Lizzie smiled. “It’s all right.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “I’ve been seeing someone for a couple of months. Nothing serious. But . . . it’s nice. I like that I want to date again.”
Max prepared himself for the devastating impact those words would bring, but, oddly, the pain never came. How could that be? He’d loved this woman, spent years with her, worshipped her body, breathed every inch of her in, and yet the indifference that settled over him, knowing that she was seeing someone else, was like a warm blanket, easing the pressure that had built in his chest since the day her letter had arrived.
They sat for the next hour, talking. It was stilted and awkward, like a couple on a first date. They shared their experiences of therapy, how their recoveries were going, and how old friends were. She asked about Carter and he asked about her family; she told him about moving into her new place and he told her about Preston County, leaving out certain details though they drifted through his mind like leaves on a breeze. She apologized repeatedly and, despite the sincerity with which she offered her remorse, Max felt neither comforted nor fulfilled by it, as though her repentance made no difference to the past or the present he now lived.
“So, I have something for you,” Lizzie said, pulling her bag closer and delving into it. She rummaged through it, frowning. “Dammit. I must have left them.”
“What?”
“They’re in my room at the hotel,” she grumbled. “I was so stressed about today, I . . . would you mind if I went to get them?”
“What is it?”
She suddenly looked embarrassed. “It’s just something that I need you to have.”
Max cocked an intrigued eyebrow. “Okay.”
She paused for a moment, regarding him carefully. “Why don’t you come with me? I won’t be long.”
In her room? Max was shaking his head before he was speaking. “I don’t think that’s—”
Lizzie’s laugh was loud and unexpected. “Really? What do you think will happen?”
Actually, Max wasn’t sure, but being alone with her in a hotel room didn’t make him feel as comfortable as it probably should have. He licked his lips.
“Fine,” he said, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. “I should be heading back anyway.”
She stood from her seat. Max threw money onto the table and followed Lizzie through the diner, out of the door, across the street, and into the lobby of the Hilton hotel.
The elevator ride to her room was quiet except for the small ding punctuating each floor they ascended. Max caught Lizzie’s reflection in the smooth steel of the door, noticing how much calmer she looked from when she first came into the diner. The lines on her face had all but disappeared and she stood taller, straighter, as though their conversation had lifted something from her. If he were honest, Max felt the same way. He felt less burdened, less heavy with the past.
The elevator reached floor twenty and Max followed Lizzie out of it and down the hall to her room. She unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter. He did as she asked, catching a breath of her perfume, sweet and unfamiliar. Standing with his hands in his jeans pockets, Max glanced from Lizzie, who closed the door, to the window, to the bed, and back again. His pulse picked up as panic began to take hold.
What the hell was he doing?
“Here.”
Lizzie’s voice came from his side. He looked down to see her holding a large bundle of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. He took them cautiously, noting his name and address on the top one.
“What’s this?”
“I wrote you a letter every day I was in therapy. It was part of my recovery,” she murmured, her stare on the envelopes. “Each one tells you what I was going through, how I felt about you, how I felt about losing . . . Christopher.”
Max’s breath faltered as he held them tightly, overwhelmed and sad. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed, meeting her gaze.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she replied. “I want you to have them. I want to explain and they say what I can’t right now.”
He turned them over in his hand and nodded. “Okay.” He stood staring at them before he glanced toward the door. “Look, I’d better go.”
She nodded and gradually moved to the side, allowing him to pass. “Max?”
He turned and, for a split moment, he saw the girl he remembered, lovely and ready to take life by the balls. “Yeah?”
“Could we . . . I mean, you have my number, can I— I’d like to stay in touch, maybe see you again.”
Max blew out a confused breath. “I don’t know, Liz. I mean”—he opened his arms, gesturing toward her and the room—“it’s . . . this is all—”
“Overwhelming.”
He dropped his arms to his sides. “Yeah.”
She dipped her chin. “I get it.”
Max stared at her, knowing her well enough to see that she had more to say. He waited.