Max was ready to go at three o'clock, and the final hour and a half of waiting was agonizing. All she could do was keep checking the clock and finding time dumps in the meantime. By the end of it, her room was cleaner than before she moved in, her photographs were reorganized, and Lisa had been given a fresh helping of water. She could feel herself going stir crazy as it finally hit ten minutes til.
For reals, that has to be close enough.
Max left her room. Around this time, the Vortex Club was usually getting prepped for the night of hard partying. That involved a whole schedule of things Max didn't even want to think about. At least it meant no one would bother her. Leaving the dorm, Max found a few football players passing the ball back and forth.
That's right. There's a game tonight.
Dana had invited her. Not that Max could make it tonight. But she supposed she really should give a game a shot. She might not have had a lot - or any - school spirit and even less interest in sports, but it would be a good distraction. And the Bigfoots weren't doing too poorly this season from what she heard.
It would be nice to be able to root for someone for once.
"Yeah, no, I'd totally fuck Victoria if I didn't think that freak Prescott would sic his dad on me," one of the players stated.
"Man, I'm tired of that kid thinking he owns this place. He couldn't throw a punch to save himself," the other concurred.
Keeping her head down, Max passed the principal's house. It seemed that Nathan wasn't very popular outside of the Vortex Club. Not surprising, though. His attitude made him hard to like. Quite frankly, Max felt like he and Victoria were made for each other. But there was always the chance of someone snapping and murdering the other one. Probably Victoria.
Max wanted to look nonchalant, but she had never been good at managing her anxiety. Instead, she found herself glancing around, always checking for Mr. Madsen, who was known to be on campus on Saturdays, or any other teacher. The staff parking lot was empty, though, outside of the Principal's car and one other. She recognized Mr. Jefferson's car immediately. Walking over, she opened the passenger door and slipped in.
"Hi, Mr. Jefferson," she greeted as she buckled up.
"Hey, Max. How're you today?" Mr. Jefferson inquired, driving from the parking lot.
Ecstatic. Nervous. Overwhelmed.
"Fine."
Or that. That works, too, I guess.
"How're you?" Max remembered to ask belatedly. She hoped it came out less strained than she felt it did.
"I'm doing well. I've been doing homework all day today, so I'm looking forward to the break," Mr. Jefferson said.
Confused, Max raised her eyebrows. "You have homework?"
"Who do you think grades your assignments?" Mr. Jefferson replied, a chuckle coloring his tone.
"If you stopped handing out assignments, you wouldn't have to grade on the weekends," Max teased. "Just a thought."
"I'm sure you would like that," Mr. Jefferson replied, laughing outright this time. "I'm pretty sure Blackwell would have something to say about that, though, when I tell them that 25% of your grade comes from in-class participation and the other 75% from your final project."
Max giggled and felt the blush spring across her cheeks. "You could always try making it 20-80," she murmured, staring out the window.
Laughing louder now, Mr. Jefferson replied, "Yeah, that will certainly make it better."
Pleased, Max stared down at her bag, which sat in her lap. She hated that she still felt any type of nervousness around him. Mr. Jefferson had proven to be nothing but considerate of her. Why couldn't she just act normal the whole time she was around him? Why was it that a time like now, she felt her heart quaking as much as it was? And he was perfectly oblivious to her feelings.
Play it cool, Max.
"Not to use the fact that I have you trapped against you for long, but I'm still waiting on your 'Everyday Heroes' entry," Mr. Jefferson pointed out.
Max tried not to grimace. "I, um, I have an idea, Mr. Jefferson. I just haven't taken the photo yet."
"Don't wait too long, Max. The art world waits for no one," Mr. Jefferson informed her.
I know that already.
Silence descended gradually before engulfing the atmosphere. Looking out the window, Max let her eyes flicker with the trees. She had never seen Mr. Jefferson's house before, and she had no idea how far away they were. All she knew was that the quiet was starting to become stuffy. The only distraction was the car's engine, a soft rumbling echoing through her as they drove, and the rapid-fire beating of her heart, which she would rather forget was there.
"Would you like to listen to some music?" Mr. Jefferson inquired.
"Yes, please," Max said in one breath, her desperation for a distraction obvious.
With that, Mr. Jefferson turned on the audio. A song came through, reminding Max of the blues or jazz, although she wasn't well-versed enough in music to be able to label it. But there was definitely a lovely mesh of trumpets, piano, and - possibly - cello?
