Max

by Sawyer Bennett

  "It's not that," she mutters, her gaze dropping again.

  My hand goes to her jaw and I make her look up at me. I lean in closer and urge her, "Then tell me what it is."

  I'm stunned when Jules jerks her face away from me and shoots up off the couch, only to spin back around and face me with her arms outstretched in a plea for understanding.

  "It's everything, Max," she says desperately. "You're rich and I'm poor. Women slipping you their phone numbers and bikini models at fancy photo shoots for hot bachelor competitions. It's people judging me...writing terrible things about me that I can't defend. It's your teammates' wives and girlfriends who don't even have the grace to whisper behind my back that I can't afford designer clothes, but instead snidely tell it to my face. It's about being out in fucking public and having your fans accost me, telling me I'm not good enough for you and calling me a fucking gold digger to my face."

  "What?" I snarl as I come off the couch. "When did that happen?"

  Jules seems to deflate in front of me, her anger expended by her rant. She lets out a pained breath and drops her eyes to the floor, "It doesn't matter."

  "It does matter," I insist as my hands come to her shoulders.

  She raises her face, and my stomach pitches when I see a flatness there I've never seen before. "It doesn't matter because nothing can be done about it. It's something I have to accept, and Max...I'm sorry, but it's just not easy to be with you sometimes."

  "Jules," I say softly as I pull her into me. I wrap my arms carefully around her, cocooning her in safety.

  She turns her head and rests her cheek against my chest. I'm partially relieved when her arms come around my waist and gather me tight.

  "Did you ever have something really good happen to you?" Jules murmurs as we hold each other. "Something so fucking fantastic that you start to worry about when that bubble will burst, and then you start worrying about the pain it will cause you. And you don't want pain. You're tired of it so you want to avoid it at all costs. So you end up not enjoying that really great thing because all you can think about is the inevitability of its loss and what that will do to you."

  "You're not going to lose me," I assure her.

  "Maybe not," she agrees. "But I can't help but worry about it constantly. I can't help being sensitive to what others are saying, and fuck, Max...I don't even want to go out in public with you. It's just not easy, and I really need easy in my life right now."

  I don't even know what to fucking say to any of this. I have no clue how to alleviate her worries. But apparently I haven't heard it all, because she pulls away from me slightly and releases her hold. I do the same, sensing she needs a bit of space.

  Jules steps back, puts her hands in her pockets and says, "Dwayne wrote me. He's contacted an attorney and he says he's going to petition the court to terminate my guardianship."

  "That will never fucking happen," I growl, suddenly forgetting everything else that Jules told me, and I know that this wave of protectiveness that just burst forth is not only for Jules but for those kids.

  She gives me a sad smile. "It's just another thing in my life that I have to deal with, and I will deal with it. But...I need to make my life easier so I can keep my head clear. If I have to battle for those kids--"

  "Are you saying you want to break up?" I cut in, needing to know exactly where the fuck she's going with this.

  My knees almost buckle when she shakes her head and says, "No. That's not what I'm saying. But I do think things have moved fast, and I have so many other things going on, that I'm not really sure what I want. I guess if I had to pinpoint what would be the best thing, it would be for us to maybe slow down a bit."

  "Slow down?" I ask, my tongue thick and my head spinning as to what this means.

  "I need some space," she says sadly. "I need to prioritize and those kids have to come first. So I don't want to have to be worrying about buying ball gowns or going out to lunch with you, constantly worried that someone's going to come up and say terrible things to me. I just need a little bit of peace in my life right now so I can focus on the important things."

  Those important things not including me, I think bitterly.

  "That sounds an awful lot like we're breaking up," I say harshly.

  "No, Max," she says, and I have to admit, her voice sounds strong and steady. "I just want things to slow down. I don't want to go to that gala...it's simply too stressful for me. And I don't want to discuss moving in together. And I don't want to go to Houlihan's with you after a game, and I don't even want to show my face at the arena to watch you in a game, because it stresses me out constantly worrying what people think. It stresses me out to be on guard all the time, waiting for someone to attack me, and let's not even get into the fact I'm now worried that the kids will somehow get dragged into the spotlight and that is something I cannot ever let happen."

