Dreamology(17)

“Thanks for your generosity,” Max says.

“So will you, Alice?” Oliver ignores Max. “It’s Friday. Come early if you want, so we have some time together alone.” He looks at Max and rides off.

“Why is he always with you?” Max frowns.

“Maybe I’m always with him,” I say, and Max’s frown deepens. Then he looks down at his feet for a minute. When he looks back up at me this time, his eyes are wary but his expression is kind.

“So,” he says. “Can we talk?”

I barely knew what the sport of rowing was until I got to Boston, but it’s everywhere. At least everywhere on the Charles River, and since the Charles River snakes right down one side, dividing Boston and Cambridge, you basically can’t avoid it or the crew boats that dot its shoreline. The sport looks boring and beautiful all at the same time. Boring, I imagine, for the people swinging the oars back and forth, all in a line like a bunch of muscular ducklings. Beautiful for the rest of us, who get to watch them glide along, working together in perfect unison.

“That’s a lovely crew,” I say, referring to a man moving past Max and me along the river in a shiny caramel-colored boat. I want to dangle my legs in, but the water looks a little too murky for that, so I settle for poking at leaves with a stick.

“That’s actually a scull,” Max says.

“A what?”

“Crew is the sport; rowing is the movement. A boat is a shell. But if it’s a single-person boat, it’s a scull because he’s using two oars. Rowing with two oars is called sculling.” At the look on my face he says, “I know, it’s ridiculous.”

“How do you even know all that?” I ask.

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I just do.”

I use my stick to pick up a piece of trash and set it on the side of the dock. “Do you think there are any dead bodies in here?” I ask. I have this habit, whenever I’m in a remote location, of wondering if this would be a good place to drop a body. With all the unsolved murders out there, where are people putting them?

Max bursts into laughter. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh in reality. In my dreams, he laughs all the time. “You are so weird,” he says, and leans back onto his elbows on the dock.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Heard it before.” But I want to say, Why are we dodging the subject? I turn halfway around, leaning on a hand to look back at him. “So?” I’m doing my best to remain cool and casual, but despite my efforts, I am positively grinning from ear to ear. I couldn’t help it even if I wanted to. I bet if we had an unexpected solar eclipse right at this moment, my whole body would glow in the dark. I can’t believe that Max is real and he is here and we are merely inches apart.

“So, what,” he replies, giving me a sidelong glance. He seems totally at ease in this moment. Is he teasing me?

“Don’t make me beg,” I say. “I’ve waited long enough.” My coyness surprises me, and that’s when I realize I’m not nervous anymore. This isn’t Max Wolfe, captain of the soccer team, resident babe. This is just Max, as he’s always been. And deep down, I knew it all along. But I need to hear him say it.

Max smirks and shields his eyes with his hand as he looks at me. “So, okay, I remember.”

“Remember what, exactly?” I ask, playing dumb.

“I remember the dreams, Alice!” he says, exasperated. But he’s smiling, like he can’t help it. “Happy?”

I am happy. Deliriously so. But I can’t let him see that yet. “Can you elaborate please, Mr. Wolfe?” I ask, doing my best Levy impression.

“Fine.” Max pulls his sweater off and leans back, stuffing it behind his head so he can stretch out on the dock. I catch just the glimpse of his stomach and forget what we are talking about for a moment, before he continues. “I remembered you the second I saw you. You started popping up in my dreams when I was little. You looked different back then. You had that funny bowl cut and Jerry was always following you around.” The corner of his mouth twitches, which causes mine to break into a full-on smile.

“Blame the hair on a single dad,” I reply fondly. “He couldn’t figure out how to braid it, so he just chopped it all off.”

“I didn’t care about the hair,” Max says. His eyes are closed. “I just thought you were the coolest. I still do.”

I let his words sink in, my face feeling warm. Then I lie down next to him, propping my head on my bag. “I thought you were okay,” I say. “Truthfully, I was just using you to get close to Horatio.”

“May he rest in peace,” Max replies. “He was the best box turtle this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”

We lie there in silence for a little while, feeling the sun on our faces. If this were a dream, I’d flip over on my stomach and twirl pieces of his thick brown hair around my fingers. Or flick his earlobes playfully. When we dream, we are always connected. But this is not a dream. I wonder if he misses it the way I do. A time when there wasn’t this distance between us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch a few pieces of trash float down the river: a newspaper and then, more peculiarly, an athletic sock, followed by a lime-green bra. But what comes next is really odd—a rubber ducky. I am about to point it out to Max, but when I glance back, it’s so far away, it looks more like a juice box or can of soda.