Over You (13 page)

She sees in his face for a split second such a genuine sadness it takes her breath away. She looks at Ben, really noticing him for the first time.
Was
he about to kiss her the other night? Did she want him to?

“Benjamin!” his father calls—Max can’t figure out from where, his voice just sounds unsettlingly omnipresent. “Did you pick up my good suit from the cleaners?”

“Dad, Thanksgiving isn’t for another two weeks! I’ll get it!” Ben shouts at the fireproof tiles.

“I can’t find it!”

“That’s because it isn’t here!” Ben shakes his head.

“Do you need to go upstairs?” Max asks.

“Nah. I used to think I had to be there all the time. He ate spaghetti every night.”

“My dad still lives on omelets. He finally got a girlfriend—Debbie—but they do take-out. Your essay is going to be really good.”

“Thanks.”

“I totally get that. Wanting to serve. I found a way that makes me happy with my work. It’s … this thing … that I can’t really talk about.” Max realizes this is the first time Ex, Inc. has come up when talking to a guy and that she has no idea how to even begin to explain it. “It’s just making the college thing really stressful.”

“It’s intense,” Ben says quietly.

She tilts her face inquiringly.

“This feeling that everything I do right now—every test I take, every paper I hand in, this essay … every choice I make between now and Christmas—will decide my life. Will determine if I get stuck like him or not,” he blurts what he has tried pointlessly to put into words with Taylor.

Max nods as she looks at his face—she can see the band of tension above his eyes. “I didn’t believe life worked like that, that it could all boil down to one thing. One choice.”

“Didn’t believe, as in past tense?” he asks. “What about now?”

She doesn’t know.

He fidgets with his laptop, realizing how stupid this was inviting her over tonight—she’s such a cool girl, she must see right through him.

“Sorry I wasn’t much help,” she says.

“No, no, I’m sorry I dragged you over here.” He shuts his laptop. “Do you need me to walk you home?”

She reluctantly stands, hoping she hasn’t said something wrong. “I’m more likely to be mauled by that bear than hurt on the way to Clinton Street, but thank you.”

“I just wouldn’t want your boyfriend to come beat me up for letting you go unescorted.” He wanted that to sound casual. It didn’t.

“Boyfriend?” She shrugs on her puffer.

“I just, um, assumed you were, like, dating a DJ or something.” Ben blushes.

“A DJ?” She laughs. “God, I don’t know if I’m supposed to be flattered or insulted.”

“My best friend thinks that is the only job worth having. He’s talking about taking, like, classes on the weekend, I shit you not.” He tries to shift them on to something, anything else.

They face each other by the plate-glass window, the light from the market across the street filtering through the mobiles as he realizes she hasn’t answered his question.

Max’s skin is prickling with excitement as Ben’s comment makes her suddenly think of Taylor’s skateboard. She’s seeing it as if it were right under her nose, every sticker a band name. Of course, guys worship that scene! She wants to call Zach right now. She smiles as Ben opens the door, and before she realizes what she’s doing she steps in to give him a hug. He holds her there, pulling her in tighter, and she lets her head rest—really rest—against the surprisingly solid warmth of his chest.

“You can do it,” he murmurs into her hair.

“You too,” Max says softly as she makes herself pull back, feeling suddenly shy. “’Night. Don’t keep the bear up too late. He’s probably a total asshole on no sleep.”

He laughs, and she walks out onto Court Street.

A
t 10:22 p.m. eastern standard time, Bridget’s Moment is but a few away. Max is pumped like an athlete before an Olympic run. Because what is riding on tonight
feels
Olympian—regaining the confidence of her staff, pulling the recent string of client miscalculations from a nosedive, extinguishing plaguing doubt she can perform in New Hugo City (plus princess) and therefore go to New Hugo University (plus princess). No biggie.

Despite an impressive rally after the skateboarding debacle, the Ex, Inc. team is down to the wire. Max has claimed the supply closet of the Cabin, the hottest of hot clubs, as base camp for the night’s operations. A former client’s mom was the decorator, granting Max VIP access. Ex, Inc. then sent Taylor an official-looking invite and finagled him on the guest list.

