He laughed and shook his head in disagreement, despite knowing that she was right. Grace wasn’t ignorant enough not to see why he had women all but breaking down his front door. Her younger brother was charismatic, intelligent, funny, and a looker. He was also the very best person she knew.
Kai observed her for a moment before leaning closer. “You don’t have to move out, Grace. I like you living with me. You keep my carousel of breasts in order.” She smacked his arm, both of them laughing. His face quickly turned serious. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with the distance from DC, getting to your sessions and everything?” He glanced around. “It’s pretty remote out here and I’m not sure I like that you’re staying in a boardinghouse. I told you, you can stay with me as long as you need.”
Grace smiled gratefully. “I know you did, and thank you.”
“But?”
Grace shrugged. “But I feel like it’s time. I like how remote it is and I’ll be okay. I only have sessions every other week now. I don’t feel unsafe here. Plus, you’ll be over to visit.” She looked back at her house, imagining how beautiful it would look when it was finished. “Momma left us that money to do something great. This is what I want.”
Kai knocked her shoulder with his. His expression was one she hadn’t seen for a very long time. It was soft, satisfied, and, dare she say, impressed. She pulled her ponytail, poking out from under her woolly hat, over her shoulder and started playing with the ends, losing her fingers in the thick black curls.
Kai stilled her hand, recognizing the nervous gesture. “I’m proud of you, sis,” he murmured. His eyes hardened distantly. “After he”—Grace’s heart stuttered—“. . . all that happened, I never thought I’d see you excited or passionate about anything. Ever again.” He smiled, his teeth shining a beautiful white against his caramel skin, which matched her own. “Seeing you like this is . . . amazing.” He looked up at the house. “And, honestly, I think it’s really great.”
“So, almost two weeks since your episode. How are you feeling?”
Max knew he’d feel much better if everyone stopped referring to his panic attack as a fucking episode. “Okay,” he answered with a lift of his shoulders. “I’ve checked my blood sugar more, trying to eat right. I paint nearly every day.”
Elliot beamed. “Yes, Dr. Moore tells me you’ve really taken to the art classes.” A smile pulled at Max’s mouth at his therapist’s praise. “Want to tell me about what you’ve painted?”
The chances were high that Elliot and Tate had already had a powwow about Max’s work, but he was prepared to humor him, in spite of the ache in his chest. He took a deep breath and held it. “I was thinking about . . . Chris—Christopher. My son.” He reached quickly for the glass of water at the side of his chair and took a huge gulp, praying for it to ease the burning acid creeping up from his stomach.
Elliot remained silent and still, though his eyes were soft and thoughtful.
Christopher had been Max and Lizzie’s baby boy, and had inspired the flashes of blue paint that burst from his canvas. A baby who wasn’t planned but was loved all the same, inspiring the red and subtle pink circles of tender brushstrokes. A baby who brought him and Lizzie closer than they’d ever been, another reason to stay clean and on the straight and narrow, as he had promised Lizzie he would be so she’d agree to be his alone. A baby who motivated Max to propose to Lizzie, pledging his eternal love to her and their unborn son, with a diamond as big as his heart, knowing that, with the arrival of his son, Max would finally become the man he always wanted to be. A man who would have made his father proud.
Christopher died at the beginning of Lizzie’s third trimester.
At almost seven months pregnant, after Lizzie hadn’t felt Christopher move or kick for three days, her labor was induced and Max sat at her side while she gave birth to their lifeless son. Lizzie howled. Literally, howled in agony, like an animal. Jesus, he’d never forget that sound for as long as he lived. The grief of Christopher’s loss damn near broke her in half. Max had tried to be strong, tried to hold her and tell her it would be okay, but he knew it wouldn’t, couldn’t. That day something between them, something monumental and vital to their relationship, died, too.
That was the second time Max had thought about taking his own life. The moment he held his minute baby son in his arms—the most exquisite thing he’d ever laid eyes on, eyes closed as though he were simply asleep—he knew that heaven must be the most perfect place, filled with creatures as beautiful as Christopher, a place he’d much rather be.