by Leanne Davis
He eyes me, crossing his arms over his chest before dropping them to his side. “I get that. I get all of that. I didn’t come here for any of those reasons.”
“Then why?” I nearly wail at him. “Why did you come? Why do you keep doing this to me?”
“Doing what?”
“Breaking my heart.” I turn from him.
“I don’t want to break it, Christina, I want to own it.”
The statement is so soft and quiet, my nerve endings go on high alert because it sounds so much like Max, my Max of old. His way of wording things and his special tone of voice. Still I don’t trust his statement since I don’t know exactly what he means.
There is a shuffle before his hands touch my shoulders and flip me towards him. I stare into his face, shocked and kind of immobilized from the total surrealness of feeling his hands, so warm and strong, on my shoulders. He stares right into my eyes for a long, drawn-out moment. I neither smile, nor blush, nor blink. I don’t believe him. I feel like we’re in an emotional game of chicken and he will turn, or duck, or jump out of it at any moment. Like always. Instead, he keeps his hands tightly on my shoulders. With barely a smile, his mouth crashes onto mine. It’s not a sweet kiss. Or a friend-like kiss. It’s not a respectful kiss or companionable either. It’s a kiss that could steal my breath or my soul. It’s that kind of kiss. It is hard, deep, crushing, and alive. It is so real, I can’t breathe or think. I want to rip my mouth from his and demand an end to my confusion. I want to rip his clothes off and touch him everywhere. I want him to rip mine off and touch me everywhere. Everything collides in my head and heart all at once until I can’t think properly. All I can do is feel. I feel Max. I moan into his mouth, from disbelief, joy, desire and pain. I can’t believe he is here, kissing me. I grab onto the front of his jacket, gripping it between my fists, holding him against me so he can’t run away again, either figuratively or literally.
We stop kissing and he leans his forehead onto mine until we’re staring right into each other’s eyes as our breaths mingle. I am lost. I feel like drowning in his eyes, which are so full of emotion, but my own feelings are completely overwhelming me. I pull on his coat. “You’re going to hurt me. Leave me. Ignore me. I don’t want to do that again.”
He shakes his head, and our foreheads are still touching. “Not this time.” He leans forward and gently touches his lips to mine. His lips are full and wet and perfect. My eyes flutter shut at the gentleness, as well as the passion.
Burn me once, shame on him. Burn me twice, shame on me. I pull back. “What does that mean? This time? There is nothing between us but history.”
He lets me pull away. “You are my history. I want you to be my future.”
“That means nothing, Max. It means we were friends once. But now? Too much has happened. We have too many issues that we never worked on, so things are no different today than they were when we slept together. And look how well that didn’t go for me.”
He starts shaking his head. “No. No, everything is different.”
“How do you figure?”
“I’m touching you, aren’t I?” His tone is low and commanding. I glance at his hands, which now grip my forearms. “I have a lot of work to do. But the difference is: I want to try. I want to get the help I need. I was never willing to do that before. Not until you left me there in that locker room could I fully understand the impact you have on my life, and how much I want you to stay in it.”
I blush as I shake my head. “I should have never done that to you.”
“Yes, you should have. It made me realize how horrifying it was, and what I was destined to become. Your leaving me made me actually realize what I was doing and where I was headed. Nothing else could have done that, Christina. Nothing. I needed for you to leave me to make me see what I have to do.”
“And what would that be?”
“Everything. I need to do everything I can to get back to you.”
I don’t even understand what that means. He smiles with a tenderness I’ve never seen before. “I guess we should talk first.”
“First? What were you assuming? You’d return as my hero and we’d forego all the conversation just to have sex?”
Sitting down on the bed, he does a little up and down bounce and wags his eyebrows at me. “Well, a guy can always hope.” Is he trying to flirt with me? Or play cute? After showing up here in middle of the night, while I’m on a quest to find my long-lost sister in a strange city, after everything, now he’s flirting? I could think seriously about hurting him right now. He catches my dirty look. I’m not ready for blasé comments or jokes. This is too serious. This is too heart-breaking. This is everything I distrust. He puts his hand out towards me, palm up. I stare at it as if it’s one of those pretend arms you start to shake before it falls off. I mean, this is Max Salazar, and he’s offering me his hand?
“Sit down, Tiny.”
I keep my eyes on him, wary of his kind tone of voice, and what I just witnessed. I glance down at the open-palmed hand. Am I supposed to touch it? I finally stretch my hand out to his. With only the very tips of my middle and index fingers I touch his hand. He doesn’t recoil. He just stares at our barely tangent flesh. Then, he leans forward and engulfs my hand in his. I close my eyes at the wonderful sensation. It’s so exciting. A flood of emotions begin flowing through my blood stream and weighing down my limbs.
“I don’t understand. How…?” I stare at our joined hands. He pulls me forward. I finally sit near him and he takes in a sharp breath.
“It’s far, no, it’s miles from perfect. But I started seeing a therapist. I’ve only gone three times, so this is just the start.”