The team arrived before opening to set up in the closet. After last August, when a client was shat on by a pigeon minutes before her Moment, forcing a full abort-mission, they now leave nothing to chance and always prep on site. Max is in cramped quarters, surrounded by cases of liquor and cocktail napkins, and is betting everything on an idea she actually got from Ben.

Her expression pensive, Phoebe withdraws her root beer lollipop from her mouth. “Her hair needs a few strategic waves,” she says to Max as she finishes smoking Bridget’s eyelids with Estée Lauder’s Kajal Eye Crayon in teal. “It’s sexy, but I’m filing a request for ‘more.’” One would never guess from Phoebe’s usually naked face, but she is a makeup wunderkind, just one of her many hidden and freakishly developed skills. Growing up, her bossy sisters usually commandeered the Barbies, leaving her to make the best of a dress-up box and Cray-Pas. Soon she could re-create anything she saw on TV.

“Denied,” Max declares as she paces around them in the tiny space, mentally running through the plan like a figure skater prepping for the ice.

“But is it fabulous enough?” Zach asks doubtfully, sitting forward to get a closer look on the stool he’s made from two crates of toilet paper.

“We’re not going for fabulous,” Max reminds them, her hands resting on the belt of her dress. “The fabulous is built in. We want Sam Ronson meets Charlotte Ronson. Casual, cool—and pretty. Bridget just stepped in off the street on any old random Thursday night, got asked to spin some tunes. She shrugs off her coat and gets to work.”

“And lest we forget,” Phoebe pipes in as she selects a pale taupe liner. “Taylor’s porn is vanilla. He goes for the all-American thing.”

“His porn?”
Bridget screeches, the pencil slashing a line across her cheek.

“Oh, honey.” Zach pats the sleeve of her tunic. “Okay, I’m going up to keep my eye on the sidewalk.”

A few minutes later, Max claps her hands as Bridget’s eyes are fixed and finalized, the liner slash quickly removed with a damp Q-tip. “Let’s review deets one last time.”

“Max,” Zach’s voice breaks into the room on speaker. “His cab is pulling up. He’s alone. And he’s … yes, he’s singing to himself.”

“That’s my Tay.”

All eyes fly to Bridget.

“Sorry, not
my
,” Bridget corrects herself, embarrassed. “Just Taylor. That’s Taylor. Stupid Taylor.”

“Grab somebody sexy, tell ’em hey!”
They can actually hear him.
“Give me eeeeverything tonight, give me eeeeverything tonight, give me everything …”

“I’m following,” Zach whispers. “Okay, it’s cool—he’s in.”

“Remember,” Max says, taking Bridget’s shoulders as they huddle by the closet door. “You are the source. You are the source of the music, you are the source of the fun, you are the source.”

“I am the source. Of the fun,” Bridget repeats, the assertion tinged with doubt.

“Pheromone blocker,” Max demands, holding her hand out like a surgeon, and Phoebe places the tincture in her palm. The slightest whiff of an ex after a period of avoidance can bombard the senses and leave a girl vulnerable. After an unfortunate incident involving Vicks VapoRub, in which a client navigated her Moment through a haze of menthol-induced tears, Max cast a wider net. She discovered this oil when mining the field of mortuary work. It dates back to the Egyptians, who created the essence to numb noses when embalming and ward off deceased spirits from poisoning theirs.
Bingo!

“Crap, that stuff burns!” Bridget tugs back after Max dabs it under each of her nostrils.

“Just for a second, then all you smell is a hint of clove. Phoebe? Clutch.” Phoebe slides the gray snakeskin Marc Jacobs from its cloth bag and hands it to Max, who gives it in turn to Bridget. Max only lends what she “borrows” to clients for their Moments. “When you beat match, start on the one, stay in the mix, ride it out, and if you juggle, get the tempos to flow.”

“Get the tempos to flow,” Bridget repeats. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys about Taylor’s DJ obsession—I always thought it was so incredibly lame it didn’t even seem worth mentioning.”

“Let’s not rehash that now—the Moment gods visited me with a bolt of genius and we’re here.”
Hear that, gods, I’m counting on you!

