Cold Hard Truth

by Anne Greenwood Brown

Max cursed softly and quietly under his breath, as if he didn’t mean for Emmie to hear.

  “You didn’t know,” she said, trying to reassure him. “You thought you were helping.”

  Neither of them said anything after that. For the next several minutes, all Emmie heard were the librarian’s fingers clicking on a keyboard, the front door opening and closing, and the thump and shuffle of books finding their homes.

  She and Max moved in slow motion as they slid other people’s stories into place, buying time for themselves and something more to say. Or were there no more words? Had they come to that inevitable place where there was nothing more to say? Had they made too many mistakes?

  Then Max said, “Do you have a book in your hand right now?”

  The sound of his voice, breaking through the silence made Emmie’s heart do a little leap in her chest. She looked down at the cover. A Tale of Two Cities. “Yes.”

  “Open your book to a random page, and read the first line you see. That describes what your life is like.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “I saw this online. It’s like a game. Just do it.”

  “I already know what my life is like.” Even though she refused to play, Emmie couldn’t help but open the book and take a peek. There is prodigious strength in sorrow and despair. Did Dickens have that right? She’d certainly had her share of both sorrow and despair in the past year or so. But did she have strength?

  “Okay,” Max said, “try this. Read the very first line of the book. That summarizes your relationships.”

  This time Emmie played along, in part because she knew what the line would say before she even looked. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’”

  Max made a sound. A kind of unlaugh that resembled more of a snort. “If we’d been doing this a couple days ago, I would have told you that I am the best of times.”

  “If we’d been doing this a couple days ago, I might have agreed.”

  There was a low metal creak as Max—presumably—leaned against the opposite side of the stacks. “Okay, now open to another page. Close your eyes and point. That describes how you kiss,” he said softly.

  “Max…” Emmie didn’t want to go there. The memories were uncomfortable and still stung too much. They didn’t need any salt.

  “I screwed up and missed my opportunity last night,” Max said. Then his tone switched from serious to joking. “I mean, you can’t blame me for wanting to know how it would have turned out.”

  “Fine,” she said. If she had to this, she was going to make it worth it, and she was not above cheating. She didn’t blindly point, rather she quoted what she knew was somewhere in Dickens’s classic pages. “Here’s how that kiss was going to go: ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done.’”

  “Damn. I knew it,” Max said dramatically. He paused, presumably not cheating like she had. Then he chuckled. “I think that kiss might have gone to second base because here’s my line: ‘They range the mountain crests.’”

  “God, Max. You made that up.”

  “Did not. It’s Homer. The Odyssey.”

  His voice came from a different direction, and when Emmie looked up, he was at the head of her aisle, and his eyes were dark. “I really am sorry,” he said. “I can be good.”

  Emmie raised her eyebrows. “You can?”

  “Well…I can be better.”

  Max stalked toward her, his intention all too clear. There was a flicker of panic in Emmie’s chest, and she stepped back. Her left shoulder hit a bookshelf, and one thin paperback slipped off the edge, landing on the floor.

  Max hesitated; then when Emmie didn’t put on the brakes, he moved closer.

  “Shepherd,” she whispered. She was on the verge of giving in. All the bricks she’d laid between the two of them were crumbling like dry plaster.

  “You make me crazy when you call me that.”

  “In a good way or a bad way?”

  “Everything about you is the good way.” He pressed against her, crushing the softness of her body with his chest. Emmie wanted to touch every beautiful line of him, to inhale the now-familiar scent of him, like cloves and soap.

  Why did she always feel so light-headed when he was near her? It wasn’t like her to be so affected by another person. She hated it. And she loved it.

  Her eyes widened as his head came closer. Slowly, as if he was giving her the chance to say no.

  When she didn’t, Max lowered his head and pressed his lips to the place where her neck met her shoulder. He inhaled, skimming his nose up her neck to right below her ear. She was completely turned on by him, and that was very, very inconvenient because the library was quiet and hardly private. Any minute, someone could find them here. But that very possibility made Emmie hope he wouldn’t stop.

  By now, her chest was rising and falling, rising and falling. Max’s hands gripped the dip of her waist.

  “Max,” she said, and her heartbeat stuttered in her chest. He touched his lips to her neck again, and she felt the snap of energy between them. She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but he pressed on, kissing along her jaw. She wasn’t imagining it.

