in Bridget’s hands. “Call Shannon. It’s good for him to get a hit of you just hanging out, and this is the perfect opportunity. Now, where’s your TV?”

An hour later, Max puts the finishing touches on Bridget’s Pure Color no-makeup makeup and turns her freshly applied healthy glow to the upstairs bathroom mirror.

“Wow, I look happy,” Bridget murmurs.

“Now imagine what you’ll look like smiling.” Max twists the top back into the mascara.

“Me next!” Lindsay, who Bridget has sworn up and down can be trusted, jockeys for the toilet-lid-cum-spa-chair. “This is so cool! It’s like we’re Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”

“We need to keep moving, Lindsay. Okay, guys—” Max turns to point the gold tube at the tiled wall as if it’s a map of the country they’re about to invade. “To review: Lights on! Down the stairs. Bridget to the phone, call the pizza place. Lindsay, you and Shannon chill on the stools at the island while she orders. Then Shannon pours drinks, Bridget grabs snacks. Lindsay, plates and napkins, and then everyone casually reconvenes in the basement rec room. Questions, comments, concerns?”

Bridget tugs at a lash as Lindsay suggests, “We could dance around the island lip-synching into a spatula?”

Max spins to Bridget. “That is not happening tonight. Oh God, or ever.” Max shudders.

“Listen to Max like she’s the Bible, Bridge,” Shannon encourages as they follow Max down the hall. “If she says lip-synch, you ask what tune.”

“Which I’m not saying,” Max repeats for clarification as nerves are running high.

“How many more weeks until Bridget has her Moment?” Shannon presses her lips together to refresh her Electric Ginger gloss—the hue that Max had picked out for her when they did her Moment, two months ago, for Todd Clark.

Max considers how Bridget’s prep has been going. “We haven’t selected the activity yet, but, if we get nothing else out of tonight, I’m ready to start her on skateboard lessons tomorrow. She’s getting close. She’s moving
forward
. Because today is not a what, Bridget?”

“U-turn? Lane merge?” Bridget, approaching the top step, shakes her hands at the wrist and cracks her neck to loosen up as she does before each basketball game.

“A setback. Okay!” Max steps down a stair to take stock while the three line up. Looking them over, she does a quick fly-pulled-up, hair-smoothed-down check. “And … action.”

Max flips the switch. The fixture over the stairs comes to life, illuminating the girls as they descend the worn runner a little too fast. “And kitchen light on—good, good.” Following her mandate to remain invisible to clients’ exes, Max inches down as she directs from the blind spot created by the vestibule. “You’re grabbing the phone there on the counter, Bridget—don’t freeze—turn to your friends. Friends, you’re not standing, you’re sitting on stools. Not like there’s guns at your backs—casual—more casual—slouch. Slouch! Somebody say something, talk to Bridget.” Max leans forward to see that the lights have drawn the attention of the guys, who glance over from where they’re taking a break on Taylor’s stoop. “Lindsay, Shannon, loosen her up. Say something, anything!!”

“Anything!” Shannon says shrilly.

“I forgot who I’m calling.” Bridget turns the color of the tomato dish towel hanging on the oven. “Who am I calling?!”

“Pizza,” Lindsay says through clenched teeth.

“Bridget.” Max aims for calm. “This isn’t the opening scene of a
Scream
movie, just dial the pizza place.”

Bridget’s knuckles whiten around the phone. “Forgot the number. Can’t think of the number. Oh my God, I can’t do this. Is he watching? Just tell me.
Is he?!
”

“Call 411,” Max urges. “
Talk to each other
. Recite a poem, anything—they can’t read your lips.”

“I’m gonna pee,” Lindsay warns.

And because she looks like she very well might, Max drops to her stomach and snakes the floor to arrive beneath their stools. Six saucer-sized eyes stare down at her. “Don’t!” Their faces shoot to the ceiling. “Not up! At each other! Look at each other, interact! Oh my God, Bridget
TALK
!”

“HiI’dliketoplaceanorderfordelivery?”

When finally in the sanctity of the basement’s windowless rec room, all three girls face-plant on the tan sectional, utterly drained. “How’d that go?” Bridget asks into the cushion.

“Great, really great.” Max flops back on the couch.

“Don’t even want pizza now,” Shannon moans.

“Shut up, when do you not want pizza?” Bridget pushes herself to sitting.

“True.” Shannon tugs the box down the coffee table and opens the lid.

“That was so intense.” Lindsay queues up the DVR. “I think I aged, like, ten years waiting for that frickin’ delivery guy to show.”

“But, wow, do you guys really know your alphabet,” Max marvels.

