Dreamology(44)

“Okay, great!” I announce, way too loud, and use all my energy to pull away from Max. But just as I’m at a safe distance, I realize he hasn’t let go. And firmly, almost forcefully, Max has pulled me back into his arms and tipped me backward.

And Max kisses me.

And his lips taste like Oreos. But the Oreos are an afterthought. I know somewhere deep within my brain that when a woman finds herself on the receiving end of a gallant kiss, she should let herself just be kissed. Isn’t that how it always works in the movies? But I’m unable to play the part. Nothing can stop my hands from reaching up and tangling themselves in Max’s hair, my arms from pulling me to him and him to me, closer than we already were. As though I’ve never been kissed before. As though I’m devouring him. As though we’re the last two people left on the planet and kissing is the one thing that can keep us alive.

Max pulls away far enough to lean his forehead against mine. “I missed you,” he says. And I can’t tell if we’re on script anymore.

As the security guard, whose name I learn is Igor, lets Max and me out of the locked front door of the Gardner, I feel as though I didn’t just talk about sipping the champagne in my dream. I feel as though I had it. Maybe more than one glass. Maybe more like twelve. When Max takes my hand, I think, And there goes one more, and I look back at the museum door to see Igor standing behind the glass.

He gives me a wink.

We drive back to the lab in mostly silence, because I can’t think of anything to say. I stare out the window and wonder if he’s regretting it all, except for one thing. Once again, there are two hands on my knee, and one of them is Max’s.

“Where’d you tell your dad you were staying tonight?” Max asks.

“I told him the junior class had a lock-in.” I laugh. “I could’ve told him I was going to Portugal and he would’ve barely heard me. What did you tell yours?”

“They’re out of town,” Max says. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, as long as I keep my cell phone on.”

I know we need to talk about it, but truthfully I’m afraid to ruin it. Right now, just the two of us driving, dressed up in ridiculously fancy clothes, we could actually be in a dream. We wouldn’t even know. Who is here to tell us otherwise?

Turns out Lillian is, when she greets us in the circular foyer of CDD by the staircase, holding two sets of blue cotton PJ’s—CDD standard issue—two toothbrushes, and two travel-sized bars of soap. It feels like summer camp. A really bad summer camp where you never get to go outside.

“Where’s Petermann?” Max asks as Lillian hands us our toiletries.

“He’ll be here soon,” she says. “He had a fundraiser to attend. In the meantime, I’m on duty. Just yell if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Lillian,” Max says.

“You’re very welcome,” Lillian answers, shooting me a mischievous look when Max turns his back for a moment.

I shoot a look back. What? How could she possibly know?

But when I walk into the bathroom, I see why. I’m a mess. My hair looks like I just woke up from a twelve-hour nap, and there is a redness around my nose and cheeks, no doubt due to Max’s slight stubble.

But that’s not even the most distracting part. Speaking of my cheeks, they are glowing. Not like I just ran six miles, more like I just swallowed six nightlights. I am positively lit from within, and my eyes are big and round.

Apparently love makes you beautiful.

I put on my pajamas, wash my face and brush my teeth, and finger comb my hair so it looks halfway decent again. Then Max and I climb into our side-by-side pods.

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Max admits when we are all tucked in.

“Me too,” I say.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” he asks.

I smile. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Max says. “One day a little boy is sitting on the floor of his living room, playing with some toy trucks. Vroom!” Max makes the sound effect enthusiastically. “He shoots one across the carpet, but it goes too far, to the other side of the sofa. And then miraculously, it shoots right back. Surprised, the little boy peers around the sofa to find a girl around his age with a very attractive bowl cut, building a giant Lego castle. She asks him if he wants to play, before popping one of the Legos in her mouth, informing him that if he’s hungry, they are made out of chocolate.” Max pauses now, and his voice takes on a softer tone. “And the boy had never felt so happy in his whole life. They build the most incredible chocolate castle, with dragons and soldiers and a moat made of milk. And then they fell asleep side by side. The boy wakes up in his living room, and even though there is no castle or no little girl, he still feels just as happy. And he knows he will see her again.”

“Was that me?” I say with a yawn.

“That was you,” Max says, his voice a little hoarse. “The first time we met.”

“I like that story,” I sigh.

“I’ll see you soon, Alice,” Max mumbles.

“I’ll see you soon,” I say. And slide into a peaceful sleep.





OCTOBER 11th




“So what did you think of Nocturne?” Isabella Stewart Gardner says. We’re seated facing each other in her empty bathtub, fully clothed, sipping chocolate milk shakes.