"Finally, I woke one day to join 'em. Flip side of the coin, and being there's no turning back! So I'm a little bit-"
Mr. Jefferson hit the button for the radio. Immediately, the local top hits station began to play. "Sorry, I didn't realize I had my old man music playing."
"It's okay. I was enjoying it," Max offered honestly.
"That's kind of you to say," Mr. Jefferson replied, obviously not believing her. He turned the volume to the song down slightly. "I won't lie, music nowadays lacks in content. The lyrics just don't speak to an audience as much."
"I am really picky about what songs I listen to because of that. I'd rather have something with lyrics that speak to me than hearing someone sing 'Baby' eight times as a chorus," Max confessed, hoping that he wouldn't make a comment about her 'hipster' status. "Some of what I listen to doesn't have any lyrics, but it always feels like it has more soul."
"That's a good way to put it, Max. 'Soul' is definitely what songs nowadays lack," Mr. Jefferson praised.
He understood, and Max felt relieved. She wasn't a "freak" or "hipster bitch" to Mr. Jefferson. Instead, she was just Max - a young girl interested in whatever she enjoyed. Unlike what most believed, she didn't like "unpopular" things just because they weren't popular or because she wanted attention. She enjoyed them because they spoke to her more.
"We're here," Mr. Jefferson said. "My home sweet home. It's far nicer than my flat in New York."
Blinking, Max looked up to find a ranch-styled house in front of her. It was in the posh neighborhood, probably not too far from where the Prescott Estate was. It had a nice, grey brick on the outside, fitting in well with the clean, white siding. She got out of the car, which remained in the driveway, and looked around. Mr. Jefferson didn't have a yard to speak of, but his house had a direct view of the ocean. A fence went around the property, which was on a cliff. It was a shame, although probably necessary for safety reasons. But that fence cut through the spectacular view.
"You might want to pick your jaw up from the ground before coming inside," Mr. Jefferson jested as he walked up to his front door.
Snapping her mouth shut, Max felt totally self-aware. She jogged to catch up with him. Stepping inside, she looked about the entrance hall. Dark wooden floors stretched out as far as she could see. The walls were a lovely deep red, leaving Max with a feeling of warmth upon entering. A few pieces of art hung on the walls, normally with only a hint of red to tie them together.
Next to her was a small shoe rack, complete with a few sets of Mr. Jefferson's shoes. Mr. Jefferson kicked off what he was wearing before plodding down the hall. Max carefully removed her own shoes and placed them next to the rack before hanging her bag on a coat hanger. She also headed down the hall, which opened into an open floor plan. The kitchen was a sharp left, just behind the hallway wall, with the dining room just to her left and the living room to the right. From there, there appeared to be a hallway that led to the rest of the house.
She walked into the kitchen. The cabinets matched the flooring, and stainless steel appliances appeared as though they had just been polished. The counter-tops were beige granite, freckled with darker and lighter spots to create a texture. It also morphed into the backsplash. Honestly, Max was blown away. This kitchen had to be more expensive than her entire first floor at home. There was also an island in the middle of the room that was covered in food: carrots, bell peppers, celery, cherry tomatoes, a head of lettuce, several eggs, and some shredded cheese. There was also a yellow cutting board out.
Rolling up his sleeves, Mr. Jefferson said, "You're going to be in charge of the salad. All your ingredients are on the counter. Everything's already been washed."
Max nodded, trying not to stare at his remarkably defined arms. Honestly, his shirts hadn't done him any favors. He clearly kept himself in shape despite his self-declared "old age." Grabbing the head of lettuce, she forced herself to look away. Better for her to have something to do when filling the time. She pulled the cutting board over. Without hesitating, she slammed the lettuce down, core towards the counter, to bust it apart. The core caved in easily, and Max removed it.
"Where's the trash?" she inquired.
Pot in hand, Mr. Jefferson nodded towards the glass door that led to the patio. It was situated between the kitchen and the dining room, giving a wonderful view of the ocean. And the fence in between. However, the trash can sat in between the door and the counter. She pitched the core and brought the lettuce to the sink, washing it. Once she got it back to the cutting board, she began to fumble through the drawers.
"What do you need now?" Mr. Jefferson inquired in an unassuming manner.
"Knife," Max replied.
Mr. Jefferson walked over to his butcher's block and removed one of the smaller knives from it. "Careful with this. Don't cut yourself."
"You're starting to sound like my dad," Max teased as she took the handle. She pointed the blade towards Mr. Jefferson playfully. "I'm an adult, you know. I think I can wield a knife."
