“Why was he on campus?” The words left her mouth as soon as they entered her brain, like there’d been no filter.
Alec frowned. “What do you mean? He parked in the campus lot and was coming to see you, wasn’t he? Why else would he have been between Macon and Dorset?”
Lea reached out for a shelf. Her knees threatened to give out. This is what happened when she trusted. She got hurt and she let other people get hurt.
None of this would have happened if she’d kept her distance. And with that guilt came anger. Now that she knew he was okay, that anger was directed at Max. Because he was the one who’d flayed her open, then walked away so she now writhed in agony.
“We . . . we’re not together. I’m not sure why he was on his way to see me.”
Alec stared, then his face twisted in confusion. “Come again?”
She straightened her spine. “We saw each other for a couple of weeks but I went to see him at his shop and he made it clear in front of his dad and his brothers that I’m not welcome in that part of his life. That he only let me get to know one version of Max. And that’s not okay with me.”
Alec stared at her, blinking his pale green eyes behind his frames. “Wait, I need an explanation here, because—”
“There’s nothing to explain—“
“But Max’s family—“
“I know!” she shouted, then lowered her voice. “I know his dad is . . . whatever he is . . . but at least he was honest, letting me know Max planned to break up with me.”
Alec’s eyes widened. “What? He was on his way to talk—”
“Or break up with me—”
“No. No, Lea. You gotta believe he cares about you. You have to let him explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain. Because I left before I could tell him that those guys had been reported as armed. I forgot. And that’s on me.” Her voice cracked at the end, and she looked away, unwilling to meet Alec’s eyes.
“Lea.”
She shook her head, but Alec wasn’t going away quietly.
“You can’t possibly blame yourself for that.”
She pursed her lips and still refused to look at him, letting her eyes drift down the long shelf of books. She saw one spine upside down and she glared at it, her fingers itching to fix it.
But then Alec stepped into her line of vision, forcing her to stare at the zipper on his leather jacket or up into his eyes.
She chose the zipper.
“Lea, no one could have predicted those guys would have been there. But do you know how he got away?”
The zipper blurred a little and she raised her eyes to Alec’s. Max had gotten away, that’s how he’d reached the phones . . .
“He did what you taught him. He got away and he didn’t stay and fight and he called for help. And Lea, because of that, the police got all three guys. They’re in jail now.”
Her mouth dropped open as warmth surged through her body, healing the damage caused by that acidic drip of dread. “He . . . he did?”
Alec’s jaw clench and he took a step back. “Yep, he did. So he might have fucked up at the shop, I get that. But he was thinking of you when those guys attacked him. So before you write him off, remember that.”
And that was Alec’s parting shot, because he turned on his heel and walked away.
L
EA SAT ON
her bed, fingered the neckline of the T-shirt she’d just driven a round-trip of three hours to purchase.
For a boy.
A boy who infuriated her, yet still held her heart.
A boy who sat in a hospital bed with a head wound because he’d done the right thing. The hero thing.
After talking with Alec, she asked her coworker at the library to cover for her and left early to buy him a new shirt. The bowling pin and balls on it looked . . . well . . . rather phallic and Max laughed every time he put it on.
And now she sat on her bed, paralyzed, staring at the clock as the time wound closer to the end of visiting hours.
He’d been on his way to her apartment for closure, she was sure. And so she’d provide her own closure. The shirt would be her parting gift.
Lea heard a knock at the door. Out in the living room, Danica’s voice mixed with a male one and Lea assumed Alec had come over to study or something.
But then heavy footsteps sounded down the hallway and stopped outside her door.
Lea looked up. Nick stood in the doorway. He’d recently gotten his cast off and the only remnant of his run-in with the assaulters was a small scar on his chin.
She smiled weakly at him as he sat down beside her on the bed and took the shirt from her hands. “What’s this?”
“A shirt.”
“No shit¸ Sherlock. Looks a little big for you, though.”
She bit her lip and looked at him from under her lashes.
His eyes softened. “For him?”
She took it back and ran her fingers over the lettering. “Alec said they cut his other one off. Blood and stuff.”
“So you drove an hour and a half away to get him a new T-shirt?”
She’d called him on her way to work that morning, bright and early and hysterical. She’d told him about what happened, and texted him later when she found out Max was okay.
“So you’re heading in to visit?”
She nodded.
“I hope you’re going to give him a chance to explain.
