Page 8 of Off Court Fix

“Good to meet you, Amy Matthews.”

The tiniest bit of relief strikes Maxine’s face when I accept her alias.

I slide to the middle of the bench, giving her enough space to sit beside me but still keep distance. I might be hitting on an emotional girl in the middle of the holiest shrine in Manhattan, but a monster, I’m not. I want Maxine to feel safe with me because sheis.

Maxine taps one long finger capped with a short, clean nail on the edge of the pew, as if she’s thinking it over. Then, she slips into the row ahead, sitting in front of me.

I don’t even have to lean forward to get a whiff of her. I’m struck by a spell of creamy, floral scent that’s all too familiar—a blooming hydrangea in high summer. The smell is calming, but when I catch streaks of more—ofwhoshe is—elegant and ethereal, Maxine’s aroma becomesintoxicating.

Reaching behind her, she gathers her mop of long hair and lifts it, fastening it into some sort of knot at the top of her head. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

The move with her hair swarms me with Maxine’s scent, and I’m dizzied by it. That and the fact that she has these three prominent round beauty marks on the back of her neck—perfect circles, one on top of the other, like the bulbs of a traffic light.

“Crosby?”

The truth is I’ve never been to confession. I’m not even Catholic, so I just ask flat out. “What do you want to confess?” I focus on the first of the three dots on her skin.

Red. Stop.

I wait, watching Maxine’s shoulders, shapely and strong, rise and fall with each breath. I lose track of how many times they do, how many lungfuls of air have passed between us. I give her time.

“Today is my brother’s birthday.”

I’m perplexed by this confession. “The candles you light in a place like this aren’t exactly for birthdays.”

“He’s dead.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Maxine raises her head to the domed ceiling. “I’m happy he’s dead.”

So, this is the confession, and even though it’s not what I was expecting—I mean, none of this has been—I realize that Maxine’s shoulders have stilled, indicating she’s holding her breath. My blood pressure begins to rise, making me wonder about the reason why she hates her brother.

“Did he hurt you?” Instinctively, I clench my fist.

“Not in the way you’re thinking, but part of me hates him,” Maxine offers after a pause, like she senses the tell of my voice—icy with a hint of venom, ready to strike.

Watching the silhouette of her body, the light, vibrating movements, I feel like she has a lot to say. I can’t blame Maxine if she doesn’t want to talk about it to a stranger of all people. But she continues, so maybe she doesn’t mind. But then I realize maybe she wants to talk more than she even cares about whom she’s talking to. Perhaps she only cares someone is listening.

“I hate my father too,” she whispers.

“Is he also dead?”

“No. But sometimes it feels like there’s no love there, so he might as well be.” I furrow my brow at the statement, but she continues, “I mean, what’s life without love, right? Isn’t that what they say?”

I swallow, immediately thinking of my mother, and wonder if she even remembers what love is like—for me, for anyone.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks. “I’m not sure I have.”

“Me either.”

Maxine sighs. “Anyway, with my father, it’s never enough. It’ll never be—”

Maxine is interrupted by an angry vibration coming from the row in front of her where she left her things. She stands, reaching over and grabbing her phone. I lower my gaze and press my lips together tightly, taking in the rise of her dress, revealing more skin. God damn, she’s got another beauty mark on the back of her thigh.

When she sits back down, I focus on the middle mark on her neck.

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