"Sorry, sorry. I'm not your father," Mr. Jefferson responded, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just spare me."
Max giggled before turning back to the lettuce. With several sharp movements, she had it chopped down to manageable bites. She then picked it up just as Mr. Jefferson set down a bowl for her to put it in. Dropping it in, she reached forward and grabbed one of the eggs, curious as to why he put them out. She realized why the moment she picked it up, feeling their heavy, full mass. Cracking the bottom of the egg, she carefully started peeling it.
"I feel so nostalgic," Max commented idly, her eyes never leaving the egg. "I used to cook with my best friend the morning after I spent the night before…"
Before her dad died.
"... before I moved to Seattle."
"Does she still live here?" Mr. Jefferson inquired as he turned on the stove. A ginormous pot sat on the stove, and Max worried that Mr. Jefferson was secretly going to have twenty people over to feed.
"Yes," Max replied as she sliced the egg. She made sure not to make it too thin, though, not wanting the egg to fall apart. "She never moved away, as far as I know."
"As far as you know? Have you not visited her yet?" Mr. Jefferson inquired as he grabbed the salt. He poured in what Max would call a generous amount.
Stuttering, Max tried to find the right words that wouldn't lead to judgement. "U-uh, no, I haven't - we haven't had the time to - to catch up," she said, shelling another egg. It wasn't technically a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.
"There's still plenty of time," Mr. Jefferson noted as he grabbed a box of dried noodles. "Although I do find it rather telling that you haven't cooked for yourself since then."
"Isn't that what parents are supposed to be for?" Max tried to joke. Her anxiety quieted when Mr. Jefferson chuckled.
"Touche."
Max finished the eggs. She grabbed the celery, wanting to save the carrots for last. Washing the stalks in the sink, she looked outside the window and at the ocean. It was strange how something so small - so insignificant - could bring Chloe right back to her mind. Her best friend had been all but off the grid for the last five years. Max hadn't the slightest idea what had happened with her... to her. All she knew was that Chloe had taken her dad's death poorly.
Not that there's a good way to handle something like that.
There was no judgement from Max's side. After all, she was the one who had left. She hadn't asked her parents to move, but move they had. And she hadn't been the type of friend she wished she was. The guilt still lingered. Would Chloe hold it against her? Or would she forgive Max for her failure to communicate? Max still wasn't brave enough to find out.
Her finger stung. Dropping the knife, Max exclaimed, "Ow!" The blood seeped from a thin cut. She hadn't been paying enough attention when cutting the celery.
"Let me see it," Mr. Jefferson ordered, rounding the counter in an instant.
Holding it out, Max felt him grab her wrist and bring her hand closer. He shifted his glasses slightly as he examined it. Then he pulled her over to the sink and put the assaulted finger under cold, running water.
"I thought you said that you knew how to use a knife," he managed to jest as he opened a cabinet. He reached up to the top and removed a first aid kit.
Super smart to keep it in the kitchen.
Max shrugged one shoulder. "I spaced out. Sorry."
"Well, I'm glad to know you don't just do that in my class. But do be careful, Max," Mr. Jefferson playfully goaded as he pulled her finger back. He dried the area before carefully wrapping a band-aid around it. It was secured tightly, making it hard for Max to wiggle her index finger fully.
"I will be," Max promised, turning back to her project. She checked the celery for blood before deciding to scrap the last bit that she had cut. There was no reason to risk it, after all. And salads didn't usually taste good with a dash of iron anyway. "Do you want the cherry tomatoes cut?"
"No. Just drop some in there. Jeff doesn't like them, so he'll just fish around them," Mr. Jefferson replied.
"Jeff?" Max echoed in confusion.
Mr. Jefferson, who was stirring the sauce pot, didn't look back. "My lawyer," he clarified.
"Oh."
If you had thought about it a moment, you would have realized, Maxstein.
With that, Max picked up a small handful and sprinkled them into the salad. She grabbed a red bell pepper and started slicing it open. "How long has he been your lawyer?"
"Oh, forever now. I knew him back in university. We were roommates our freshman year," Mr. Jefferson informed her. He then stuck the spoon into the sauce and carefully carried it over to Max, one hand underneath it to catch any spillage. "Taste this and tell me what you think."
Max tasted it. It was certainly robust, the herbs having settled into the sauce nicely. There was a small kick at the end as well, which Max appreciated. Most wouldn't guess it looking at her, but Max rather liked some heat to her food. Her parents tried to accommodate, but their sensitivity never allowed for Max to really enjoy some spice. "It's delicious," she told him.