  I finally reach my breaking point in this crazy conversation. "For fuck's sake, Jules. At some point you can't lead your life worried about what others think."

  "You're right," she says softly. "And maybe if my life were normal, I'd have a bit more fortitude to push past this. But my life isn't normal. It's messy and stressful and tiring and I can't handle one more thing. So I have to cut out some of that mess."

  "You need to cut me out," I throw out.

  "No," she says again firmly.

  "Oh, I get it," I say with a sarcastic smile. "You still want to see me, but you won't go out in public with me and you won't come to my games to support me. You only want it to be secretive, right? Maybe I come over here for dinner, or you come to my house once a week and we'll fuck. Is that it?"

  "God no," she exclaims, taking a step toward me. "It's not like that."

  "Let me see if I can get this straight," I say, trying to force my voice to be calm. "You don't want to go to any events with me, right?"

  She gives a small nod.

  "Or out to lunch or dinner? Anywhere in public basically."

  Another nod, her mouth drawing into a frown.

  "Don't want to come to my games?"

  "Just until things settle down," she says softly.

  "And when might that be, Jules?" I murmur. "Because your life is messy, yes, but it could be that way for a very long time. Fuck...it might be messy until those kids come of age and leave home. Want me to wait that long? Keep you hidden in my room and bring you out to fuck you periodically, but otherwise keep you a secret?"

  "That's not how it would be," she maintains, her voice sounding a bit panic-stricken. "I'm not saying it right."

  "No, Jules, you're saying it right. I understand. You don't have it within you to put aside some of this petty bullshit a handful of people have lobbed your way. You don't have it within you to focus on what matters."

  "That's what I'm doing!" she cries out in frustration.

  "But I'm not included in that small circle of things you're focusing on," I point out.

  She almost growls in annoyance at me. "Max...I feel like someone's tied lead weights to my feet and then went and dumped me in the ocean. I'm getting pulled down and I can't fight my way back up because the weight is too fucking heavy."

  I huff out a breath of frustration, jam my hands down into my pockets. "I've tried to help you cut that rope repeatedly, Jules, but you won't let me. I'm strong enough to pull you back up but you won't let me."

  "I know. I get that--" she says, but I cut her off.

  "More importantly, your little analogy about the weight and the rope...well, you pretty much are saying I'm dragging you down. Clearly I can't help take the weight off if I'm the one adding to it."

  She opens her mouth to argue against that but then just as quickly shuts it. Her eyes drop to the floor and her shoulders slump farther. She gives me no further argument and that's fine.

  I don't have it in me to keep going around in circles with her.

  "I'm going to head out," I say softly, turning toward the door. When I reach it, I hesitate just a moment. I don't
look back at her, but I leave the ball in her court. "If you change your mind and figure there's room for me in your life, let me know."

  "Max, there is room," she says desperately.

  "Not enough," I say as I open the door and step through it, pulling it shut quietly behind me.

  I push open the door to Fleurish with my hip, struggling with the three canvases under one arm and two under the other. A merry chime of bells greets me and I hear Stevie yell from somewhere in the back of the store, "Be right out."

  Stepping in, I squat to release my hold on the paintings before they fall and then carefully restack them to lean against an open armoire standing up against the near wall. It's filled with a variety of knickknacks that appear to be for sale.

  "Jules?" I hear Stevie's surprised voice and turn around to face him. "What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to come until Monday."

  I shrug. "I got more paintings done than I figured I would, so I thought I'd go ahead and bring them by."

  Yup. Got twice as many paintings done this past week because my time has been freed up yet again by the fact I haven't seen Max since our--um, argument?--a week ago to the day. Turns out, although we may have not seen each other every day before said argument, due to his travel schedule, he was still very much a daily presence in my life, with long telephone calls, FaceTime, or text chats. Without those taking up my time, and thus feeling the keen loss of his presence, I channeled my resulting miseries into my art.