“But… but you’re touching my hand! After only three sessions?” I’m skeptical. It doesn’t ring true for me.
He nods and lets out a deep breath as if feeling profoundly satisfied. “Yes, I’m holding your hand.”
I simply keep staring at our linked hands. “How?”
“I’m trying to face my fears. I’m trying to analyze why I have such negative reactions to it. There’s not much progress yet…”
“I’m holding your hand. You held my shoulders. You touched me. Willingly. That’s not just a little, that’s a lot.”
His smile is cockeyed. “You seem easily satisfied.”
I stare up at him. My eyes are filled with tears that I’m starting to weep again. There is so much we need to figure out, discuss, change… but for now, he’s here, and holding my hand! I have to applaud that profound miracle. I bite my lip and nod. “I never needed much. I just wanted you. I was always okay with just you, however I could have you.”
“You deserve—”
“I deserve what I choose.” I cut him off, knowing the I-deserve-better argument was an endless and fruitless vicious cycle. “I can choose and make my own decisions. I’m not running low on self-esteem or self-respect. You can trust me. You should have trusted my acceptance and trust of you just exactly how you are.”
“Not even giving you the tiniest demonstration of affection?”
“Yes. You are giving me you.”
He closes his eyes. “I didn’t want to get help before now. But I don’t know what else to do. Derek went and still goes to a therapist. I met with this lady he used to see. She saw me three times over the last week. I obviously have anger issues. A lot of anger. Well, apparently, I have to acknowledge those feelings, or they’ll come out some other way. Fighting is my outlet. Fighting is my way. I do it whenever I feel that uncontrollable rage. I guess it’s actually anger I feel, and not the urge to fight. Somehow, during my childhood, I learned to equate touch with negative consequences. It was evil for me. I don’t know exactly where it came from, but I guess it probably started there.”
“You sound like you just might have had a pretty big revelation.”
He shrugs. “I—” He hesitates.
“You what?”
“The morning Derek got here? After the fight? I attacked him.”
I stare at him, since I don’t know what to say. “You attacked Derek?”
Max shifts around on the edge of the bed and gives me an apologetic glance. “I did. I went after him. I just, I kind of lost it. He became my target for revenge. I realized then I had to get some help. I had to do something. So we called a counselor.”
“What was the real reason you went after Derek?” I ask. I know Max. I can tell by his fingers tightening into a fist how upset he is for taking it out on his brother, but there is still plenty of anger in his body, which is now tensing up.
“He left me.”
“In Ellensburg?”
“No, all those years ago in Marsdale. He left me with Mom. I know he had his own reasons and they made sense to him, but it never made any sense to me. I had no one. Just him. He always protected me, and then he was gone. When he was there, my life was better. I wasn’t alone. We lived and survived our hardship together. I had someone who I thought loved me. But he walked out on me! And I guess I kind of inverted that all on myself. It—” He flounders and can’t find the right words.
“It hurt you, Max. It made you sad, scared, angry, upset, take your pick; but it caused you a lot of pain. Pain you’ve never really dealt with.”
He sighs. “I know. Everyone came to the same conclusion about the fighting and—”
“And that’s how you ended up seeking help?”
“Yes. So you see, it’s all because of you leaving me in that locker room.”
“And Tanya? Where does she fit into this?”
His expression is contrite. He swallows as he reaches across us and gently touches my leg before withdrawing his hand. I stare at his hand, then up at him. Wow. That’s pretty big. A gentle brush on my leg for an apology? That’s Max trying really hard. I get it. I really do. I also see in that instant that Tanya isn’t any problem for me. He wouldn’t have touched me if she were.
“She was—”
“Nothing to you?” I supply, my tone hopeful. To my surprise, he shakes his head in the negative.
“No, actually, she wasn’t. She was the first woman I’ve been with more than once. She was the first that kind of showed me, in a really screwed-up way, I know, that I could be with someone more than once. I could adjust some things and maybe make them work. I think because of her, I started to believe I could be with you.”
“And when you were finally with me you completely did the opposite?’
“Yes. That’s pretty much what happened. I completely freaked out. It was so much more than being with Tanya. I—”
“I know,” I interrupt, turning my body to face him. “I know what you’re saying. You were trying. It just didn’t work out that time?”
He flashes me a smile. “No, it really didn’t work out that time. I didn’t know how to deal with what I was feeling. I’m not sure I ever will. Then the fight, and then… you disappeared down here. You can’t imagine the things I thought. I mean, you’re two days from leaving for the place you’ve been dying to go and talking about for years, and then you just up and disappear from town? There was no reasonable, or even decent explanation. I was frantic. I never felt so much fear in my life. We are—”
“We aren’t anything right now, Max. I can’t… I just can’t do this. I’m confused and alone here. I’m not ready for whatever you came to do here.”
It hurts to say it. But I can’t downshift from nothing to everything with him again. Not like last time on the beach. I tried it his way, and he threw me out the window. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
“All right. All right, Christina, what are you doing here? Let’s start there.”
