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“Hey, I have an idea,” I say. “I have some Woody Finch root beer stashed, and I have photo albums. How about you come into the main house, and I can show you Olive’s baby photos? That is, if you want to.”
Max looks away in thought. Are guys into baby photos? I mean, Olive is his kid.
“Sure. That sounds like fun. And I like actual beer.”
“Great,” I say. I can’t help the huge grin on my face.
* * *
When we get back to my property, I drop Max off at the tiny house so he can charge his phone. I walk into my own house and my breath shallows, like I’m on the brink of a panic attack.
Today was strange. It was strange how normal it felt.
When I was around Max, my ping-ponging thoughts slowed and I could be present, without thinking five steps ahead. We could just talk without thinking about my work or Olive’s general well-being. My thoughts didn’t quiet with Burke. They got worse.
Now, I’ll be alone with Max, sitting close to each other, drinking some beer. We did that the other night, but Olive was our little chaperone.
Olive being at Grandma’s house changes things.
“Get it together, woman,” I tell myself as I pace my living room, shaking out my hands. I peek behind the curtains in the kitchen to see Max walking across the field, looking like a stupidly handsome model again. He looks to the side, like only hot men crossing the street do, and I dart away from the window the second I’m caught.
He knocks on the door, and I jump in place a couple times, trying to loosen my limbs and alleviate the ache between my legs to no avail. I am so screwed. Why did I invite him in again? This will complicate everything.
But I really, really want to.
When I open the door, he smiles instantly. “Hello again.”
“Hi. Come on in.” I open the door wider and I shiver as he walks past me, although it’s hot as hell outside. Beers. I can get beers.
“What kind of beer do you like?”
Max juts out his bottom lip. “Which one do you recommend?”
“I like Gold Dust. It’s an IPA.”
“Sure, that sounds good.” Max wanders as I pull two cans of Gold Dust out and two pint glasses with our brewery logo on it. I pour both the way I was taught.
“Wow, great pour,” Max says when I hand it to him.
“I’m a professional.” We touch glasses and drink. He takes a sip, and I want to lick the suds off his lips.
I’ve made it awkward. Max has no idea so it’s one-sided. I wonder what will happen if I straddle him. Why do I feel like a floozy seducing my daughter’s father?
“That’s good. Really good.” He holds it up to study the clarity and the bubbles rising to the top.
“It’s my favorite.”
“It might be my new favorite too.” Max stares at me for a second too long, his expression curious. Does he want to leave? Make out? Learn the truth about his stepdad?
“Let me get the photo albums.” After I place the beer down on the kitchen table, I run to our side table, where the photo albums are stashed. I did not put them together; Olive’s first few years were and still are a blur. My mom took photos and gifted me a photo album every Christmas, with Olive’s big milestones and the more mundane, adorable, everyday moments.
When I turn around, Max is seated at the table, so I hand him the oldest one and he smiles when he opens the front page.
The first page is me holding Olive in the hospital. She’s in a pink blanket, and my face is puffy from pregnancy hormones and crying. My throat thickens as I look at it. How scared I was. How deliriously in love I was. My whole pregnancy I questioned whether I was doing the right thing, but when the nurses handed her to me, I sobbed with happiness.
Max stares at it, his head down. His fingers trace the photo. Olive was so tiny, so perfect.
“Man,” he says, wiping his nose. Is he getting emotional? “Can I get a copy of this?” Red rims his eyes, his eyes glassy from emotion. It hits me straight in the heart that he wants this memory although he wasn’t present to see it.