"Good," Mr. Jefferson replied. He set the spoon in the sink and lowered the heat to a simmer. "Do you need help with the salad? The noodles have a few minutes left."
Perking up, Max inquired, "Could you handle the carrots? I'm almost done with the peppers."
Mr. Jefferson nodded. As he started to peel the carrots, Max finished dicing the peppers. She cleaned off the island as best she could with a paper towel. She glanced up to see his muscles flex with every movement. If he ever wore a short-sleeved shirt to school, he wouldn't be able to peel the girls off him.
"I haven't had to cook for someone else in a while," Mr. Jefferson commented, cracking the quiet.
Max replied, "I'm surprised you aren't married, Mr. Jefferson."
"Not for lack of trying," Mr. Jefferson remarked as he added the carrots. He certainly had finished them faster than Max ever could have. "Never seemed to suit me, though. And once I became famous, it became difficult to find someone interested in me and not my status."
Yeah, I believe that. Even at Blackwell, he has students after him because he's famous.
But aren't you one of them, Max?
The thought came to her so suddenly that it startled her. Staring at Mr. Jefferson, Max wondered if she would have been as interested in him if he was just Mr. Jefferson, photography teacher. But if that were the case, Max would have never come to Blackwell. She had applied because the Mark Jefferson was teaching. But certainly, she didn't only like him because he was famous. There were plenty of other aspects - many that she got to see personally. And she seemed to be the only one.
"Max?" Mr. Jefferson called out, sounding concerned. "Spacing out again?"
"Yeah," Max replied. Her nerves got the better of her, though, as he continued to watch her. Honestly, she was scared he was going to be able to see through her. "I was just thinking that that was such a shame. You deserve someone to like you for you."
Smooth.
"Well, if you know anyone who fits the bill, do let me know," Mr. Jefferson stated, his voice becoming almost heavy on Max's ears. His eyes never flickered from her face. "I would be certainly happy to meet with such a woman, no matter who she might be."
Eyes widening, Max wondered if that was supposed to be a cue of sorts. She opened her mouth just as the doorbell rang. Jumping at the sound, Max only then recalled that the lawyer had yet to arrive. Mr. Jefferson signaled for her to wait before rounding the corner. A moment later, she heard the door open.
"Mark!"
"Jeff!"
"I brought the wine so I didn't have to deal with your terrible taste."
Max then poked her head around the corner to see the two men in a friendly embrace. The visitor was around Mr. Jefferson's age. His dirty blond hair was slicked back, and he looked quite intimidating in his suit. Stepping back, he looked down the hall. His blue eyes were just as critical as Mr. Jefferson's, and Max felt pinned underneath them.
"You must be Max. It's a pleasure to meet you. My name's Jeffrey Neis. N-E-I-S, not N-I-C-E," Mr. Neis greeted, holding out his hand.
Shaking it, Max answered, "I'm Max Caulfield. Nice to meet you." She then realized what she had said and felt her cheeks start to burn. "N-no pun intended."
"Don't worry. I'm quite used to it," Mr. Neis replied, smiling at her. "Mark here can testify to that."
Mr. Jefferson scoffed. "What do you mean? You introduced yourself to everyone as 'Mark Jefferson's roommate, Jeff Markerson' the entirety of our freshman year," he noted with a soft, teasing tone.
Eyes widening, Max inquired, "Did people believe you?"
"Once Mark figured out to play along, yes," Mr. Neis replied with a wink. "And that took longer than it really should have."
"It only took a few days," Mr. Jefferson chided before sliding past them. "Dinner's ready."
"What're we having?" Mr. Neis inquired, following. He almost had a spring in his step, Max noticed, a certain lightness that she thought was lost with age.
"Pasta and salad," Mr. Jefferson replied from around the corner. Mr. Neis opened his mouth to reply, but Mr. Jefferson continued, "And before you start complaining that it's no five-course meal, I made the sauce myself yesterday."
Mr. Neis barked out a laugh, it filling the open rooms easily. "Well, how can I complain then?"
"You can't," Mr. Jefferson answered matter-of-factly. He grabbed the salad bowl and placed it in the middle of his wooden table.
Mr. Neis opened a drawer and rummaged through it. "It's been awhile since I was last here."
"And yet you remember where the bottle opener is," Mr. Jefferson noted as Mr. Neis pulled it out.
