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In the two months since Max had broken things off with Carmen — and two months and three days since he’d been shot at the Sundberg fortress — Miranda had been doing her best to cheer her compañero up and make life a little easier for him. Sometimes this just meant biting her tongue before a criticism could slip out, sometimes it was a surprise lunch brought into the office or a breakfast to go if they were off out early, and other times, like now, it was spending time with him outside work, not letting him be too lonely.
Today he’d professed Sunday boredom, and after a back-and-forth of suggestions over text, she’d accepted his proposal to replace the bowl she’d smashed after their last big argument. He’d said after the shooting that they’d get her a new one, but life had got in the way, and she’d assumed he’d long since forgotten. It was a pleasant surprise to find that he hadn’t.
Close to ten in the morning, Max eased the BMW into what seemed to be the last spot available in the large parking area next to the rastro. It was warm and dusty as they got out, the heat from the sun making limited concession to autumn’s approach and the early hour. The market was fairly crowded — Miranda was glad not to be there at its busiest in high summer. The long cordoned-off street was lined with trestle tables and sheets on the ground, all of them full of varied wares to peruse. Behind them stood sellers waiting to take their earnings, some of them sensibly sheltered under the shade of parasols or small awnings set up from their parked vans.
She and Max browsed the stalls, peering over curiosities, bric-à-brac, furniture, clothing, and some junk, in Miranda’s inexpert opinion. Max insisted that one person's trash was another’s treasure, but there were definitely a few items Miranda couldn’t see anyone paying for. Still, there was enough to interest them, and while Max paid for an Earth, Wind & Fire record, Miranda bought herself a small Moroccan lantern for her roof terrace.
There didn’t seem to be too many stalls selling the kind of ceramics they were after that day, and they’d soon decided on the best one. Max touched Miranda’s elbow briefly as they approached it for a second time.
“I was thinking,” he said. “I’d like a new bowl too. How about we get one for each other? Like a little surprise?”
Miranda considered it. Did she trust him to pick a design she liked? Yes, she decided, despite her usual desire to be in complete control; she hadn’t loved the one she’d picked herself, and his taste was actually not bad. And they could always swap back if it turned out to be terrible.
“Alright. You’re on.”
Max grinned. “You pick first. I’ll go and have a coffee. I’ll be over there.”
He pointed at a mobile café with some plastic chairs and tables arranged beside it. From an amorphous group of people waiting and a smoky, meaty scent mingling in the air with the bitter aroma of brewing coffee, Miranda surmised that there was a grilled meat stand nearby; she’d put money on Max getting a snack from there too.
With him sauntering off in search of refreshment and helpfully taking her lantern, Miranda turned her attention to the pottery before her. She rejected the bold, striped bowls — too like the one she’d smashed. She liked the splattered effect ones, but wasn’t sure if Max would. It came down to two types in the end: the fruit-decorated ones or the sea-themed ones. She very nearly chose one with cheerful lemons and pomegranates on it, but in the end she picked one with sea creatures and waves in various blues and greens. The lobster reminded her of the dish Max had cooked her once, and she thought the bowl would look equally good holding a portion of seafood pasta to share — ideally with her — as it would full of the citrus fruits Max always had on hand in his kitchen.
Satisfied with her tissue-wrapped purchase, she set off for the temporary café. Max was at a small table, and as predicted, he was eating something. Miranda caught a glimpse of a sausage in a paper napkin before the last of it disappeared into his mouth and the serviette was balled up and discarded on the plastic tabletop. Max grinned when he saw her and pushed the spare chair out with his foot.
“This is fun!” he said as she sat down, keeping the bowl out of sight on her lap. He pushed a little cup towards her. “Got you a coffee. Plenty of milk.”
Miranda thanked him and took a sip; not bad.
“So, do you want something like the one you broke, or can I just go crazy?”
“Maybe not crazy.” That was rarely a good adjective when it came to homeware shopping, in Miranda’s opinion. “But not like the one I broke — too many colours.” And too many bad memories, she didn’t say.
Max rubbed his hands together. “Alright. Not too crazy, not too many colours. I can do that.”
He stood up, drained the last of his coffee, set the cup down a little too heavily, and strode off. He was back in just over five minutes with a white plastic bag and a triumphant grin. He took his seat again.
“Shall we swap now?” he asked eagerly.
Miranda swallowed a final mouthful of her coffee. “Sure.”
They passed each other their purchases and began to unwrap them. There was a loud laugh from Max. Miranda knew exactly why as she looked up at him.
“No. Way,” he said, lifting his bowl. He looked delighted.
“Yep,” Miranda confirmed, putting hers on the table. “They’re almost identical.”
“The perfect match,” Max said with a soft smile. “Just like us.”
Miranda scrunched her face up. “I think you said you were talking about the car.”
Max shrugged. “Well, a bit — I love that car. But I was mainly talking about you. I just like to tease you sometimes.”
“You made me say it, then you took it back.” Miranda gave him one of her pointedly irritated looks, though far from the harshest of them, since he’d at least admitted now that he’d been winding her up.
Max grimaced. “Sorry. I’m bad at this, aren’t I?”
“Still better than me.” Though I’m not the one who claims emotional intelligence, she thought.
Max nudged her foot with his. “But it doesn’t stop me liking you.”
A momentary jolt of panic sliced through Miranda. Not feelings talk with a side of ambiguity; what was ‘like’ supposed to mean? “Err… like you too?” she ventured, thinking she could claim merely the platonic meaning if pressed.
