Work of Art ~ the Collection (20 page)

“I know the real Max, and that’s why I’ll always be there for him. But this bullshit he’s going through lately is wearing on me. I hope he snaps out of it soon.”

She’s holding back something, but I don’t press. Jess is the smartest woman I know, and I trust her.

Friday afternoon, Jess calls. Max has backed out of a group show for personal reasons. She is pissed. In her book, the only acceptable
personal reason
for such an action is being hit by a bus. Since she’s pretty sure that isn’t the case, she’s heading over to his place now to conduct an intervention.

That evening, I find a fitting new quote to send after polishing off my takeout.

Have a very good reason for everything you do.

~Laurence Olivier

I wait for his reply, wishing I felt more satisfied. Then I second-guess myself. Maybe there’s a good reason he backed out of the show. I should’ve talked to Jess first before sending another snarky email. Feeling a little unsettled, I grab a bottle of beer out of the fridge and look through my DVDs. I pick out
The Twilight Zone
Collection that had belonged to my dad, figuring it’s just the right mood for how I’m feeling tonight. I pop the first disc in my laptop and kick my legs up on the couch.

About ten minutes into the second episode, the doorbell rings. It’s nine-thirty.
What the hell? What if the robbers are back and testing to see if anyone is home?
A wave of fear runs through me. Why, oh why, did Riley have a date with Dylan tonight? I need reinforcements. The bell rings again, but three times in rapid succession. I look through the peephole.

Through the warped perspective of the peephole, I see a big distorted head as Max tries to peer through the peephole too. I jump back.

Shit! The emails!
I decide I better face the music, and I immediately regret the sweatpants and tight T-shirt I’d changed into when I got home.

I open the door. Max has dark purple circles under his eyes, and he looks wired and edgy, as if he’s had too much coffee. He’s slightly bobbing his head and twisting his hands together.

“Hey, Max. What are you doing here?” I ask as casually as possible.

At first he doesn’t say a thing, just looks as if he’s trying to figure me out.

“I have one question, Ava. Why are you fucking with me? Are you enjoying this? Your goddamned emails have me so agitated I can’t sleep. I can’t focus on anything. Do you hate me that much?”

He’s hunched over and his hands curl into fists before he jams them into his pockets. I didn’t think it was possible, but he looks pathetic.

“No, I don’t hate you, Max. I don’t know—I just couldn’t help myself. But hey, you’ve been giving it back too,” I say quietly.

“I’ve teased you, not assassinated your character repeatedly,” he says, his voice getting loud.

I guess I was too heavy-handed, even for someone who seems impenetrable. Now I feel bad. “I’m sorry. I obviously didn’t realize it would upset you.”

He looks at me with disbelief as he folds his arms over his chest.

“Why the hell are you stalking me on the internet? Are you trying to make me feel worse than I already do about myself? Are you trying to destroy me? ’cause I have to tell you, I think it’s working.”

Destroy him?
That’s a little dramatic.

“Why does it even matter what I think about your behavior?”

He throws his head back with a frustrated groan. “Has it occurred to you that I care about what you think of me?”

“You do?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Do you mean because I’m writing your book?”

He slaps his open palms over his face and groans loudly. “You’re killing me here, Ava.”

This argument is getting us nowhere. “Do you want to come in? I have beer and great old black and white episodes of
The Twilight Zone
.”

He rocks back and forth on his heels. “I don’t want to watch
The Twilight Zone
. I’m living in the fucking twilight zone,” he says as he walks into the apartment. He goes to the couch and crumples onto it, falling back against the cushions. He closes his eyes and lets out a low groan.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively.

He shakes his head. “No . . . I’m not.”

Guilt bubbles up inside of me. I’ll have to think twice before I send anyone a bunch of snarky emails again. “What can I do, Max? I feel terrible that I hurt you. What can I do to make things better?”

He opens his eyes slowly and gives me a sideways glance. “Look, I know I’m not easy, and I’m certainly no prince, but could you cut me some slack? Can we call a truce and try to get along before I lose it?”

I nod. “Sure.” I certainly don’t want him to
lose it
on my account.

He looks up tentatively. “Maybe we could even hang out for a while and forget all the stuff we’re fighting about.”

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?” He looks like he doesn’t believe me.

I smile. “What do you want to do tonight?”

His eyes light up like he’s just figured something out. “Go get some socks and a jacket.”

What? Socks and a jacket? Art boy is kidnapping me?
I’m beyond intrigued. I raise my eyebrows.

“I want to go bowling.”

Chapter Fourteen / Strike!

There is nothing in the dark that isn’t there when the lights are on.

~Rod Serling

B
owling?

He stands up from the couch with a completely straight face and waits.

Has he lost his mind? Maybe he has and I don’t want to agitate him further. I go to my bedroom for my hoodie and socks, and switch out my flip-flops for my Nikes.

When I rejoin him in my living room, he’s pacing in front of the window.

I hesitate. “Max? Why are we going bowling?”

“Because it’s fun, and mindless, and you get to drink beer while you play. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure. And I’ll be nice. I promise.”

He takes a deep breath and gives me the first smile since he showed up on my doorstep. “All right then, let’s go.”

I follow him downstairs and we get in his car. After we’ve driven several blocks, I ask, “So, where are we going bowling?”

“Burbank.”