Her body felt loose and fuzzy, like it was stuffed full of cotton balls. She was exhausted. “Nick, you weren’t there. You didn’t hear what his dad said. You didn’t see me walk to my car, alone. Max didn’t come after me. Or call me.”
Nick shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying any of that didn’t happen. I just think there’s more to it than that. We all saw how into you Max was.”
“Oh, so now you’re a Max apologist,” she hissed.
His jaw ticked. “You’re just being stubborn.”
“You’re not my dad, Nick.”
“No, I’m not, but I’m family. And I’m telling you that you’re so fucking scared to trust again that it’s crippling you from having a real emotional connection with new people.”
She stood up and rounded on him as he rose to face off with her. “Because when I let someone else have control, I get hurt.
Other
people get hurt.”
His eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
She let her eyelids droop and hung her head, pissed at herself for saying what she had. It’d been fine all tucked inside, but Nick had rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the bottle until she let out the genie of fury.
“Max did get hurt—”
“No, no no no.” Nick took a step closer. “I’m going to need you to back up. We’re not talking about Max here. What are we talking about?”
Her eyes dipped to his wrist, the one he’d broken in the accident, and he must have caught it, because he sighed. “You can’t be serious.”
She bristled. “I should have known—”
“Are you carrying around guilt for that? Seriously? You were thirteen, Lea. Thirteen years old.”
Her eyes pricked. “But I was old enough—”
“The only one responsible for what happened to us was Trent’s mom. That it’s. She’s the only one. She got behind the wheel impaired and ran the red light. I wasn’t even hurt that badly!”
“But you were hurt!”
Nick ran his fingers through his hair and tugged. “I was, okay. And so were you. But none of that was your fault.”
“But Max had been—”
“Lea, you really need to let go. You’re not so all powerful that you can control everything around you. Shit happens. And if you blame yourself when something bad happens to someone you care about, you’re going to be buried under guilt. For no reason.”
His words penetrated through the small crack in the pile of guilt remaining. Like a blinding ray of sun, she blinked at it, wondering how it had gotten this bad—when she had let this all pile up so she could barely see out.
Nick swiped the shirt off the bed where she’d dropped it and draped it over her shoulder. It was stiff and had that not-yet-washed cotton smell. “And once you let go of thinking you’re responsible for everyone else, maybe then you’ll be able to trust someone with your heart.”
“I did trust Max,” she whispered.
“I know you did. And I know he let you down. But I think you owe him a chance to explain.”
He kissed her forehead, waved good-bye and she watched the second man she disappointed that day walk out of her room.
She didn’t know what her options were. She couldn’t move forward. And she couldn’t go back. Because she’d let Max in, she’d learned what it was like to trust someone. To have someone.
But what if he only wanted closure?
T
HIS TIME THERE
was no dirty blanket. There was no soft, deep voice or guiding supportive hand on her lower back.
There were no deep brown eyes in the soft light of the street lamp.
There was only Lea. And the shirt in a white-knuckled grip as she rode the elevator to the same floor Nick had been on.
That felt like ages ago, when it had only been several weeks? A month? She shifted her weight and eyed the glowing numbers above the metal doors.
The elevator reached her floor and she stepped out, studying the plaques on the wall to make her way to Max’s room, which she’d learned from the help desk in the lobby.
When she reached his door, she stopped in front of it, staring at the sliver of light peeking out from the crack in the opened door.
She closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose and blew it out of the mouth. Once. Twice.
She could do this. She’d visited Nick in the hospital and she hadn’t broken down.
Max was strong. He was tough.
He was okay.
She raised her hand, ignoring the trembling limb, and pushed gently on the door.
It opened and she stepped inside the small room.
Her eyes took in the prone figure on the bed, the only other person in the room besides her.
Lea gripped the shirt in both hands and brought it up to her chest, like a shield, and walked forward.
Seeing Nick in the hospital hurt her because she loved him like a brother.
But seeing Max? She loved him with a bone-deep ache, she now recognized, because the sight of him in a hospital bed, injured, buckled her knees. She sank into a chair that fortunately had been placed beside the bed and breathed deeply, blinking back tears.
Max was asleep, his face slack. He looked so young without the cocky smirk and squinted eyes. In sleep, he was almost boyish, those beautiful eyes hidden from view, his long, thick, dark lashes resting on his cheeks.
