“What do you want from me, Liz?” he asked, dropping his hand to the mattress, away from her body. “Tell me what the fuck I can do and I’ll do it. For fuck’s sake talk to me!”
But she didn’t. She never did. Instead she locked him out, pulled the covers around her small, fragile body, and shuffled from the bed to the living room, where she resumed her desolate silence on the couch. Max wasn’t sure which was worse: having her in bed next to him and not speaking, or her being in the other room. Either way he knew he was losing her. Shit, he’d already lost her, and he had no idea how to get her back.
Hours later, when the dawn light filtered through a small gap in the drapes, waking Max from a broken slumber, he would wonder how he hadn’t heard her leave. For days, weeks, months, and years, he would torture himself about how he should have followed her into the living room; done more and pushed her further to open up to him, to share her grief with him.
Even before he skidded down the hallway and saw that her keys, shoes, purse, and coat were gone, he knew she’d left. Even as he hunted through her closet searching for a clue as to where the fuck she might have gone, and relentlessly dialed her cell phone number, and the cell phone numbers of her family and friends, he knew she didn’t want to be found. And when he collapsed on the bedroom floor, calling out her name through racking sobs, he knew his heart had been broken forever.
Max twirled the three-month medallion—ninety-seven days clean—in the palm of his hand. He fidgeted and kicked a foot against his packed bag, avoiding looking directly at either Elliot or Tate, who flanked him as they waited for Carter to arrive.
“So, you’ve got all your paperwork, my number, your prescription, dates of your first meetings with—”
Max smirked and cocked an eyebrow at Elliot. “Yes, Doc. I have them. Just like I had them the first three times you asked.”
Tate snickered into the back of his hand. His T-shirt today was bright green and declared “Warning: If zombies chase us, I’m tripping you.” Max chuckled and shook his head. Truthfully, he was going to miss seeing those damned T-shirts every day. Tate was now officially Max’s sponsor and the two of them would no doubt see each other a lot, what with meetings and such, but it wouldn’t be the same. Max’s laugh had definitely been throaty when Tate had given him his own ludicrously inappropriate T-shirt, which stated “Pugs not drugs” under a hoodie-wearing dog.
“As part of your tutelage under me,” Tate had deadpanned, “you must wear this at all times.” Max was certain having Tate as a sponsor was never going to be boring.
Carter pulled up five minutes later in a red Shelby GT. It was gorgeous and, Max had to admit, ten times nicer than the Maserati. Carter all but leaped out of the car, wide smile of pride front and center. The four of them put Max’s bags and paintings into the trunk. Once done, Carter shook both Elliot’s and Tate’s hands and made himself scarce, silently acknowledging Max’s need for privacy.
Max cleared his throat and blinked at his therapist. “Thanks, Doc,” he managed. “For everything.” He held out his hand, which Elliot shook with a wry smile. Despite their rocky start, Max knew that, without Elliot, he’d never have gotten through the first month, let alone the following two. He’d never admit it aloud, but he was more than thankful that it had been Elliot’s office he’d found himself in that very first day.
“This isn’t the end,” Elliot murmured. “It’s just the beginning. You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, Max. Never forget that. And there’s hope. In all things. The hardest part is done.” As hokey as he sounded, Max nodded in understanding. “Dr. Moir is exceptional. He’s a great friend of mine and he’ll absolutely help you move forward. Nevertheless, you know where I am if you want to talk.”
And with that, Elliot made his way back into the center.
“So you’ve got my cell, my pager, my home number, give me a call whenever, no matter what time, right?” Tate said, a rare moment of seriousness adorning his face. “We’ll have our scheduled meet-ups, or whenever you need me. Always. You’re not alone.”
Max nodded. “I got it.”
“And keep painting,” Tate implored. “Please. Dude, you have too much talent to stop now. Your work is exceptional. Even if you do it on your downtime. It’ll keep your mind busy and away from thinking about—”
“I got it.”
Tate smiled. “Good.” He sighed. “So we gonna hug this shit out, or what?”
“Thank you,” Max said earnestly as they hugged, giving each other an obligatory backslap.
“No problem.” Tate released him and grinned, leaning on his cane. “I’ll see you soon. Say hello to that asshole brother of mine for me, huh?”
With heavy, chaotic sensations of fear, relief, joy, and sadness filling him from toe to crown, Max saluted Tate once more and climbed into the car. He exhaled heavily and put on his seat belt. Carter sat in silence for a beat before he turned the key in the ignition.