The Masked Truth(37)

One thing about attempting to find order—no, control—was that Max had asked how long he could go without the pills before he risked ill effects. The first doctor, back in Jolly Old England, had refused to answer, apparently suspecting Max was trying to stave off side effects by stretching his meds as far as possible. Which was not the case at all, so when he’d come over—crossed the pond, as they say … does anyone actually say that?—he’d been much more specific in his questions and backed them up with explanations. Which had still not worked with Yankee doctor number one, but his mother had recognized the problem and found him another psychiatrist, one more capable of treating her precious—and precocious—son with the respect he deserved.

The answer … ah, yes, there was a point here, wasn’t there? The answer was that while he should endeavor to always take his pills on time, if some emergency prevented him from doing so, it would be hours before they began to lose effectiveness, and even then it was only that—a loss of effectiveness, not a complete and sudden crash into the depths of schizophrenia.

Which meant he was not panicked. Yet he was beyond anxious.

More than anxious. Less than panicked. Is there a word for that?

There didn’t seem to be. They ran on a scale. Apprehensive, nervous, dismayed, frightened, anxious, panicked. There was a step missing there, the stage past stomach-clenching anxiety and before full-blown panic.

Alarm, perhaps?

Alarm: an anxious awareness of danger.

Yes, perhaps that was it.

“Is everything okay?” Riley whispers.

“Right as rain.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile there too. Yes, right as rain. Just playing with words. Keeps my mind occupied. One has to find the proper term. Exactly the proper one.

She leans toward him, voice lowering more, and he knows she wants to say more, just for him, unheard by the others. He tries not to smile at that. It pleases him more than it ought to, because if he’s being honest—yes, by all means, be honest, Max, God knows you have little enough practice at it these days—he will admit that he was not entirely happy to bump into Brienne and Aaron. Of course, he was relieved to know they were alive, but he’d have been quite happy if they’d made contact and then gone their separate ways again. He even thought of suggesting it.

He might still, once they find the kitchen and if he’s sure, quite sure, that Riley won’t say: All right. Why don’t I go with Brienne and you with Aaron?

Riley and Max sitting in a tree …

That was not the case at all.

Well, perhaps “at all” was a slight exaggeration.

Just a slight one, Maximus?

Yes, he might—just might—have a bit of a crush on Riley Vasquez.

Crush: deform, pulverize or force inward by compressing forcefully.

A horrible word. Terribly inappropriate, because he had no desire to crush her, to smother her. In fact, he was most comfortable as things were, being this close to her and no closer, because he couldn’t be closer, all things considered.

Yes, all things considered.

Yet it was closer than he had been before tonight. And, yes, he would admit it now, he’d already had a crush on Riley Vasquez then, listening to her in therapy sessions—ah, how romantic. Listening to her, watching her, but not watching in a creepy way. Well, he supposed all watching was creepy, to some degree, but it was simply enjoying seeing her, paying extra attention when she spoke. It wasn’t as if he followed her into the toilet or anything. No, sir. He had only followed her to it earlier, not inside. He’d made his excuse to use the toilet in hopes of meeting up and talking to her, which was not creepy.

Nor was it entirely the action of an infatuated boy. No, Maximus. Honesty here, total honesty.

He was lonely.

There, he’d said it, somehow more shameful than admitting to a crush.

He’d never been a particularly convivial person. Gregarious but not too convivial. Yes, there was a difference.

Gregarious: fond of company.

Convivial: cheerful and friendly; jovial.

He could play at being convivial, of course, but there was an edge to it, a note that might just be a little condescending.

Might, Max?

In school, he’d been popular if not particularly well liked. Again, there is a difference. He could be difficult and sarcastic and argumentative, and he kept his circle of friends small, his circle of acquaintances much larger. But he was smart—if a bit of a know-it-all. Athletic, though not unduly so. Decent-looking, though only in that rather average way that both sexes seemed to find pleasant and nonthreatening. And he was a bit of a joker, a prankster, the boy most likely to both issue and accept a dare. He was bold as brass, and it seemed less that others liked him than that they liked to be around him. He’d been chosen as head boy in school, and he suspected it was not so much that his fellow students wished to honor him as that they’d grudgingly agreed he was best for the position.

At home, his calendar was always full, with other engagements waiting, should a date or a night with his mates fall through. Since he’d come to America, his social circle had shrunk to four—his mother, his father, his doctor and his therapist, and only the first was there consistently, should he want to take in a film or go to the park, which he did not because he was eighteen and his mother was a fine person, but he was eighteen.

And so, he was lonely. Which meant that when Riley stuck close to him, even after rejoining the others, when she whispered only to him, it made him flush with pleasure, as if she’d whispered some much more naughty suggestion in his ear. More even, because, well, it was hardly the time for naughty. Although, if she did …