Max agreed. He couldn’t wait to take some latent anger out on some unsuspecting piece of gym equipment.
“I like what you’re doing here,” Tate added, gesturing to the swirl of soft brown against the black background of Max’s second painting. His first was complete and sat in his room in all its terrifying, angry glory. Finishing it didn’t curb the underlying anger inside him but, instead, awoke a dormant urge to paint more. It was still early days, but Max was starting to express himself, just as Elliot had asked. And it felt good. Satisfying. Almost as though each brushstroke was quelling some silent hunger inside of him. He was under no illusions; he knew he was purging, all but vomiting his vitriol, addiction, and sorrow onto the canvas—the raw emotion of his first picture was testament to that—but that was okay. If it kept the doctors and staff off his back and the panic attacks at bay, he was more than willing to keep painting.
Tate chewed noisily on his licorice. “The contrast between the colors is nice. What does it mean?”
Max cocked his head, regarding his work. All he knew was that, after his talk with Elliot about Lizzie leaving, he had to get back into the art room and paint . . . something. “Not a clue, dude,” he answered, following the diagonal streaks of orange and red with his eyes. He smirked. “You know you shouldn’t ask stupid questions.”
Tate grinned. “I know. I was just messing with you.” He turned with his licorice still hanging from his mouth and approached another painter. Max smiled after him. If nothing else, at least Tate kept him entertained.
Max should have known that the easy, lighter sensation that had burrowed within him somewhere along the line of group meetings, talking to Elliot, and painting wouldn’t last. The Christmas decorations and luscious food, cheerful music, and presents of socks and chocolate the facility provided caused Max to enjoy the festive period for the first time in years, despite being away from home and familiar faces.
Too bad the warm, let’s-love-baby-Jesus fuzzies hadn’t stuck around.
Oh, Max O’Hare was, and always had been, a pessimistic bastard on an almost unhealthy scale. And yet, as the days had turned into weeks of his stay in rehab, he’d allowed himself to consider the possibility that he was getting better, that his thoughts were no longer dictated by rage or anguish, and that what had been the regular tap-tapping of addiction in his mind every hour of every day had slowly become a light caress.
Yeah, he’d been a fucking fool.
And the way Elliot was looking at him, that patronizing concerned way of his, was not what he needed in his current mood. But that was what was really pissing him off. He couldn’t understand what had him so out of shape, so antsy. He’d battered seven shades of shit out of the gym equipment—earning apprehensive glances from his trainer—and had run on the treadmill until he’d almost collapsed, but the agitation still prickled his skin like nettles.
“You made a phone call this afternoon,” Elliot started, gazing at him over the rim of his Phillies mug as he took a sip. “Who did you speak to?”
Max slumped in his seat and drew a large breath. “Carter.”
Elliot smiled. “Great. How is he?”
Max’s molars ground together. “Engaged.” The word shot from him like a bullet from a gun, smothered in hurt, jealousy, and anger. “He’s . . . he’s fucking engaged.” He rubbed his hands down his face? hating the word and hating himself for being such a selfish prick.
The sound of Elliot’s mug being placed back onto the side table ricocheted through Max’s brain. His tired, addled brain. Fuck. For the first time in four weeks, Max craved a line.
He craved three.
And a bottle of Patrón held by a woman with long legs, great tits, and no morals.
Yeah, he could seriously go for a hot, sweaty, coke-induced fuck to clear his mind.
“You’re angry.” Elliot didn’t pose the question but implied it in the small lift of his hand.
“Yeah,” Max barked back without a thought. “No. Goddammit, I don’t know what to feel.”
Honestly, his head was a cacophony of fucked-up.
He stood from his seat and paced toward the window, which overlooked the vast gardens of the center. The snow was thick and glittered in the afternoon sun. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the frigid glass. The conversation with Carter had been fine. He’d managed to hide his shock and unacceptable anger at Carter’s news. He’d thanked him for the box of treats and they’d shot the shit and joked about Riley’s planning of the bachelor party, but it was strained. At least on Max’s side.
“I don’t know why I feel so—I can’t even describe it.” It was like a coiled wire around his insides pulling tighter and tighter.
“I understand.”
Max turned to his therapist. “You do?”
“Of course. He’s your best friend. There’s history there. You’ve seen each other through the hardest parts of your lives and now you’re here. His life is moving forward and you feel stagnant.”