Despite the truth in Elliot’s words, Max blanched. “Jeez, Doc, say it how it is, why dontcha?”
“Like a broken levee, your emotions came out too quickly for your mind to cope. It overwhelmed you and your body panicked. Max, you were barely coherent.” Elliot exhaled, never taking his stern stare from his patient. “You can’t continue to do this, Max. You must start opening up, talking, expressing yourself in some way.”
Max huffed and dropped his head back against the wall, wishing he could have another shot of whatever funky juice Elliot had given him, just so he could lose himself once more to oblivion. He’d rather that, he’d rather anything than having to talk about . . . well, everything.
“What if I’m not built that way?” Max was surprised at how quiet his voice was, as he asked the question that had been plaguing him since his first therapy session. He looked up at Elliot. “What if I can’t?”
Elliot shook his head slowly. “You can. Together we can. I’ll help you every step of the way, Max, we all will, but you have to start meeting us halfway. Lyle is concerned about your insistence to pass on speaking in group—”
“And what if I just don’t want to, huh, Doc? What if I just don’t want to fucking speak to any of you?”
Elliot stayed silent for an immeasurable amount of time, causing Max to twitch. “But you do want to, Max,” he murmured finally. “You’re here. You’re here because you want to get better. You haven’t left because Carter would be devastated and you don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all him. You’re here because deep down you know that this is your last chance, your last hope to be clean, happy, and free of all that weighs you down every damn day.”
Well, shit. Max’s chin hit his chest and a long, slow breath shuddered from him. He rubbed his face, hiding the tears that suddenly welled in his eyes. “Don’t pretend like you know me,” he muttered, making Elliot chuckle and sigh.
“Tomorrow you have an appointment with Tate Moore.”
Max lifted his head, the name ringing some far-off bell of familiarity. “Tate Moore?”
Elliot nodded. “He’s one of our part-time resident physicians; he’s excellent. He also runs the art classes three days a week.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Art classes.”
Great. So Elliot was handing him over to some Renoir-loving asshat who no doubt balked at the mere mention of the word “abstract.” Not that he had anything against Renoir, but still.
“If you don’t like it, you can try something else,” Elliot said, all but reading Max’s thoughts. “But I want you to engage, express yourself, and communicate. Besides, I remember reading on your admittance form that you liked painting.”
Max shrugged. “Carter wrote that. I haven’t done it for a long time. I used to paint the cars that came into the shop when I was younger. Then I took my work onto the buildings of New York. Dad used to brag about how his kid could paint the entire island of Manhattan single-handedly . . .” His words caught in his throat.
Elliot placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Paint what you can’t say, Max.”
Max cocked an eyebrow, dismissing the kind gesture. “And if I don’t?”
Elliot stood up straight. “Then I withhold your gym pass.” He turned on his heel, leaving Max gaping at the back of him.
“But . . . you said that— Hold the fuck on, Doc!”
“Two weeks,” Elliot said calmly from the door. “Two weeks with Tate, improvement in group, and I’ll allow you to start working out with a trainer. Deal?”
Max slumped against the pillows. He may have pouted like a child, but he knew he had little choice. “Deal.”
The art room was nothing like Max expected. It was huge, light, airy, and reeked of paint and soap, punctuated by the underlying but instantly recognizable aroma of paint stripper. It was a heady smell that knocked Max headlong into a nostalgic memory of working in his father’s shop, spraying the Mustangs and Buicks while rock music shook the entire building. His father loved rocking out to Pink Floyd and the Who. The louder the better, he’d say—
“And you must be Max.”
Max turned. The man in the doorway, although older than Max, was young. Younger than he’d anticipated. He was tall and broad, had dark blond hair that was trimmed closely to his head, large hazel eyes, and an even bigger smile. He held out his left hand, while his right gripped the top of a dark wood cane.
“I’m Tate Moore.” They shook hands. “Elliot set up our meeting today.” He noticed Max’s gaze on the cane. “Eh, the chicks dig a guy with a cane and a limp, what can I say?”
Max pushed his hands into his pockets, his eyes wary. “You’re the art guy?”
Tate grinned. “Not what you were expecting, huh?”
The guy was wearing black jeans, Converse, and a T-shirt that, underneath the outline of a Tardis, read “Trust Me I’m The Doctor.”