  It made me quite productive.

  That's not to say it's been pure radio silence between me and Max. He's been gone most of this week with away games in Ottawa and Montreal but we have shared a few texts. Well, I texted him after each game--one win and one loss--and he texted back.

  The texts were short.

  They were impersonal.

  It fucking hurt that he wouldn't engage with me.

  "Well, let me see them," Stevie says, and I blink away my dark thoughts before they make me cry. I watch as he turns to where I'd displayed the paintings and he walks down the line of them, hand to his chin as he evaluates them with a critical eye.

  "These are really different than your other stuff," he says casually.

  "I know," I say with a low murmur. They're all moody, bordering on depressing, which is exactly how I've felt this week while I let my feelings out onto the canvases.

  "But I like them," he adds, and turns to face me with a smile. "I'm going to keep two here for the shop and I think it's time we up the price on them a little. I'll send the others out to some of the local retailers."

  "Awesome," I say, feeling somewhat heartened by the fact he thinks my work can get an even better price. I'm making a steady income now from my art, and even have a nice savings account started. I look past Stevie to the back. "Olivia working today?"

  "Nope," he says and then looks at his watch. "She's getting ready for the gala tonight, and speaking of which...why aren't you doing the same? It starts in a few hours."

  My body goes stiff at the mention of the gala, even as my stomach pitches at the thought of Max going there without me. It's a fundraiser hosted by the Cold Fury organization, with the proceeds going to the funding of after-school activities for the underprivileged who can't afford such things. It's a great cause, and one that is and should be very personal to me, as I understand all about not being able to afford things for my niece and nephews.

  "I'm not going," I say in a whisper of a voice.

  "Why not?" Stevie exclaims. "These parties are always so much fun and who doesn't love getting all glammed up?"

  "Me," I admit, although that's somewhat of a lie. I'm a girl. I like those things. I just don't have the ability to carry off the deception that I'm nothing but a poor girl being dragged into the celebrity lifestyle, and it's so painfully obvious I don't belong there. "I told Max I wasn't going because I just don't like the spotlight on me. I also told him I wanted to slow things down. Things have been a little strained between us."

  "I straight up call bullshit on you," Stevie says dramatically with a wave of his hand. "Now, what's really going on?"

  Stevie stares at me critically, almost as if he's looking for a nuance in my expression or voice to get to the truth. His look scares me because it tells me his bullshit meter is turned on and is finely tuned in. Ordinarily, I might still lie to him or even put him off with some excuse as to why I have to leave, but honestly, I want to tell him. I want someone to hear my side of the story and tell me if I'm crazy to be acting this way.

  I suspect I am, but I won't admit it to myself, so I decide to just go ahead and lay it all out there.

  "I'm scared of Max's world," I tell him by way of simple explanation.

  "Go on," he prods me with a nod.

  With a pained sigh, I tell him, "My life is a complete mess at times. Being a single mom trying to navigate the stressors of raising kids has taken a toll. And then Max comes into my life, and he's amazing and has done so much to help me--like recognizing my artistic talent and helping me turn that into something--that I should be over the moon about having a relationship with him, right?"

  "Right," Stevie agrees.

  "Except I keep focusing in on the negative stuff and it drags me down," I admit to him, almost shamefully.

  Yes, shamefully because I know it's sort of a cowardly thing to do.

  "Like what?" Stevie inquires.

  "Max is famous. People are drawn to him. Women are drawn to him. He has fans so devout that some of them hate me just because I have his attention. Hell, I had a woman lay into me last week while I was out shopping. She told me I didn't deserve him. And I've been called a gold digger, and hell, even Max's brother questioned my motives. It's just too much for me to handle with trying to raise kids and deal with their father, who's now threatening to try to get them back. It's just...it's too much."