We’re bowling in Burbank?
Now it’s getting even stranger. Despite being the home of Disney, Warner Brothers and NBC, Burbank is the closest you can get to Podunk in Los Angeles.

I watch him as he drives. He’s totally focused on the road, but I’d pay money to know what’s going on in his head. We pull up to the Pickwick Bowling Alley, a flat old brick building, where I expect everything to be aged and worn from the speckled linoleum floor to the 1950’s style seating around each bowling lane. It’s Mayberry from
The Andy Griffith Show,
and I half-expect Opie to walk by any moment. When we get inside, it’s exactly as I’d pictured. It’s kind of quaint, actually, and I’m glad it doesn’t have the loud music and laser lighting of the newer bowling alleys.

We rent our stylish bowling shoes, which are an impossibly funky suede in wide stripes of burgundy, olive green and dirty taupe.
They must make them ugly so people don’t take them home,
I think, as I finish tying the laces. We don’t have any trouble getting a lane, considering the late hour. While I set up the overhead scorecard, Max buys a couple of beers.

Other than simple directions, like where I can pick out a ball and that I should go first, he really hasn’t spoken much. I’m beginning to wonder if the whole evening will be like this. I still haven’t discovered the secret to cheering him up, now that we’re here in Burbank, dressed in funny shoes and sticking our fingers into different sized balls.

I bowl the first ball. Max watches me while he takes a hit of his beer. Unfortunately, my ball goes into the gutter halfway down the lane, but I’m too unnerved by this whole scenario to be embarrassed. On my next try, the ball rolls down the entire lane at an angle and, just before falling into the gutter, it takes out the corner pin. Max writes “one” with great flourish on the scorecard.

We trade places and he saunters over to his ball. I get a clue how the rest of the game will go when he snaps the ball up and aims, his body still as a statue. He unfurls and gracefully slinks forward like a tiger—if a tiger could hold a bowling ball. The ball spins as it makes contact with the wooden surface of the lane and shoots forward like a rocket.

The resulting explosion of pins is impressive. He’s still in a dipped position, his shoulder and arm muscles beautifully defined. He springs up and turns to me.

I smile. “Hmm, looks like you could give me some pointers.”
Closet bowler,
I surmise.

As the game progresses, I get a little better with each turn. After all, I haven’t bowled in years, and it takes some getting used to. Max’s improvement is in his attitude. He seems to lighten up with each play until he’s smiling and joking about my unusual techniques. I overplay my goofiness, finally provoking him into giving me a mini-lesson, which involves touching as he moves my arm back to show the right motions. At one point, he even rests his hands on my hips to correct their position.

Every time he touches me, it feels as if his fingers are searing my skin. When he swivels my hips forward a second time, I flush and turn away. Who knew bowling could be erotic?

After several pointers, I have success. On the eighth frame, as soon as I release the ball, I have a good feeling, and I jump up and down and cheer as the ball slides along. When it meets the pins, there’s no explosion. Instead, the pins seem to wobble and slowly surrender one by one. When the final pin falls, I let out a whoop, run to Max and jump up into his arms.

He throws his head back, laughs, and wraps his arms around me. I slide down his body until my feet meet the floor, and my victory hug becomes something more than buddy-like. The desire I have for this beautiful, flawed man is surging through me, and for a moment, I cling onto him feeling every definition of his body against mine.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone this much, and I ache from it. The desire is so big, so overpowering, that I’d let him take me right here in the bowling alley if he wanted to.

I wonder if he can feel all this. I imagine it’s obvious. He carefully pulls away, as if he’s afraid I’ll break.

“Yay, Ava! You did it . . . strike!” He smiles.

I step away and take a deep breath. “I guess the lesson paid off,” I reply, trying to sound cheerful, as I struggle to regain my composure and push my desire out of my mind.

As we finish our game, Max announces that he’s hungry, so we go get something to eat. Once again he takes the lead, and we pull up to Dupars, a coffee shop in Studio City that has watched many decades come and go. The place is empty except for a group of Goths in a booth in the back. Our waitress, Marge, wears a uniform that reminds me of an old-fashioned nurse’s getup, complete with the little white cap. She has faded orange hair and tree stump legs and a cheerful disposition as she serves us stacks of pancakes and bacon.

We dig in with gusto. When Max finishes, he leans back and pats his stomach with a satisfied sigh.

“You look like a new man,” I comment with a smile. “If I’d known it was this easy to make you happy, I would’ve taken you out for bowling and pancakes long ago.”

He grins. “I know. This was just what I needed. We should do this again sometime.”

“Sure, I had a great time—even though I thought you were nuts when you first showed up on my doorstep.”

“Did you now? What if next time I show up in the middle of the night and take you swimming?”

“I’d insist the pool be heated.”

He laughs. “You’re pretty great, Ava. You’re going to make some guy very lucky one day.”

“Hmm, maybe.”

He tips his head to the side as he regards me.

When we turn to my apartment, it’s so late he insists on walking me to my door. Before we part, he gives me a big hug.

“Thanks, Ava.” He sighs, and for a moment I can
feel
Max—his sadness, his emptiness, his need to just be okay and to go out bowling with a friend with no other agenda. Before he lets me go, I decide there will be no more nasty emails, no more fighting, and no snarky comments. It’s time to figure out a way to be friends with Maxfield Caswell.