Max shook his head. “Not really.”
Tate waved a hand dismissively. “I get that a lot.” He walked into the room, past Max. In fairness, the man’s limp wasn’t so bad. “We have the place to ourselves for a little while before my next sitting. Tell me about art.”
Max frowned. “Huh?”
Tate smiled as he settled onto a rolling stool, propping his cane against his thigh. “What’s your experience? Are you a beginner? What do you favor? Paints, pencils, charcoal? Tell me.”
Max glanced out the large French windows, which looked out onto the snow-covered land of the center. “I like paints. I painted when I was a kid. Spray-painted cars, detailing. I got busted for graffiti a few times.”
Tate smiled and nodded. “Ah, so you have a steady hand and you like color.”
“I guess.”
Tate gestured for Max to take a seat, which he did. “So I have to ask, what do you want to gain from this, Max?”
Max laughed without humor. “For Doc to leave me the fuck alone.”
Tate snorted. “I hear ya. But you need to want to do this for it to be of any benefit. I know Dr. Watts arranged this and the reasons why, but I want to know that you’re going to give it a chance.”
Max scanned around the expansive room, seeing the wooden easels, paintbrushes, color-splattered oilcloths and sheets, and sensed a small lift of exhilaration in his chest. He exhaled. “I want to be able to . . . express myself better. I need to express myself better because I need to get better.”
Looking back at Tate, he met a beaming grin. “I like it,” Tate said gently.
Max smiled. “When do we start?”
They started the following day.
Max found that getting out of bed was a little bit easier that morning, despite waking twice with night terrors, and was almost five minutes early to his allotted time. He wouldn’t say he was excited per se, but he was certainly looking forward to picking up a paintbrush again. Tate greeted him with a smile, a handshake, and another T-shirt that, beneath a picture of Leonard Nimoy, stated “Spock On.” Max considered briefly that maybe Tate needed an appointment with Elliot more than he did.
“I took the liberty of setting an easel up for you,” Tate said, leading Max over to a large tripod. “My question for you is, do you want a canvas, or are you starting smaller?”
Max considered his question. He’d never really painted on anything other than brick, concrete, or metal. “Canvas,” he replied. “Go big or go home, right?”
Tate slapped his hand against Max’s shoulder. “Outstanding.”
Set up with his canvas and choice of acrylics, Max perched on a roller stool and thought about what he wanted to say, what he wanted to show. Elliot had told him to express himself, but where the fuck was he supposed to start? The past couple of years had all but drained what inspiration he had dry. The other two guys in the room were busy painting and sketching like lunatics. Max sat for twenty minutes, doing nothing, before Tate approached.
“Okay?” he asked, leaning on his cane. Max shrugged and sipped from his bottle of water. “Tell me, Ma
x, when you used to paint, where were you, who were you with?”
Max’s hands found his hair. “In the city or in the body shop with my best friend or my dad.”
“Did you have a routine?”
Max’s eyebrows met above his nose. “A what?”
Tate lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know, like, did you have a particular shirt you wore when you painted, boots, gloves, a particular brush, or product, any music?”
A lightbulb illuminated Max’s memories. “My dad always played rock music in the shop, or I had my iPod.”
Tate smiled. “Wait there.” He limped off quickly, leaving Max perplexed, and returned with an iPod in his hand, out of which hung a pair of white earbuds. “My taste in music probably isn’t what you would call rock,” Tate admitted. “That’s more my brother’s style, but if you give me some bands I could put a playlist together for you.” He held out the iPod. “Take it. Have a listen, maybe it’ll jog something.”
Max took the iPod, staring at Tate, as pieces of a jigsaw fell slowly into place in the back of his mind. “Moore,” he whispered, once again observing Tate’s height, bulk, and familiar smile. He stood quickly. “I’ll be goddamned. You’re Riley’s brother, the doctor, the war hero!”
Tate’s cheeks pinked. “I think hero is a bit of a stretch. I prefer black sheep, but, yeah, Riley’s my brother. Unless he owes you money and then I’ll contest all knowledge and connections.”
Max laughed. “Fuck, man.” He held out his palm, shaking Tate’s hand again. “We never met, you were always away, but I heard a lot about you from Riley. You were in medical school, then Iraq, right?” He glanced at the cane.
