Trust Me (17 page)

“Considering my history,” Max said, “it doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

She looked worried. “Of course. You must be very sensitized to… what do I call it… inebriated behavior. I hope that my family
didn’t offend you on Sunday. I know that some of them got a little tipsy.”

“Your family didn’t offend me. Even booze doesn’t offend me. Uncontrolled, self-indulgent, self-destructive weakness…” He
paused. “
That
offends me.”

He could see that she found his vehemence disturbing. She said nothing, though, and Max found himself wanting her to speak
so that he could argue.

“Well?” he said.

She blinked, surprised. “Well what?”

“You think that I’m judging my mother too harshly.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s impossible for someone like you to imagine a family as screwed up as mine, and so you’re making
excuses for her. You’re thinking that weakness is something to be pitied, not despised. Am I right?”

“I wouldn’t presume—” Carly began.

“Go ahead. I’ve already heard it all. Alcoholism is a disease, not a character flaw. She couldn’t help it, so I shouldn’t
hate her for it, right? What if I told you that in my opinion, she could have helped it? That if thousands of other people
can go sober, she should have been able to do it too?”

“She never tried?”

“She never succeeded, so I guess she didn’t try hard enough.”

Carly sighed. “Oh, boy.”

“I guess it wasn’t worth the trouble,” Max added. He had no idea why he was talking to Carly like this. In fact, he didn’t
know why he was talking about his mother at all. There was a knot in his stomach, and he had the feeling that he should shut
up, but he couldn’t.

“I’ll tell you,” he continued, “the difference between you and me. It’s a big one. You don’t know what it’s like to have nobody
care whether you live or die. You can enjoy all of those emotional luxuries like compassion, and optimism, and pretend that
you don’t live in a world where people do terrible things to each other.”

“Excuse me,” Carly said. “Who are you talking to?”

“What?”

“It’s hard to tell. The person you’re talking to seems to be someone you’ve invented and accidentally mistaken for me.”

Max put down the wooden spoon and folded his arms against his chest. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you think back over the past few minutes, you’ll remember that I haven’t been arguing with you. I may not
have had experiences as rough as yours, but I’m not such a baby that I can’t face facts that are right in front of me. If
you tell me that your mother chose to give you away to strangers rather than do the hard work of cleaning up her life, well,
I believe you. And I’m sad about it. You were just a kid, and you didn’t deserve the short end of the stick. But I do think
that you’re wrong about one thing.”

“Really,” Max said. “Please enlighten me.”

“Compassion and optimism aren’t luxuries. They’re hard work. I think everyone has to make choices about how to live, and if
those qualities are a part of my life, it’s because I try to keep them there, not because I’ve been sheltered from harsh reality,
or whatever it is that you think about me.”

“I don’t agree,” Max said stiffly. “There’s no way that someone with your life could possibly know what—”

“What do you know about my life? I treat stray cats when some sadist decides to set them on fire. I see dogs trained by ghetto
gangs to be killers. Even the little things, like the idiots who come in asking me to declaw their cats. Do you know what
it means to declaw a cat? It’s not trimming their nails, it’s cutting off the top joint of all of their toes. I won’t do that,
and so those people find another vet who will. You want to talk to someone about disillusionment? Talk to me. I’m telling
you, Max, optimism is a choice, and you have to choose it, or you might as well just quit.”

She looked squarely at him, daring him to argue. “Well?”

“Do you have a drainer for the pasta?” he asked. “It’s ready.”

She exhaled sharply. “In the cupboard. Look, Max, you can disagree with me if you want to, but you can’t stand there and tell
me who I am. It’s not fair. And it’s also a… a stupid excuse.”

“Excuse? For what?”

“For telling yourself that you can’t…” She stopped awkwardly, reddening. “It’s just wrong.”

“For telling myself that I can’t what?”

She looked defiantly at him. “You finally figured out that I’m not some brazen Jezebel who seduces old rich men, so now you’ve
decided that I’m a… naive child or something? I think you’re just looking for an excuse to avoid actually knowing me. Why?
Do I seem dangerous to you?”

That was a hell of a question, Max thought. His eyes moved over her flushed cheeks, her mouth, the curves of her breasts and
hips in that damned dress, and he felt his self-control beginning to slip. Carly Martin was turning out to be dangerous in
a way that made his first assessment of her almost laughable.

On Sunday, when she had dangled her friendship and her family in front of him—a tiny share of her world, sweet as candy—he
had been shocked to realize how much he wanted it. He wanted it with a deep, desperate greediness, as visceral as the sexual
desire he felt for her now. And these desires were connected to each other. He wanted her rarified world of siblings and children,
barbecues and graduations, loyalty and safety. And he wanted to rip that dress off of her body, push her up against the wall,
and lose himself in her, satisfying this fierce hunger. But he couldn’t. It was not his life. The hot asphalt of Brooklyn
would always be under his feet, one way or another, and he did not like games of pretend.

“You think you understand,” he said coldly, “but you don’t.” She had no right to make either offer to him. Tossing crumbs
to a starving man was not kindness.

“Don’t I?” Carly’s eyes were bright. “I’m just wondering if I get any say in this. Because if I do, I’d much rather be brazen.
Then at least I might have a chance, which is more than I get with the nice-girl role. Frankly, Max, it is not my hand that
I want kissed.”

“Carly, for God’s sake!” Max exclaimed. He turned away, unable to look at her, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter with
one hand. He needed a minute to focus on something else. Anything but her. In just a minute, he would be fine.

But he didn’t get it. She came forward and stopped right in front of him. “I’m not blind, Max,” she said. “I saw your face
when I walked into the kitchen. If I’m wrong about that, you’d better tell me.”

“You’re wrong,” he said tightly.

