Page 60 of Furious

“Fearless,” I whisper.

“Fearless,” she whispers back.

We wait and El rings the bell again. Still nothing. A long moment passes.

“I saw her go in there?” I say, not sure what we should do if Max doesn’t open the door.

Before I can say anything else, the door flies open. On the other side stands a blond woman, about El’s height, who glares at us.

Her face softens when she sees us. “El?” she says, her voice higher than I’d expected and full of surprised delight.

“Hi, Max. Um … This is JoJo, my girlfriend.”

Max’s eyes dart to me and then back to El, but I’m only looking at El. Her girlfriend? Something in me flutters at that word.

“Huh,” says Max, a smile at the edges of her lips. “Well, I guess you better come in.”

She moves aside and El drops my hand. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up alone.”

“Uhm, okay,” I say, wanting to ask about “where you ride, I ride,” but also knowing that she’s not seen Max in a long time and it might go badly. “I’ll be right here,” I say, gesturing to the stoop.

“Thanks, JoJo,” El says, turning away, “for everything.” Then, leaving me alone outside, she follows Max up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

El

For months, I’ve been picturing this moment over and over again, like a movie scene I’m constantly rescripting. Max opens the door of her hotel room/apartment building/ramshackle but charming houseboat in [insert city here] to see me standing on the stained carpeting/sidewalk/quay. She blinks in the sunlight (or under the moody glow of streetlights), unbelieving. El, she gasps, what are you doing here? How did you find me? Until last night, my answer wasn’t so clear (sometimes a train, or hitchhiking, or horseback, in one admittedly unlikely scenario) but after mumbling through an explanation, I deliver my line, which never changes: I’m here to bring you home. Face crumpling, Max throws her arms around me. Okay, El. She sobs. Let’s go home.

The reality is a little different, it turns out.

For one, I never imagined JoJo waiting for me on the sidewalk. I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings. I love Jo (oh my God, I think maybe I love Jo!?). I just knew that this scene had to happen between Max and me, alone. But I thought Max would be different, too. As she goes ahead of me up the cramped staircase, she almost skips up the steps. And she’s humming. Off tune and frantically, like a song playing at 1.5 speed. Which doesn’t seem like the behavior of someone about to be rescued from exile.

Okay, maybe my script was kind of melodramatic. It can still have a happy ending.

Max stops on the second-floor landing to unlock a scuffed front door. “This is me. We just have to keep it down, ‘cause my roommate works nights.”

“Yeah, sure. How, um, did you two meet?”

She shrugs as the door rattles open. “Friend of a friend. Let’s go to the kitchen—it’s the farthest from her room. Plus I’m dying of thirst.”

I follow her into an ordinary apartment, stepping over a jumble of shoes and boots in the entrance hall to get to the kitchen. It’s small, with old dark wood cabinets. There are unwashed pots stacked on the yellowed stovetop, and unrinsed glasses in the sink. Which is fine! Mom used to get on Max’s case about leaving dirty plates on the counter, or a peanut-buttery spoon in the sink when the dishwasher was empty and right there. When I’d come home from school, or a club meeting, or tutoring, or work, I’d head to the kitchen and clean up any debris before my parents got back from work. Now, I have to stop myself from attacking the cups and bowls. I remind myself that Mom and Dad aren’t here for her to fight with.

My sister follows my sight line. “Best part of being a grown-up. Well, one of the best.” She shoves aside a pile of magazines and mail on the counter and hops up to face me. “Okay El, spill. Are you in Richmond for a field trip? Are you running away from home with your cute little girlfriend down there? What’s up?”

This is it: time to deliver my line. I’m here to bring you home.

But I’m blushing too hard at her suggestive smirk. “No, we’re not, we just started …” I feel like last night in the hotel room is written all across my face.

She laughs, that familiar Max cackle that lights up rooms and racetracks alike. “I bet. Hey.” Her eyes fall to my waist. “Is that my jacket?”

I hurry to untie the thick leather sleeves knotted around me. “Yes! You asked me to get it for you, and … here I am.” I offer the jacket up in both hands.

“When?”

“Huh?”

“When did I ask?”