“And Afghanistan.”
“Wow. Thanks for that, man. I’ve known Riley nearly ten years. He’s babysitting my shop while I’m here. I really don’t know what I’d have done without his help, and—”
Tate’s smile was all-knowing.
Max pulled his hand back. “But you knew that already.”
“Of course. I always research my clients.”
“You do?” Max asked dubiously.
“Yeah.” Tate looked toward the ceiling. “Plus I called Riley and asked. He said your shop is doing just fine, by the way.”
Max chuckled and sat down. “I’m sure there’s a rule somewhere about patient confidentiality that you’ve just admitted to breaking.”
Tate waved a flippant hand. “Pfft, patient confidentiality’s not even a thing anymore.”
Max laughed again. Yeah, he was definitely Riley’s brother. He held the iPod tightly. “Thanks for this.”
Tate nodded. “My pleasure.”
Grace Brooks cursed her brother up and down for being so freaking tall.
Seriously, the man was a mountain. And it wasn’t because she was bitter being an above-average five foot six; it was because she was struggling to keep her gloved hands over his eyes as she led him down a snow-covered dirt driveway toward the surprise she’d kept secret for nearly a month and a half.
“Look, you made me drive you all the way out here to see whatever it is you want me to see and—” He stumbled. “Are we nearly there?” Kai asked, his posture clearly giving him a hard time. And it wasn’t any wonder. He was almost bending completely backward to accommodate his sister’s lack of height.
“Yep,” Grace replied, pulling to a stop. “Okay. One. Two. Three.” She pulled her hands away from Kai’s eyes and opened her arms wide. “Ta-da!”
She watched Kai stand to his full height, adjusting the gray scarf around his neck. His dark chocolate eyes narrowed slowly as he took in the two-story house sitting back from the drive, surrounded by dense forest. His silence and the pinch of his mouth made Grace shift from one foot to the other.
“Well,” Grace said encouragingly. “Isn’t it great?”
His eyebrows lifted at her choice of adjective. He leaned his weight to the right and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “It’s definitely something,” he commented carefully.
Disappointment bloomed in Grace’s stomach.
“I bought it,” she continued anyway. “You’re always telling me to move on, do something crazy, well . . . here’s crazy!”
Kai rubbed a palm across the back of his neck. “I know, I just didn’t think it’d be this crazy.” He gestured toward the house. “Grace, it doesn’t even have a front door. Or windows. The roof is barely existent, and it— Wait, is that a toilet on the porch?”
Grace grabbed her brother’s forearm, yanking him toward the house, the first thing she’d ever owned in her twenty-six years. “You need to use your imagination. Don’t look at what it is now. Think about what it could be.”
“I don’t think even Dr. Seuss would have enough imagination.”
Grace huffed, stopping by the termite-ridden porch. “I don’t need you to be a sarcastic ass right now¸ I need you to be fun and un-adult and . . .”
“Imaginative?” Kai smirked.
Grace snapped her fingers. “Yes! Imaginative.”
Her brother sniggered and looked up at the house. Surely, Grace thought, he of all people could see the property’s potential. Sure, it was run-down and would probably take a million years and a shitload of elbow grease to turn it into something habitable, but it was hers, and that, after everything she’d been through, was something Grace couldn’t help but get excited about.
“Obviously,” she began, standing straight as she launched into her sales pitch, “in its present condition, it was a steal. I know it’ll cost to make it pretty, but that’s the fun part. I want to paint it white so it stands out and have a blue door just like Momma’s house used to. What do you think?”
Kai opened his mouth but she continued before he could take a breath. “The construction company in town has already taken measurements and my ideas and, holy hell, their plans are amazing. They’ll start in the new year, depending on the weather.” She pointed toward the upper level. “It has three bedrooms so there’s room for you to come and stay whenever you want to hide from your harem of women¸ and there’s also space for an amazing darkroom and, God, Kai, imagine the photographs I could take here!”
She looked from the house to her brother and blinked at his cocked eyebrow. “What?”
“I don’t have a harem of women.”
She snorted. “Kai, I’ve lived with you in DC for eighteen months; it’s like a freakin’ carousel of breasts at your place with names like Charissa or Sashina.” She elongated the vowel.
“Sasha.”
“Whatever.”
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 finge
rs 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.
An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2) Page 3