“Lip-synching would have been easier.” Bridget twists her hair over her shoulder before handing a slice to Max. “Here’s the game—every time Tim Gunn says, ‘Make it work’ everyone screams, and when Heidi says, ‘You’re either in or you’re out’ we have to switch seats before the whole phrase is out of her mouth.”

“It’s a little middle school, but it passes the time,” Shannon adds, dabbing a napkin at the grease dripping down her chin.

“Thanks, but I should let you guys—”

“Because in fashion, you’re either—”

“Move it!” Shannon calls over Heidi, inciting a scramble to reseat.

“You’re a natural, Max.” Bridget reaches to retrieve her plate of pizza from the other side of the table.

When Max says good-bye on Bridget’s doorstep at the episode’s end, the street is clear of any evidence of Taylor’s impromptu skate-a-thon. While Shannon and Lindsay pile three bowls with ice cream in the kitchen, Bridget pulls Max into a quick hug. “You saved me—again,” Bridget exclaims as she braces the door open.

“It’s what I do.” Max smiles, pulling Peter’s parka back on.

“Yeah, what else do you do?” Bridget leans against the door frame. “I mean, when not being Wonder Woman.” She points at the wallpaper she noticed on Max’s phone, which displays a shot of her crew before they hit Soho House.

“Oh, you know, I have my research—”

“But do you go out?” Bridget asks in a way that lets Max know she’s really been mulling it over. “I meant
out
out. Like, with guys. Like hooking up.”

“Oh! I mean, it’s challenging with my work schedule. Sure, yes. Totally. I totally go out with guys. All the time.”

Bridget glances over her shoulder at her chatting friends and steps closer to Max, dropping her voice. “I figured if
you
were going out, then there’s hope for me. Obviously you lived through someone like Taylor at some point and obviously you’re more than fine; you’re, like, perfect. But I couldn’t tell if you’d, you know, if you’d been in love again.”

Max feels a sickening twist beneath her ribs. “Of course! Yeah, a ton of times,” Max says too quickly. She’s seventeen; “a ton” sounds ridiculous.

“Good!” Bridget hugs her sweater to her chest, her face breaking open in relief. “That’s so good to hear. I just really need to know that when I’m done with your program, I’ll stop feeling so I-see-your-face-in-my-dreams about Taylor. Stop being attracted to him.” Bridget’s eyes dart up to Max’s, having arrived at the truth of her concern. “I will stop, won’t I?”

“Absolutely! Ex, Inc. has a one hundred percent success rate. Every single girl who has completed the program through her Moment honestly couldn’t care less about her ex.”

“Including you?”

Up until she saw Hugo again Max would’ve jumped to reassure Bridget. She would have said,
Oh my God, girl, he could plant one on me and I’d rather be watching Gaga on YouTube
. But now it’s impossible to gloss over Max’s own recovery, or lack thereof, so breezily. “Look, just because you’re still attracted to Taylor doesn’t mean the program isn’t working—or you’re not healing.”

“It doesn’t?” Bridget sounds understandably underwhelmed.

“No … no. That attraction … that’s just chemical. Hormonal jet lag. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s your soul mate—” Blessedly, Max’s phone starts to ring.

“Next call?” Bridget asks.

“Yes.” Max lays her palm on Bridget’s crossed arm. “Focus on tonight’s success, not the post-hookup cling of that sweaty ass ball across the street. Ten hours of rolling back and forth twenty feet on a board, culminating in hurling himself over a recycling bin? Really, Bridget, this is the love of your life? Father of your kids? Man to grow old with?”

Bridget doesn’t answer.

“Gotta run. Hey, you’re either in or you’re—”

“Out!” Bridget flicks a finger in the air as Max finally answers her phone.

A few blocks later, Max has instructed Phoebe to freeze a client’s car keys in water rather than risk her using her learner’s permit after dark for another “casual drive-by.” She slows beneath the light of a newsstand to slide her phone into her purse, her eye caught by the banner on the Page Six supplement of the
New York Post
.
REAL ESTATE ROYALTY SHOPPING BIG APPLE FOR HIS PRINCESS
! And there’s Hugo with some blond nestled against him as they dodge past velvet ropes. Max lunges for the paper, but it’s impossible to see the girl’s face. She scans the paragraph, but there’s no name. Shopping for his princess?! A girlfriend? Now Max has to be in class with Hugo and a girlfriend?! Okay, that’s just too much. She needs to talk about this roadblock, speed bump, setback, whatever.
What
is she going to do? She returns the paper and calls Zach.

“Max?” he yells over very loud music.

“Zach? Can you talk?”

“Max?”

“Yes, can you talk?”

“Can’t hear you! I’m at a concert with Tommy. Will you be up in two hours? Don’t answer. Can’t hear. I’ll call in two!”