"Well, you have to remember the important things."
Meanwhile, Max shuffled her feet slightly as she listened to the banter. Their friendship was nice to see, but it made it hard for her to speak. She wondered if she would ever have that kind of relationship with someone. Someone where the whole world would melt away whenever they were together.
You had that.
Max pushed the thoughts of Chloe away once again. She might have had it when she was 13, but that didn't mean she had it anymore. Or could have it anymore. Staring at the ground, she tried to reorient herself here.
"Your Mr. Jefferson has told me only good things about you, Max," Mr. Neis suddenly offered as he poured two glasses of wine.
Head snapping up, Max felt her cheeks flush again. "M-my Mr. Jefferson?"
"Well, I know him as just 'Mark,'" Mr. Neis said, his eyebrows coming together in confusion and curiosity. Max didn't like the look whatsoever. It felt as though he was getting closer to the truth. The truth that she refused to acknowledge. "But he's Mr. Jefferson to you, isn't he?"
"Yes," Max replied before glancing at Mr. Jefferson. His lips were pulled in a strained line as he reached for some salad bowls. Looking back at Mr. Neis, she continued, "He's spoken highly of you as well."
"You're not very good at lying," Mr. Neis said gently, a smile touching his lips. "That's not necessarily a bad thing. It just means that it'll be easier for me to get to the truth."
"To be fair, I haven't said anything bad about you either," Mr. Jefferson offered as he set the bowls down. "Come eat. You can interrogate her later."
"Hey, now, I'm not a police officer," Mr. Neis replied, approaching the table. He sat down at one of the seats before making a face upon seeing the salad. "Tomatoes."
Mr. Jefferson chuckled. "I think you can manage to pick them out."
"You know, I was going to be nice, but now..." he stated before looking at Max. Alarmed, Max glanced at Mr. Jefferson. What had she done to be caught in the crosshairs? "I am sure Max here would love to hear about how you were in college."
Filling Max's bowl with salad, Mr. Jefferson replied, "Don't you have anything else to use as blackmail?"
"Not anything I can talk about since you signed me as your lawyer," Mr. Neis replied jokingly. He then leaned over towards Max. "Did you know that Mr. Jefferson here originally went to school on a baseball scholarship?"
Despite herself, Max perked up. "I didn't."
"Why would she?" Mr. Jefferson inquired before filling his own bowl. "I don't talk to my students about ancient history."
"Which is why I'm here," Mr. Neis quipped.
"I thought you were here to better represent us?"
Waving his hand, Mr. Neis replied, "Two birds, one stone." He then accepted the salad bowl that Mr. Jefferson passed to him. Filling his own bowl by carefully rooting about the tomatoes, he continued, "He was one of their best batters on the team. Not that that's saying much. We weren't exactly renowned for our sports."
"I can't imagine it," Max confessed. Sure, he was fit, but wouldn't the glasses get in the way? And when did he find time to both play and pursue photography? It just seemed so conflicting.
Mr. Neis laughed. "Hard to imagine now, I am sure. But you never saw him with a bat in his hand. Couldn't throw a punch to save his life, but put something in his hands, and he could take down just about any man."
"Jeff," Mr. Jefferson called out, his voice cautioning, "she's my student. Remember that."
"She's also my client. She deserves to get to know me a bit more," Mr. Neis remarked before taking a sip of wine.
Mr. Jefferson looked towards Max. "What would you like to drink?"
"Water's fine," Max answered honestly. She enjoyed tea, but she very much doubted that it would complement the pasta well.
As Mr. Jefferson rose to get her a glass, Mr. Neis continued as though nothing had been said. "Besides, as you noted, it's ancient history. So what's the harm? You won't tell anyone, right, Max?"
"I won't. I promise," Max replied softly.
"See? And she's such a terrible liar that you know she's being truthful!"
Anxiety started to well in Max's mind. She knew that she should be excited to learn new things about Mr. Jefferson, but she hadn't anticipated it being quite like this. She felt guilty. If Mr. Jefferson didn't want her to know, she felt that Mr. Neis should respect that, even if they were old friends. Uncomfortable, she focused on eating her salad and kept her head low. Silence filled the room. It was nearly stifling. The sound of the glass hitting the table, though, caused her to look up. Mr. Jefferson was glaring at Mr. Neis, who only seemed to catch on then.