Max smiled at this, but it quickly faded. He took on a look of concern, perhaps tinged with shame. “Sorry — I should’ve been clearer. Before now. I was just… scared?”
“Scared?” What was he talking about?
Max rubbed his forehead and sighed. He gazed at Miranda with an expression she couldn’t work out. “You know how I told you I realised you were what’s important to me when I thought I was dying, and then a few days later I ended it with Carmen?”
“I think we didn’t actually say that,” Miranda reminded him. “We just kind of looked at each other.” And she’d wondered about it ever since.
“Oh.” There was a flash of a frown. “Well, that’s what I meant.” He took a deep breath. “Miranda, that was me telling you I really, really like you.”
Miranda was silent for a moment, though a thousand questions were swirling in her brain. The bustle of the market seemed to have stilled and quieted around their table, for all that she was noticing anything outside of them and this unexpected conversation. She desperately needed clarification. “Like?”
“I don’t think I should use the other L-word yet.”
“Oh.” Miranda let this sink in for a moment. As she stared past his ear, she realised how tense she’d become — chest tight, stomach clenched, nails in the heel of her hand. The L-word? Yet? She couldn’t believe he was actually talking like this. “Probably not?” she said quietly.
Max licked his lips. “Unless you want me to?”
Miranda tried to look at him properly but got stuck somewhere around his chin. “I don’t not want you to.” She felt a flutter in her abdomen at daring to say that. “But I’m not sure what’s going on here.” She heard how cautious and confused she sounded. Finally getting what she’d secretly wanted for years and immediately putting him off by being afraid, it seemed.
Max slid his hand across the table to hers and laced their fingers together for a moment, before lifting it and covering her hand with his palm. Miranda could only watch in awe. She felt her cheeks heat up, and not from the late September sun. She risked a look up and found Max’s eyes trained on her, so intense and so serious.
“This is probably not a very romantic setting, but, umm, I’m trying to say that you’re basically everything to me and I want to be with you.”
“Oh.” There was a ringing in her ears, a buzz and a distortion, and she was sure her vision was starting to slide at the edges. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
Max’s brow was furrowed now. “Say something, please,” he said quietly. “Even if it’s turning me down — I can take it, and we can forget I said anything?”
Miranda shook her head, sensing how vulnerable he was feeling. “I’m not— I’m not turning you down.” She swallowed, trying to get her voice above a shaky whisper. “I’m just… scared?”
“How about we be scared, but we do it together?”
There was such a beautiful, sweet hope in Max’s eyes that Miranda couldn’t even consider saying no to him now. “I’d like that,” she agreed.
Max grinned and squeezed her hand. “Great! That’s so great!”
He almost lunged across the table and before Miranda knew it, his soft lips were on hers, slightly off centre towards her left cheek. It lasted only a second or two — not long enough for her to properly respond — but it was enough to know that they weren't making a mistake here and that she wanted more. As he withdrew, she felt like she was being drawn to him, her body yearning to be near to his, to touch him again. He lifted her hand to kiss the middle of her palm, and then he let it go. Miranda wished he hadn’t; she felt the loss both of his warmth and of the tingle from being joined to him.
“Was that alright?” he asked, slightly sheepish now. “I forgot I always should check with you.”
Miranda nodded and gave him what she imagined must be a dreamy smile — rare for her. Max looked relieved as he returned it. He squeezed her hand one more time, then picked up his bowl, smiling even more as he admired it.
“You know what would be great for this? I’ve got a lot of seafood in my fridge; why don’t I make us a big bowlful of seafood linguine for lunch?”
Miranda burst into a giggle. She wondered if she’d always feel this light now.
“What’s funny?” Max asked. “You didn't like my cooking last time?”
Miranda shook her head quickly. “When I was deciding, I thought ‘Max could put his oranges and lemons in this, or maybe he’d cook us a big bowl of seafood pasta sometime’.”
Max beamed. “No way! Another perfect match! Meant to be.”
Miranda could have stayed like this, wrapped in Max’s loving gaze until the end of the market and beyond, but the shadows of an older couple clearly in search of seats loomed over their table. Max must have noticed too; he was soon up on his feet, gathering both bowls, his scrunched-up paper napkin, and Miranda’s lantern into his bag, and tucking his record under one arm.
“Shall we go?”
Miranda got up and quickly put their paper cups in the recycling bin near their table. They began to walk off together, heading for the car and lunch, and whatever came next in their rapidly evolving relationship. Max transferred his bag to the arm holding his record, and quietly slipped the fingers of his now-free hand through Miranda’s. She shivered with the thrill of it and smiled up at him. They held hands all the way back to the car, joyous in the changes they’d set in motion that morning. Miranda was sure she felt a matched reluctance from Max over breaking the link when they had to separate to climb into their seats.
On the drive back down Mallorca’s central plain towards Palma, they couldn’t stop sneaking glances at each other and grinning. Somewhere near Marratxí, Max reached across and held Miranda’s hand for a long moment, before taking it and resting it on his knee when he needed to change gear. It remained there for the rest of the journey, sometimes covered by his, sometimes maintaining their union for them both while he concentrated on getting them home safely.
Miranda couldn’t believe she could be so uncomplicatedly happy — with the glory of their shared feelings so heady and pervasive, she was somehow managing not to overthink things or worry. She’d had no idea she could go to the rastro for a bowl and come home with a boyfriend too. Shopping trips didn’t get better than this. And now they had a delicious lunch at his place to look forward to, alone together with the rest of the day stretching out ahead of them in delightful possibility.