He lay on his back, shirtless, with the thin blanket twisted around his hips, and that made her smile through her tears. She imagined him bitching about wearing a gown, teasing the nurses about showing his ass.
She placed a shaking hand on the bed and leaned closer. There was a bandage behind his ear and bandages on his hands. Bruises darkened his face, highlighted with abrasions.
When the tears threatened again, she dropped her eyes to his chest and watched his chest rise and fall.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
He was breathing. He was okay.
She ran a finger down that vein on his bicep, the pulsing of blood a physical reassurance he was alive.
She wanted to rest her head on his chest and listen to the beat of his heart until it was the only rhythm she could hear, until she heard it in every song.
She licked her lips and opened her mouth, words . . . some words on the tip of her tongue.
But nothing came out and she looked at the shirt, now a wrinkled mess in her lap. She unfolded it and laid it flat on her knees, smoothing out the creases, picking a piece of lint off the sleeve.
What would he say if he woke up? Would he thank her for the shirt and for the good time? Would he seek closure?
Movement drew her eyes back to the bed. Max had shifted; his head rolled toward her, eyes blurry and half open. “Who . . . ?”
His gravelly voice wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
Max’s eyes drifted shut again and his face twitched, like he was fighting sleep or the drugs, whatever was pulling him under.
She leaned forward, needing to touch him now. She cupped his cheek and brushed a thumb along the corner of his mouth. His skin was hot, the stubble on his cheek a welcome sensation on her palm.
“Max,” she whispered.
His eyes fluttered again and his mouth opened.
Deep voices outside the open door drew her attention. She whipped her head around because she recognized that one voice.
Max’s father.
She looked back down at Max, whose eyes had closed again, but his hands grasped the sheet, like he was reaching for something.
The voices drew closer and even though every part of her body wanted to stay in that chair with Max, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling the echo in her own veins, her head took over. Lea pulled her hand away from his face, recognizing this would most likely be the last time she touched Max.
She shoved the shirt in his grasping hand and with a quick peck on his forehead, she hopped up from the chair and slid behind the door.
Seconds later Max’s father walked in with another man, who she assumed to be one of Max’s brothers.
With their backs turned, she slipped out from behind the door and trotted down the hallway to the elevators.
She stabbed the
DO
WN
button once. Then double-stabbed it. And then smashed her palm on it repeatedly, wanted to get out of this hospital and away from Max’s dad and away from the feeling that she was going in the exact opposite direction she should be.
She looked up at the display, saw the elevators were at the stupid basement and huffed.
But when she tried to resume her assault on the elevator button, a hand covered up her plastic victim.
She looked up and froze.
Because his face sent her brain mixed signals. He had those slate-gray eyes of Max’s father, but he had Max’s nose and mouth.
He was a little shorter than Max but no less attractive. And her feet felt rooted to the floor as his gaze took her in.
She tried to hide her recognition, because while he must be one of Max’s brothers, he couldn’t know who she was. Lea cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He took his palm off the button and leaned back on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “So you’re Lea.”
What? “How do you—?”
“I was at the shop yesterday.”
She flashed back and remembered another man standing in the garage office while her relationship crumbled around her.
“I’m Cal. The oldest.” His voice was so like Max’s, not enunciating the
t
in
oldest
.
She clenched her fists and raised her chin. “Well, you know who I am, then.”
His eyes drifted behind her and then met her eyes again. “You visit Max?”
She swallowed. “He was sleeping.”
Those icy eyes narrowed. “So he didn’t know you were there?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He kind of woke up but . . . he didn’t seem to know what was going on. And I left when I heard . . .”
Cal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he looked pained. “Look, my dad—”
Saved by the bell. The doors dinged open and she quickly slid inside. She didn’t want to hear him make excuses or explain how she couldn’t be with Max. She knew.
She jabbed the
CLOSE DOOR
button, but Cal slapped a hand on the elevator doors so they sprung back open. “Lea—”
“I’m sorry, I need to go. Please let the doors close.” Her voice cracked. Oh God, she was going to cry. In front of Max’s brother.
He seemed to fumble with words. “Do you want me to tell him you were here?”
Did she want Max to know? She jabbed the
CL
OSE DOOR
button again and met Cal’s eyes. “Do what you need to do.”
The doors slid closed, and then the tears flowed. Was getting closure supposed to feel this painful?