I joke as Max smirks at me over his UCLA mug, the light blue script of the word Bruins so faded you wouldn’t know what it said unless you knew he’d gone to school there, that it was his favorite mug to drink coffee from. It’s always been the subtle things like this, the little nuances that make him who he is, many of which only I know, that have made me feel connected to him. Like how he can only read a magazine from the first page to the last page, never skipping around like I do; or the fact that he talks in his sleep after he’s had a cocktail; or the way he runs his hand through his hair when he’s nervous. “Come on! Tell me something about your night.” He reaches in and kisses me softly. “I can make it worth your while,” he says seductively. As I drove us away from Las Vegas this morning, watching the city disappear into the hills through the rearview mirror, Jules sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, Liam high above us in the air, having texted he was flying back with Nikki on the Gulfstream jet she’d chartered, I had prepared myself for how I would answer Max’s question, for the way I could describe my night without having to lie.
