Over dinner, I'd enjoyed the stew as much as the company. We'd eaten in the dining room off the porch. No, not the dining room, the entertaining room, at least that was what Karen had said. There was a table for eating, so I was still unsure of the difference. With the sliding glass door thrown open and the salty sea breeze filtering through the space, however, I'd discovered I also didn't care.
We'd chatted about nothing in particular, a little meaningless banter meant to lighten the mood—only it hadn't helped Max from his funk. At this point, I was beginning to think nothing short of time would do that, hopefully, anyway. As the hours ticked by, he retreated deeper and deeper into himself, which made me all the more desperate to keep him with me in the here and now.
What can I do to help you, my love?
I knew he needed me. Except for the times he asked to be alone with his mom and when Karen and I had been finishing dinner, he'd stayed glued to my side, some part of our bodies always touching. I couldn't help but wonder if the constant contact was because I was his touchstone or because he thought he was mine.
I hated that he saw me as this fragile thing that might break at any moment; I hated it almost as much as I hated the fact he might be right. Even now, a panic attack lurked like a prowler inside me. Holding myself together took every ounce of strength I had, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
Since the rhythmic sounds of the ocean waves were so loud, I focused my attention on them and timed my breaths with their rise and retreat.
Inhale.
Place a trouble in a box.
Exhale.
Lock the box and place it back in the closet.
Inhale.
Place a trouble in a box.
Exhale.
Lock the box and place it back in the closet.
I lathered, rinsed and repeated until the electric buzz of panic receded to a dull awareness. Only then did I lift my head and look at the man I loved. He'd squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and the sight was a dozen razor slashes across my heart. This wasn't the expression of a man in peaceful sleep. No, too many worry lines played at the corners of his lips and eyes.
What I wouldn't give to take his pain upon myself. I'd gladly add his discomfort to mine because the only thing I hated more than feeling the weight of all these fucking emotions was watching Max deal with his own while I was helpless to ease his pain.
I drew the lightest of touches over his bottom lip. "Tell me what you're thinking about," I whispered.
He didn't respond, but the hitch in his breathing told me he'd heard. I didn't push him, but I didn't lie back down, either. I remained stalwart beside him, ready for the moment he needed me.
"I was thinking about one particular birthday," he finally answered, never opening his eyes. "Not mine, my mother's."
I pressed a hand to his cheek, needing even more contact. "Tell me about it."
Max hadn't mentioned much about his parents. I'd assumed his reluctance was because his most painful memories revolved around them; it was part of the reason I still didn't like talking about my father.
My father, Phillip Lancaster, had been a conman, and his crimes had destroyed our family. My five-year-old self hadn't known how to process it. I'd gone from having what I'd thought was a perfect life to wondering why everyone suddenly hated us. I still remembered vividly what the people outside the courthouse had yelled at us as we'd walked by, and I'd had nightmares for years because of it. So yeah, I understood how painful past trauma could be.
"My mum loved her garden," he continued after a long while. "It was one of the few things she did that brought her pleasure. She meticulously planted, weeded and watered her garden. It was her own space, so for her birthday, I wanted to buy her something special to plant. Even if my father hadn't been a worthless, abusive drunk piece of shit, we didn't have the money for it. We were dirt poor. I mean, I-went-to-bed-hungry-more-nights-than-I-didn't poor. I knew if I wanted to get her something, I'd have to find a way to pay for it myself. So, for a week, I walked up and down the ten-mile lane where we lived and begged my neighbors to let me do odd jobs, and I managed to scrape together enough money to buy her a flat of Sweet Peas. They were one of her favorite flowers. She'd said they represented pleasure, bliss, and departure after having a good time."
"That's so sweet, Max." And it was.
I'd had no idea Max had grown up practically destitute. I wouldn't lie. Given the way the man lived now, picturing it was hard. Thinking of the boy he'd once been, going to bed so many nights with an empty belly, broke my heart.
"Well, my father didn't think it was sweet. He beat me for making money and then using it on something so frivolous when he was out of beer."
Motherfucker!
I wrapped Max close, wanting to soothe away both the little boy's and the man's pain. He'd been a child whose only crime had been trying to make his mother happy. There was no reason anyone could give me to justify beating a child for the crime of loving his mother.
I pressed my lips to his cheek, his temple, the corners of his mouth. "If I could go back in time and save you from that, then I would, and it breaks my heart that I can't."
He finally opened his eyes, and his tortured gaze found mine. The pain saturating his baby blues was almost too much to bear. No wonder he never spoke about his past.
"I've never had anyone love me the way you do, Bree, and it never stops amazing me. You never stop amazing me."
I was utterly dumbstruck. How lonely and without love had his childhood been that the idea of someone loving him unconditionally would amaze him so much?
Because I wanted him to hear it again, I physically said the words, "I love you, Max."
He drew his fingertips over my lips as if he wanted to catch the words and hold onto them. "And I love you. Having you at my side has been the only thing keeping me grounded."
"I haven't done anything."
"You're here. That's all I need."
Well, maybe not all he needed, but I wasn't sure if this was one of those times. After all, he'd been the one to shut down my earlier request.
I had anti-anxiety meds to help me deal with the trauma of my attack; Max had sex. It was his version of my "closet" therapy, only Max didn't take the bad and lock it away. He burned it away in the heat of coupling. At least, momentarily anyway. Sex was a temporary fix. If he didn't find a way to purge the emotions for good, however, then they'd come back, but that was a battle for another night.
"I love you, Max," I said again. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you. All you have to do is ask."
He studied me, and after what felt like four and a half eternities, he eased a hand down my back and drew me closer to him.
"You're what I need, Bree," he whispered. "You're always what I need."
"Then take what you need from me." I paused so my next word would carry more weight. "Sir. If you hurt, I hurt, remember?"
A familiar heat gleamed in his eyes, the Texas sky blues turning the same shade as the sky before a storm. He knew exactly what I offered; I just hoped he'd take it, both because I wanted to help ease his pain and because I simply wanted him.
"I want to stop thinking for a while," he admitted after a long moment. "I want to exist on feelings and let my brain shut down, and more than anything, I want to be inside you."