I let a breath out and establish more space between us. I crisscross my legs and finally lean back against the headboard. “Her name is Natalie Ford. She’s twenty-six years old and married to Samuel Ford. They own, not rent, a lovely Victorian house. They have no kids. She’s a cop. I don’t remember reading what he is. She’s my sister.”
He shakes his head. “How do you know all of this?”
“I asked Seth Gifford to hack the hospital records after figuring out where I thought she was born. My mom spent time in the care of a psychiatric ward of a hospital when she was pregnant. So I figure that is the hospital where she would have given birth.”
His eyebrows spike up into his forehead. “Seth. Of course. Okay, hats off to you; that was a pretty savvy move. No one could figure out where or what you were doing. Damn.”
“I saw her husband. I found her house.”
“But you don’t know what to do now?”
I draw in a breath. “No, I have no idea what to do now.”
“Do you want to just go home?”
“No!” I answer instantly. I shrug, feeling a little sheepish. “I know it’s hurting my mom. Making my dad crazy, but I feel like I need to do it.”
“This sister was from when she was raped?”
“Yes. I know. It’s horrible. Terrible. No woman should suffer what she did. But this mistake has a name. It’s Natalie. And she’s my sister.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I think we go there and meet her. I think you need to do it before you can move on.”
“We?”
He smiles, holding my gaze and scooting up near me to lean against the headboard. “It’s always been us; of course, me too.”
I stare at him before I finally nod. “Okay.”
He smiles and leans over to click the lamp off. The room is still lit from city lights glowing through the shades. Shadows kind of skitter and twist on the ceiling after we both fall flatter and lie on the pillows, side-by-side. It’s very late. As the silence stretches, I finally relax. I can’t quite comprehend Max being here.
“Christina?” Max whispers my name in the dark room. I turn on my side to watch the shifting shadows on his face. He turns too and we stare at each other. His mouth lifts into a small, tiny grin. I smile too, and something releases in my chest. Like I was holding my breath for an entire year.
He slowly lifts his hand off the bed and brings it towards me. His fingertips touch my temple and gently trace the side of my jaw down to my neck. Goose bumps break out over my skin. It feels so good. I close my eyes at the gentle, soft touch from Max. Finally, Max is touching me. I feel almost dizzy with disbelief.
“How can you?”
“I’m not sure I can,” he says softly. “I’m working on managing it. The thought of touch causes my symptoms. I’m trying to get my automatic, programmed reaction to cease. I have to realize that if I instigate it, it won’t hurt me. I want to touch you, Christina. I want you to touch me. It’s more of a conditioned response I can’t control. And just three sessions of counseling can’t cure that.”
I reach up and he immediately whips his hand back. Then he freezes, stunned that he did that. He shuts his eyes and mutters, “Shit.”
“Warning.” His eyes pop open. “You need some warning before I touch you. I can’t surprise you. It can’t be spontaneous.”
“No. I guess not.” His chest rises and falls. “I don’t want to be that way. I want to be different. I want—”
“I can do that,” I interrupt him.
He shifts his gaze to mine. “You can do what?”
“I can warn you before I touch you. I can let you know what I need.”
His eyebrows kind of rise, then lower. “Like you have to ask me? Can you really imagine a life where every time you wanted to touch, or cuddle, or hold the hand of your…”
“My what?” I interrupt. This time, I lean towards him, hardening my gaze. “My what, Max? What are we talking about here? My friend? My cousin? My what?” I exclaim, feeling sick and tired of his waffling. He is always pushing or pulling me. Either we discuss this for real, or not at all.
“Your boyfriend.”
“Okay, so I have to ask permission each and every time before I touch my boyfriend?” He nods, his dark gaze kind of flat-lining as he does his usual close-out with emotions.
“Would that mean I get to sometimes touch you?”
“Yes,” he says, but the word sounds kind of wobbly and shaky from his lips, like he’s saying yes, but is only half sure he can do it.
“Yes, because you think I want to hear that? Or yes, because you feel able to do it?”
“Yes. Because I intend to do it. But think about it. We’re talking limited. Sometimes. Scheduled. It’s like scheduled fucking, how can anyone stand that for long term?”
“So give me an example?”
He shrugs his shoulders and his gaze skitters over my head. His discomfort is nearly tangible. “My therapist and I talked about how I might be able to hug and kiss if I know, for example, you might like it before we go to bed, or before you leave in the morning. I’ll expect it and that way, I can plan for it and—”
“So I was one of the reasons you went to a therapist?”
His head kind of jerks back when I interrupt him, since my voice sounds hot with anger. “Well… yeah. There’s no one else I would ever bother learning how to show and accept affection from.”
“Do you think maybe asking my opinion on the matter might have been important? You haven’t even called me! And now you tell me you were seeking therapy because it involves me?”
He swallows and I see his eyes widening at my tirade before he shrugs and nods. “I wasn’t sure if it were possible to ever learn how to touch. I had to know it was possible for me to learn before I exposed you to it again. What I did to you this summer—”