  I look at Stevie expectantly, because I'm sure he'll agree...this is a lot of burden on a young woman's shoulders.

  "So what?" Stevie says dismissively.

  "What?" I ask incredulously.

  "So. What," he repeats slowly. "It's really simple. If you love someone--and I know you love Max--then you take the bad with the good. The good totally outweighs the bad in this situation, so you ignore the bad. Figure out a way to suck it up, buttercup, because that's Max's life. If you want him, you take him as is."

  "But--"

  "He took you as is. You say your life is messy? Well, guess what? Max saw that from the beginning and he said, 'So what?' He took your bad and he reveled in your good. He wanted the good so much, he was willing to put the work into dealing with the bad. And sweetie pie, I'm here to tell you...all the negativity and second-guessing of you is going to go away. It's not here to stay. People may question your motives now, but why do you care? There will be a day when that won't happen, and even more important...who gives a fuck right now? Max doesn't question you, and really, he's the only person that matters."

  A complete and massive wave of shame hits me as I take in Stevie's observation. Max took me with my messy life and he said, "So what?"

  He never questioned my motives.

  I mean...I knew this. This isn't a revelation. I've known from the beginning that Max took me warts and all, and I know this because I've often questioned why he would do such a thing.

  Most of that shameful wave of guilt has to do with the fact that he takes all of it because he loves me.

  It's as simple as that.

  He loves me so he works with the bad.

  He loves me despite the bad that comes with me.

  And here I am, proclaiming to love this man--which I do--and I'm not willing to give the same to him in return.

  It's really just that simple.

  I didn't give Max back what he gave to me.

  More guilt.

  More shame.

  Fuck. I'm such a goddamned idiot.

  I let out a pained moan. "Ugh."

  "You just had a proverbial slap to your face, didn't yo
u?" Stevie asks with a grin.

  I nod fiercely. "I think I knew deep down the truth of what you're saying, but I guess I couldn't see past my own frustrations to really understand the simplicity of it."

  "Looks like my work as a fairy godmother is done then," Stevie says, and then looks at his watch again. "And you have plenty of time to get ready for the gala now. I'm sure Max will be thrilled. But I wouldn't tell him. Just show up and surprise the crap out of him."

  My stomach pitches, first in a joyful way, to think that I can get things back on track with Max. There's no doubt he'll forgive my momentary lapse of sanity, because I know Max. I know him down to his soul and he loves me. But then it pitches like a bad drop from a roller coaster as I realize the gala isn't going to happen.

  "I don't have a dress," I tell Stevie sadly. "I don't have a damn thing to wear to the gala."

  He looks down to his watch, seems to think about something for just a moment, then says, "I'll be right back."

  I watch as he turns and sprints to the workroom. I hear something bang and then he's sprinting back to me with keys in hand. He jingles them in front of my face when he meets me, then grabs my hand, dragging me to the front door.

  I follow along, my head spinning. When we get out onto the sidewalk, he lets me go so he can pull the door shut and lock the flower shop behind him.

  Then he turns to me and says, "Good thing you have a fairy godmother then. Let's go find you a dress and get you ready."

  I'm all for that, but then I come to a screeching halt, exclaiming, "Wait. I can't. My friend Tina's watching the kids right now but she has plans tonight, so I don't have a sitter."

  Stevie turns around after making a dismissive wave at me and starts pulling me along. "Auntie Stevie will be babysitting tonight. And when I say tonight, I mean all night, so that means you won't turn back into a pauper at midnight. That also means Max will take you to his house and, well...let's just say I expect a very big smile on your face in the morning when you come home."

  Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what will happen!

  The next two and a half hours are a whirlwind of activity. Stevie marches me three shops down to a designer consignment shop owned by a tall, statuesque woman with silver hair in a sleek chignon. After air kisses and introductions--her name is Stella--they lead me over to a rack of gowns. Without consulting me, only each other, they pull forth a gorgeous deep coral dress and usher me into a dressing room.