Ann Aguirre: The Shape Of My Heart

“Thanks. I’m doing this on a shoestring budget.”

I could’ve told him that I had plenty of money and a decent limit on my plastic, but I suspected he’d be offended. It was a point of pride for Max to pay my way since he’d asked me along for reasons I didn’t entirely understand. Arms crossed, I waited by the motorcycle while he went into the office, and when he came out, he had the room keys.

“Come on, we’re around back.”

Climbing on the bike made me wince, so I could only imagine how I’d feel tomorrow. Worth it for a friend , I told myself. Max parked and handed me the keycards.

“Go on up, I’ll bring dinner. Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”

I shook my head. “Get my backpack? I’ll shower while you’re gone.”

“Good idea.”

“Some women might find that offensive, Cooper.”

“You know what I mean.”

Grinning, I took my bag and jogged stiffly up the rusted external steps. This place was a step down from a Red Roof Inn, and the room was about as depressing as I expected: dated decor in overly bright hues with hutch, tiny dining set and grubby, striped arm chair. But at least there was a coffeepot and a relatively new TV. Usually the smell gave away the worst places, and this only gave off a musty scent, like a room that had been closed up too long. The windows didn’t open so I turned on the air conditioner, which banged to the point that I imagined tiny gnomes inside the radiator with wee hammers. The added ventilation helped, though, and I got my pajamas, then went into the bathroom.

Water pressure was decent, and I took my time scrubbing off the road dust. By the time I came out, drying my hair on a scratchy towel, Max had pizza and beer waiting at the chipped table. He’d seen my pj’s countless times before, so he didn’t blink as I came over to get a slice of extra cheese, extra mushrooms and peppers.

“No meat?” I asked.

“Seems safer this way since we’re traveling tomorrow.”

I grinned. “Your forethought is both impressive and disturbing.”

The pizza wasn’t bad for a random dive, certainly not the worst, though it didn’t compare to the deep-dish Chicago-style I’d grown up on. After dinner, I propped up on my bed and checked my phone for the first time all day. I had a text from Angus and two from my mother. Angus had just replied with Finally eloped with Max, huh? Name your firstborn after me. Boy, girl or other, doesn’t matter. Make good choices! Sighing, I read the maternal messages next.

Ma, text one: Why aren’t you picking up?

Ma, text two: Where are you? I tried the house phone. Are you avoiding me?

Yes. That’s the only reason I wouldn’t answer.

She hadn’t wanted me to move out of the dorms until I told her my roommate was into illegal drugs. Then she’d supported the apartment idea wholeheartedly. Since she regarded spontaneity as her nemesis, she’d be pissed about this trip. I could hear her already: Vacations should be planned, Courtney. You can’t just take off this way.

I typed back, I’m hanging out with a friend. What’s up? That was sort of true, right?

“Everything okay?”

“Hmm?”

“You look pissed.”

“It’s just my mother, trying to track my movements. I’m surprised she hasn’t chipped me like a Chihuahua. Though if she has , you’ll probably be arrested for kidnapping.” I smirked, rubbing the back of my neck as if searching for parental hardware.

He paused with a slice halfway to his mouth. “You know, that sounds like it sucks, but I also wonder what it would be like to have a parent so...invested.”

“Your mother’s not around?”

“She died when I was five, having my brother. Amniotic fluid embolism. I was fourteen before I even knew what that meant.”

I still don’t. Mentally I made a note to look it up on Google ASAP. “So your brother’s sixteen? What’s his name?”

Max nodded. “Michael, but everyone calls him Mickey. Or...they did. I haven’t seen him since my dad kicked me out.”

“Wait, what?” I figured he’d just put up with a shitty home life until he got accepted at Mount Albion, and then he was all Sayonara, suckers .

“Yeah. I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.”

“Did things get worse with your dad?” I asked.

“You could say that,” Max said quietly. “That was when I put my brother in a wheelchair for life.”

So many questions ricocheted around my brain, but Max’s shoulders were pulled up almost to his ears, his chin nearly on the table. Without looking at me, he shredded the napkin in his hands into four pieces and then in half again. The waning sunshine streaming in the smeared window behind him haloed his dark hair, so that the highlights shone blue instead of tawny or copper.

“You don’t have to tell me a bedtime story,” I said gently.

“No, you need to know. So you understand what’s going on and why it’s so tense when we get there.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ll set the stage.” His tone was brittle, uneven, and the bits of paper in his hands kept getting smaller. “I was sixteen, just got my license. My dad was drinking, acting like a fuckhead. Business as usual. When he started in on Mickey, I grabbed the keys. Figured I’d get us both out of there for a while. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but taking off is kind of my specialty.”

“Between your bike, the garage office and the place you showed me by the river, I’ve picked up on the pattern, yeah.”

“I thought I was doing the smart thing, you know? But I was driving too fast and some asshole blew the stoplight. T-boned us. Mickey got the worst of it...weeks in the hospital without knowing if he’d make it. Then, once he stabilized, we found out he’d never walk again.” He curled a fist and slammed it onto the table, making the pizza box dance. “Ironic, huh? I was worried that my dad would hurt Mickey but I’m the one who—”

“Not true,” I cut in. “That’s a textbook accident. Don’t tell me you blame yourself.”

“It’s impossible to do anything else. No, wipe that look off your face, Kaufman. I didn’t open up to make you feel sorry for me. I just want you to know the deal going in. I mean, my dad’s the biggest asshole I ever met and he hates me, too.”

“What about Mickey?”

“We weren’t talking much when I left. Every day I think, what if I’d put up with my old man’s shit for five minutes more? What if I’d picked a fight with him instead of grabbing those keys? I—” His voice broke on a shuddering inhalation.

Until this moment I hadn’t realized how much weight Max carried on a daily basis or how good a job he did hiding it. I came out of my chair and rounded the little table before I consciously decided to make a move. Standing beside him, I hovered, unsure what to do. He answered the question by wrapping both arms around my waist and pulling me onto his lap. Unsettled—unnerved, even—I let him press his face into my shoulder, resting a hand on his head.

His breath warmed the skin of my throat, rousing an inappropriate shiver. Now is not the time. It wasn’t like I’d never noticed his hotness; he specialized in a scruffy, soulful appeal that women of all ages seemed unable to resist. But it was so much better for him to call me Kaufman and confide in me instead of flirting. At the moment, Max needed a friend. I stroked his back for like five minutes before he raised his gaze to meet mine.

“Sorry. The closer we get to Rhode Island, the worse I feel.”

“It’s understandable. You have to be worried about how your brother will react when you see him.” The rest of his family sounded like jackwagons. Though he’d only told me about his dad, if he had any decent aunts, uncles or cousins, they would’ve stepped up when his old man went upside his head with a bottle. A scar like that would take eight or ten stitches, minimum. I imagined Max as a scared kid with blood gushing from his scalp, and all of my protective instincts roared to life. People had been calling me a bitch since I was fifteen, and I was ready to wade in against Max’s family. Yeah, the funeral might be tense and shitty, but if his family said one fucking word—