"I hope I didn't offend you, Max," Mr. Neis said, his voice serious for the first time. It was so drastic from before that Max felt compelled to look up. "I might be playful because I've known Mark for years, but I am serious about representing your interests. Your name should have never been printed in the Beacon without your consent. Mark told me all about it. I was very frustrated by the lack of professionalism."
With that, Max began to relax in her chair and put her fork down, now finished with her salad. "Do you think we have a case?"
"Yes," Mr. Neis replied without missing a beat. "If what Mr. Jefferson tells me is true, that is."
"And it is," Mr. Jefferson stated before rising to his feet. As Mr. Neis continued to enjoy his salad, he collected Max's bowl with his own.
Mr. Neis hummed as he carefully chewed his bite. "So Max, you never received an email or call from the paper before they published this article?"
"No," Max responded. "You can check my email and phone records. I didn't have any clue as to what they were doing until it was already too late."
Mr. Neis nodded, mulling it over. "I will have to obtain a copy of the records as evidence for if we take this to court. Although there's a fair chance that the newspaper would be willing to settle this out-of-court. I suppose the real question is, what do you want from this?"
"I want them to apologize for what they did," Max replied as Mr. Jefferson set a bowl of pasta in front of her. She offered him a tentative smile. "Thank you."
"And what else?" Mr. Neis replied.
Confused, Max asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, usually, this involves some sort of settlement. The company will pay out a certain amount of money as compensation for your troubles," Mr. Neis explained as Mr. Jefferson set a bowl in front of him as well. He carelessly stabbed a few of the noodles with his salad fork. "How much should I look for?"
Max was quite startled by the thought. When Mr. Jefferson had brought up pursuing this, she hadn't realized it would be for a monetary amount. She would have been happy with just a formal apology and a concerted effort to never let something like this happen again. "H-how much should I ask for?" she inquired, glancing between the two men.
"She is an innocent one, isn't she?" Mr. Neis asked, looking over at Mr. Jefferson. He then looked back at Max, examining her closely. "You honestly were only looking for an apology from them?"
Max's entire face was burning, from the tips of her ears to the base of her neck. "W-well, they can't take back the fact that they published my name. They should acknowledge that what they did was wrong. And they should never do it again."
"Then we'll ask for recompense for emotional distress and settle for anything 20 grand or above out of court," Mr. Neis stated, seeming satisfied with his own answer. "That'll easily cover my bills and leave one of you with a nice sum of money. Assuming you haven't managed to squander all of yours by purchasing this house, Mark."
"Don't worry. I'm still rolling in more cash than you could even dream of," Mr. Jefferson joked, a certain edginess to his voice. Turning to Max, he explained, "This guy laughed at me when I declared my major in photography. He didn't see my full potential."
"And he never lets me forget it," Mr. Neis noted with a twinkle in his eye. "But he's brought me quite a few clients, one of them being yourself. So I suppose I cannot complain."
Max nodded in acknowledgement. By now, the tension had started to seep from her body. Mr. Neis was just playful, and she was starting to get a bit used to it. The meal continued relatively undisturbed. Mr Neis enjoyed regaling Max with the tales of their time together in university. His voice would always get rather low, as if he was letting her in on some big secret. Usually, Mr. Jefferson would only chirp in if he felt as though something significant was being missed.
One story had been about Mr. Jefferson finally 'becoming' a photographer: "About halfway through his sophomore year was when it was like a switch had been hit. Suddenly, Mark just went out one weekend and got a few piercings in his ears. Real artsy-fartsy types, too. That made a couple heads turn. Not quite as common as it is nowadays, you see."
"Yes, we're all grateful that phase is over now," Mr. Jefferson cut in, amusement coloring his tone.
Another was about a blind date gone wrong: "You see, the girl I was interested in was only willing to go out with me if it was a double date with one of her friends. And I had to supply the other male. So I bribed Mark with the promise that I would pay for the whole meal and that it was just a dinner."
"And he had to pay for my gas," Mr. Jefferson pointed out.
"There was that, but that was only, like, five bucks. If even." He then turned back to face Max, "The issue was, though, that when we got there, this girl's friend was even more attractive than her. I didn't know what to do with myself. It was as though I was immediately in love all over again."
Max made a face and giggled. "So you were only interested in her for her looks?"
"Well, I mean… yes, but I'm the victim here, don't forget that," Mr. Neis playfully replied. "Because hotshot over here had the girls all over him the entire dinner! I was the social leper. The third wheel. All they wanted to know was 'Mark' this and 'Mark' that. And then I had to pay for it."
