I tightened my grip on the denim and muttered, “I think I’ll choose upwards.” No way was I going near his groin or backside—too risky, too gross. If I could get to his shoulder, maybe even his ear, I could shout directly at him. It was a long climb, but it felt like my best shot. Max’s shirt billowed above me like a canvas sail, and I started my ascent, grabbing fistfuls of cotton as I hauled myself up from his hip.
The fabric swayed with every twitch of his body, and the monster truck’s roar made it hard to focus. My arms screamed with effort as I climbed past his waist, inching toward his chest. The warmth of his body radiated through the shirt, and I could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, a reminder of how massive he was compared to me. I kept going, aiming for his shoulder, where I could maybe get close enough to his ear to make him hear me.
The climb was brutal. Max leaned forward, nearly flattening me against his stomach, and I had to scramble to keep my grip. Finally, I reached the ridge of his shoulder, the fabric stretched tight over his collarbone. I clung there, catching my breath, and shouted, “Max! I’m here! Look down!” My voice was a pathetic squeak against the truck’s noise, and Max didn’t even glance my way.
I started inching toward his neck, but then he stood up abruptly, the motion like an earthquake. The shirt swung wildly, and my grip slipped. I flailed, grabbing at the fabric, but it was no use—I was falling. The world blurred as I tumbled, landing hard on the floor near the bathroom door. I lay there, stunned, as Max’s massive sneakers thundered past, missing me by inches.
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