Bridget scrunches her tissue-thin tunic. “What if no one dances?!”

Max drops her voice to a timbre that could halt a stampede. “Tonight, you are Grand Master Stetson. Okay, guys.” Max huddles them, passing out the last key piece of equipment. “Earbuds in. From my position I will be able to hear and see everything, so just know—even if you can’t follow what’s happening, I have my eye out and this will all go smoothly.”

“Testing, testing,” Zach says quietly into the tiny microphone taped to his wrist. “I’m making my way to the club floor.”

“Copy that,” Max replies into her own, obscured by a cuff bracelet.

“Taylor is sitting at a reserved cube. The douche is in the bag.”

“Zach!” Phoebe admonishes as she finishes getting ready. “So gross.”

“And he’s heading to the bar. You’re up, kitten.”

Max, Phoebe, and Bridget leave the storeroom together. Max escorts Bridget toward the DJ booth while a decked-out Phoebe splits off from them toward the bar. The DJ winds down his last song, and Bridget takes the turntables.

Despite the perspiration dampening her dress to her narrow rib cage, Bridget looks (that is, Max thinks, if anyone in the self-obsessed crowd was even looking) like she knows what she’s doing. As Max snakes her way to the perfect vantage point in an alcove behind a column, Bridget puts on the first song. Max watches the floor continue to pulse and pullulate. “I can’t believe this is working,” Bridget whispers to her wrist.

“It is,” Max intones. “Now segue into the smashup between The Kinks and The Killers.”

Taylor can’t believe his favorite Killers song just came on. This is a sign. Tonight is going to be A-list. No more going to parties just to end up annoyingly thinking about Bridget. He broke up with her so he could get some
living
under his belt. He’s sipping his soda when suddenly a girl slips in beside him, trying to get the attention of the bartender. “Hey.” She flashes him a huge smile.
Yes,
he thinks,
definitely A-list
.

“Hey,” Taylor says back, his mind going blank. He realizes he never had to flirt with Bridget. He could be himself, and Bridget was always just there. Ready to laugh at his joke. Ready to ask how his day was. Then listen like she actually cared.
Dude,
enough.
No more thinking about Bridget!

“Great DJ,” the girl comments as she sways, her straw pressed between her glossy lips.

From her alcove behind a column, Max bounces her eyes between Phoebe drawing Taylor out at the long bar and the DJ booth, beyond ready for all the elements to combine, for Bridget to finally get the closure she needs. Max senses the familiar flush of triumph hovering close. It’s such a delicious high seeing these girls surprise themselves with their own power in the face of their worst humiliations. She grins at being back on her game—the last few weeks really
have
just been a speed bump—

Suddenly Max sees Taylor’s friend arrive and tap him on the shoulder.

Then she sees Zach and Phoebe both whip a hand to their ears as they wince from her screaming into their earpieces. “What is
he
doing here?”

“He
who
?” Zach asks.

Max forces herself to peer around the column, confirming she is not hallucinating. Nope, Cooper Baby is standing with Taylor and Phoebe, folding his leather jacket over his arm.

“It’s your Tuxedo Guy from Halloween. Cool,” Zach says.

“Not cool,” Max says as she tries to follow the conversation on Phoebe’s microphone, but it doesn’t sound like Ben recognizes Phoebe without her red Black Widow wig.
Crap crap crap!
Of all the crib assemblers in the city
this
one knows Bridget’s ex?! Max stares at the three of them, hoping Ben doesn’t have that inexplicable instinct to whirl around and catch someone looking at him. Despite the fact that Ben is in the middle of the field, the ball is already in play.

“I’m going to the bathroom—be right back,” Max hears Ben tell Taylor. Max watches Ben turn away from the bar and maneuver around the crowd. Max’s eyes widen as she realizes Ben is making a beeline for her.

Turned around by the mirrors and growing crowd, Ben circles the column—only to discover an alcove obscuring stacked crates of clean glasses. Confused, he backs up and keeps walking, unaware that the only girl in the city he really wants to see right now is shaped like a cube and trying not to breathe on the other side of the racks.