"He's never let me come on a date of his since and almost didn't invite me to his wedding," Mr. Jefferson stated, not even trying to hide his smirk. He took a sip of wine. "Not sure why."
"I'm just grateful you didn't steal my wife for our wedding night," Mr. Neis replied with a laugh.
Then there was the prank they played on their neighbors: "Now, this one was all Mark's idea. We had a couple of guys who lived next door to us. One of them had decided to give Mark a hard time because he was taking black-and-white pictures. What did he say again, Mark?"
"'This isn't the 1920s anymore. Buy a camera that can actually use color,'" Mr. Jefferson responded solemnly.
"Right, right. Well, Mark here didn't take too well to that. So one afternoon, we skipped classes, and we got into their room. Don't ask how, Max. We all have to have our secrets. But we got in there, and we inverted their room perfectly. We even managed to flip the lamps, although it did require quite a bit of balancing with the table. When they came back, they didn't even know what to do with it. It took them hours to get their room back together."
However, it was his story about one of their classes that stole the show: "We didn't talk to each other beforehand, and it's the only class we took together. But, I mean, when you have to take an English course, and one of them is 'Drugs, Lit, and Culture,' I mean - how can anyone really pass that up? It was the same philosophical fluff that any literature class had, but we all got to write down our favorite quotes from the books we read. And the professor said he would give us extra credit if we came in our last day with a shirt that fit the theme of the class. But I had an even better idea."
"Notice, Max, that it was his idea," Mr. Jefferson chirped.
"So we went out the week before and bought a package of blank t-shirts. And we bought some tie-dye and shirt paint. And on the last day of class, we were the most spectacular-looking hippies in the room. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was the fact that we wrote our favorite quote on it. It was a marvelous quote from the book 'Go Ask Alice.' And by that, Max, I mean it was absolute rubbish. Never read it. But the quote was, 'Another day, another blowjob.' And we wore those shirts proudly the whole day."
Sputtering on her water, Max coughed out her laughter. Mr. Neis clapped her on the back, a little too hard. Upon the third thump, Mr. Jefferson caught his arm. "You'll give her whiplash if you keep that up, Jeff."
Max calmed down with a few more coughs. But it was hard of her to get that image out of her mind now that it was planted there. No doubt that Mr. Jefferson would fail her if she ever told anyone else about it.
By the end of the dinner, Mr. Neis looked perfectly sated. "Jesus, Mark, you cook better than my wife."
"You knew that when you married her," Mr. Jefferson pointed out with a chuckle as he collected the dishes. "How about I make a couple cappuccinos for dessert? And I have some tea for you, Max."
"That would be great," Max replied politely.
Mr. Neis got up. "Before that, though, I have a couple of papers for you to sign, Max." He retrieved his briefcase from the front and opened it. He placed a packet in front of Max and one where Mr. Jefferson sat. Opening it, he went through all of the legal jargon and translated it into layman's terms. She went through it with him, following him the whole way through. It was quite intimidating. It made everything real to her.
"Is this really okay, Mr. Jefferson?" she asked, looking over at him as he filled two cappuccino cups.
"Max, I wouldn't have offered if it wasn't," Mr. Jefferson reassured her.
Mr. Neis continued, "Besides, he gets the friend discount, and his case is stronger with another plaintiff. So don't let him make you feel as though you owe him anything."
"O-okay," Max murmured. With that, she signed and dated the papers. "If I don't have to go to court or have any more publicity, though, I would appreciate it."
"I am the very being of discretion, Max," Mr. Neis reassured her. "Mark's already told me about the nature of the situation. I still believe we should prosecute the school themselves, but that would cause a public scandal. So we have decided not to pursue that unless you tell me otherwise."
Shaking her head, Max replied, "No, thank you." Mr. Jefferson then placed a cup of tea before her. She picked it up, the warmth spreading through her hands. It smelled of peppermint, which was lovely. It always reminded her of Christmastime, and the colder weather certainly set the atmosphere for it.
"Let's go out and enjoy the sunset," Mr. Jefferson stated, motioning towards the patio.
No objections were had as they went outside. The sky was darkening into beautiful shades of purple, orange, and pink. The sun hung low on the horizon, the bottom appearing to just caress the water of the ocean. Max stationed herself on the outdoor sofa whilst Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Neis took up the two chairs. Sipping her tea, she relaxed.
"So you seeing anyone, Mark?" Mr. Neis inquired conversationally.
"Not anymore," Mr. Jefferson replied, his voice rather curt.