He heard her quick intake of breath and felt her draw back. “You mean… that you don’t…”

“I don’t.”

She was silent for a moment. “I see,” she said finally. “If that’s true, then why won’t you look at me?”

“What?”

“Look at me,” Carly repeated. There was something new in her voice. “And tell me again that I’m wrong.”

He turned slowly to face her. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyes seemed huge and wary. She was not as confident as
she was pretending to be, he thought. But it didn’t matter. He felt the heat of her body reaching out like a beacon, and knew
that he was lost.

“Damn you,” he said roughly, and pulled her into his arms. She stumbled, clinging to him as his mouth came down on hers. He
raked his fingers into the silken sweep of her hair, holding her head as he kissed her. She felt smaller in his embrace than
he had expected, and her softness made him feel too big, too strong, and too hungry, as if he could crush and consume her
if he wasn’t careful.

His mouth left hers and moved down to her neck, tasting the hollow between her jaw and throat. She was warm and sweet, like
sunshine, or ocean breezes in the summertime. She moaned softly and arched her back, pressing herself against him. He could
feel her breasts against his chest, and it was almost more than he could stand. He wanted her, God, how he wanted her. The
fierceness of it was shocking.

“Carly…” he said, the word halfway to a groan. He slid his hands down, over the curves of her hips, his fingers gripping
her rounded flesh, lifting her up, hard, against him. The next step, and the next, seemed as inevitable as the forward motion
of time. Clothes would be pulled away, bodies meeting in frantic passion, and he would drive himself into her, demanding something,
desperate for something that he could not name and did not know how to take. This was not lust, in the sense that he had always
known it. This was something bigger, deeper, and much more treacherous. It was beyond his control. He had never known the
feeling of craving a drug, of having a need so intense that denial felt akin to death. But now he thought that he did understand,
and the awareness horrified him. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his body like a jet of fire, and his breath suddenly
locked in his chest. He was drowning, he thought. He was underwater, and he could not breathe.

Abruptly, he released Carly. She made a soft, surprised noise. “Max?”

“My God…” he said raggedly, stepping back. His skin was cold, and it prickled all over.

“What’s the matter?” Carly asked anxiously.

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, trying to clear it. He forced himself to take slow breaths. The hot flood of emotion inside
him had switched abruptly from desire to panic, then receded, leaving him drained.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “Not you.”

“Maybe you should sit down for a minute.” The look on her face told Max something about the look on his own. He closed his
eyes briefly, pained. The last thing that he wanted was to have her fussing over him. But he said nothing, and allowed her
to lead him to the couch. He sat.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Carly asked.

“No,” he said. “Thanks.” His pulse was slowing down now, and he was starting to feel steady again. He hoped that she had not
sensed the magnitude of his reaction. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, more sharply than he should have. He modulated his tone. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

She sat down next to him on the couch. For a few moments, they didn’t speak. He could hear music from her upstairs neighbor’s
stereo leaking through the ceiling, and the creak of someone walking on the floor above them. He closed his eyes again, and
had the sudden strange feeling that when he opened them, he would find himself in his grandmother’s duplex in Brooklyn. It
was the smell, he thought. Old buildings, on either coast, seemed to hold the same musty smell. Even an old woman’s rigorous
scrubbing couldn’t banish it. It mingled with the aroma of the pasta sauce and made his head swim.

“Max? Is this about Nina?”

He opened his eyes. It took him a moment to process what Carly had said, because it was the last thing that would have occurred
to him. “About Nina?” he repeated. “No.”

“Oh,” Carly said. “I thought that you might be feeling guilty.”

That would have been one hell of an attack of conscience
, Max thought. He shook his head. “Believe me. She and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“Okay.”

He could see that she didn’t really believe him, but he had no way of explaining to her what he himself did not understand.
It was some comfort to his ego to know that she would not have asked about Nina if she had been fully aware of what had just
happened to him. He had controlled himself well enough to keep her from seeing the extent of his sudden weakness, and that,
at least, was good. Of all the things that he wanted from Carly Martin, pity was not one of them.

T
he Safeway market on Stanyan Street was half a mile from Carly’s apartment, but the fog was light that evening, and the inconvenience
of walking was nothing compared to the horror of having to find a new on-street parking space if she dared to move her car.

She crossed Haight Street at Ashbury, passing the busy ethnic restaurants and the neon lights of the psychedelic shops. Ragged
street kids, many with dogs or cats on makeshift leashes, lounged in the doorways. The district, thanks to its countercultural
heritage and—more practically—its cheap food and proximity to Golden Gate Park, had always been a gathering place for the
homeless.

One girl, standing with a group of other teenagers, waved to Carly. Her hair was bleached to a white blond, and it glowed
under the streetlights like a halo. A scruffy border collie was curled at her feet.

Carly stopped. “Edie,” she said. “Hi. Where have you been?”

The teenagers, a motley group with partially shaved heads and various body piercings, stopped talking and stared at her, snickering.
Edie ignored them. “Around,” she said. “I’ve got a dog for you. Do you want him?”

Carly sighed. She had met the girl several months ago, outside the Safeway. Edie had been in the parking lot, asking for change
and carrying a black-and-white puppy whose cough had immediately gotten Carly’s attention. She had brought the girl and dog
back to her apartment and done her best to doctor both of them, but her attempts with the puppy had been much more successful.
Edie had refused to tell Carly anything more than her first name, and she answered any questions about her life on the street
with withering sarcasm. Nonetheless, they had formed some kind of bond, and every week or so, Edie showed up at Carly’s door,
toting a foundling animal. Some of them she gave to Carly, who did her best to find homes for them, but others she took back.
They already had owners, she said. They belonged to her friends.