"What happened to that last girl? Rebecca, wasn't it?" Mr. Neis pressed.
Ears perking, Max barely kept herself from looking over in open curiosity. She didn't want to seem nosey, after all.
"Artistic differences drove us apart," Mr. Jefferson replied. "That was awhile back, though. I'm surprised you even remembered her."
Mr. Neis hummed, his head tilting. "Didn't seem that long ago to me. But then again, we probably haven't spoken for over half a year until this recent event, have we? Jesus, time really starts to fly once you get old." He then looked over at Max and gave her a wink. "Do yourself a favor. Don't get old."
"The other option seems a bit less appealing," Max pointed out before taking another long sip of her tea. She could feel the warmth slide down her throat. Curling up a bit more, she flashed Mr. Neis a polite smile.
"Touche," Mr. Neis responded. "To be 18 again. You really don't realize what you've got until it's gone."
"I'm not sure being 18 is so great," Max mumbled, staring out at the water.
"Ah, you just say that because you don't know how truly awful it is to be in your thirties. Or forties. Or fifties," Mr. Neis informed her. "But you'll see in good time."
Mr. Jefferson responded, "Getting older should be something you look forward to, Max. There's plenty of this world you haven't seen yet. And you still have your future in photography to enjoy."
"Thanks, Mr. Jefferson," Max reflexively replied. She knew he thought she had a gift, but sometimes, it was so hard for her to see herself. After all, she was just Max. Nothing she ever photographed seemed particularly spectacular. But his faith in her did keep her going. There was no way Mr. Jefferson was wrong. Not unless she proved him wrong.
The conversation mellowed along with the tea. Mr. Neis started asking Max about herself, and she told him just about everything she was comfortable with. At least he seemed nice. And if he wasn't interested in her answers, he certainly didn't portray that at all. She finished her first cup of tea.
"I'm going in to make another cappuccino. Would either of you like something?" Mr. Jefferson inquired.
Max chirped, "I would appreciate another cup of tea."
"I'll take a cup of tea as well," Mr. Neis replied.
Mr. Jefferson quirked an eyebrow. "Since when do you drink tea?"
"Well, I figured I might as well give it a shot," Mr. Neis answered. "She seems to be enjoying it. Must not be too bad."
"I bought the tea for Max to enjoy. I'll make you another cappuccino," Mr. Jefferson replied. There was no argument to be had against that, as he entered his house a moment later.
Mr. Neis huffed. Max, feeling slightly awkward, said, "If you really want some tea, I am happy to share it with you."
"No, no, he's right to keep it from me. It would just be a waste on me. I've never been able to appreciate that bitter leaf," Mr. Neis replied. "Coffee, on the other hand, I'm practically a connoisseur."
Mr. Jefferson emerged a minute later with the drinks in hand. Their idle conversations resumed yet again. As they spoke, though, she found herself becoming more and more tired. Her eyelids, unbidden, began to close. Sometimes, she would have to blink several times just to force them to stay open again. After she finished her second cup, though, she found it almost impossible to stay awake. She nestled into the sofa as the stars above twinkled away the last of daylight. Both the men began to speak quieter, noticing. They were catching up, from what Max could make out. Most of their words went in through one ear and out the other.
Shivering, she curled in closer to the back of the sofa. She heard some rustling, and a minute later, something covered her. She caught Mr. Jefferson's scent. His jacket then, she realized, as she pulled it closer to her in her half-conscious state.
"Mark, you know I care about you. We've been friends for years. And we will be friends for years to come," Mr. Neis said, his voice becoming somber. Max couldn't help but eavesdrop. Whatever he was about to say next clearly had some weight behind it. "But you need to be careful. She's young. She's bound to misunderstand-"
"I am being careful," Mr. Jefferson cut in.
"Really? Because it doesn't seem like that to me," Mr. Neis responded. "There's a reason I wanted us to go out to eat. In a public setting. You're placing your reputation in real danger here. If she goes to the school with some concocted story-"
"She won't, Jeff," Mr. Jefferson stated confidently. "Max isn't like the rest of my students. She never has been. And she would never falsely testify against me. She doesn't have it in her."
Mr. Neis hummed before saying, "I don't get that feeling from her either, but the point is that you cannot make yourself so vulnerable. She really isn't worth your reputation."
"I'll be the one to decide what is and isn't worth my reputation," Mr. Jefferson snapped.
With that, it seemed, the conversation was over. Max heard nothing else as sleep tugged her into its embrace.