  Max pulled back to look at her, and Emmie bit down on her bottom lip. Max hesitated, whispering a curse, then brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. Emmie’s lips parted, and Max did not waste the invitation. He kissed her as if he were laying his soul at her feet.

  Damn. He wasn’t kidding last night when he told her he’d been visualizing this moment. His kiss was probably the most well-practiced first kiss in the history of the world—no exaggeration—and it was blowing her mind. It was blinding. She was drowning in him, and she feared that when they were done—and she might never be done—there would be nothing left of her.

  Her hands came up against his chest. “Oh my God, Max,” she said breathlessly, “you’re killing me.”

  Max sucked in a breath, and his muscles stiffened under her fingertips. He recoiled from her, snapping backward as if attached to a bungee cord, then staggered sideways against the stacks. Emmie watched as the flush faded from his cheeks, leaving his face so pale that it was nearly gray.

  “What is it?” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  Max’s eyes were wide. Not exactly with surprise, but with something more hollow. To look at him felt like hearing a confession, and it sickened her. She felt sick. Sick. Sick.

  Max’s mouth opened, then closed. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “My God, Emmie, I’m so sorry. I thought I could, but…I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  Then after all that, he ran. Leaving Emmie to stand there. Stupidly. Her hands held in front of her, palms up. And empty.

  Max’s rejection hit Emmie harder than Nick’s fist, the fist that told her she was more trouble than she was worth, that told her he should cut her mom off because Renee O’Brien was a meth-head loser and she and Emmie deserved each other. It hurt more than the look of hatred in Nick’s eyes when she testified, the look that said he should have known she’d go running to Daddy when things got rough.

  The guilt and the shame were still raw, still tender to the touch, and Max had not only touched the emotional bruises Nick left behind, but crushed them under his thumbs. He’d left her standing in a pile of books in the stacks on a Saturday morning. She wanted to kick Charles Dickens in the nuts for being a bald-faced liar, because she wasn’t feeling any kind of prodigious strength. Despite her sorrow and despair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A TERRIBLE PERSON

  Max collapsed onto the center of the front steps of the library, taking up a lot of physical space because that’s what he did. He pushed himself into places and spaces and lives that he had no business consuming. Max, you’re killing me. Emmie’s words chilled him. She couldn’t have picked anything worse to say.

  But still, he shouldn’t have run. If only he could learn to stop his impulses before they got beyond his control. If he could do that, maybe he wouldn’t have run out on h
er. Maybe he wouldn’t be out here freezing his ass off. Damn it. He got up and paced angrily, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie.

  After a few passes in front of the library steps Max sat back down, this time on the far right side of the step, and hunched his body against the cold. If he used his imagination, he could still feel Emmie’s warmth in the palms of his hands. He curled his fingers into fists, trying to hold on to the feeling for a little bit longer. But like always, eventually all that was left was himself, nails dug into his skin. Alone.

  The front door of the library swung open. Max didn’t turn around, but he recognized the two voices behind him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Dan McDonald asked from inside the building.

  “I need a break,” Emmie said from the doorway. “This will only take a second.”

  A second, Max thought, his heart somewhere lower than his stomach. Yeah, that sounded about right. It would only take a second for Emmie to tell him to go to hell, and that she never wanted to see him again. That he had no right to kiss her like that, then walk out. That would only be right. Emmie didn’t take crap from anybody, and the way he treated her inside…practically molested her…what she must be thinking…

  Max shifted even farther to his right so that his shoulder was under the metal railing and Emmie could get by. Maybe she’d just keep on walking. Maybe she was so mad she wouldn’t even bother to call him out on being a Class A dick.

  But instead of storming past, Emmie zipped up her coat and sat on the opposite edge of the step, leaving a wide space between them. Max felt every inch of it. But even more than the distance, Max felt the familiar calm she always seemed to bring.

  He glanced at her face, which was completely placid. No hard lines. No set jaw. How had he forgotten what had attracted him to her in the first place? Emmie wasn’t pissed. She was completely relaxed. He was just another disaster that wasn’t going to faze her.

  It was probably his duty to say something first, but he didn’t know what to say. After a few agonizing moments, she said, “I think I know what happened in there.”

  Max made a small noise in the back of his throat. He doubted that very much. He couldn’t even fully understand it.

  “Tell me about Jade,” Emmie said.

  Max turned his face away from her. That was the last thing he wanted to do, and she was crazy for even asking. “Sounds like you know about her already, and it’s too hard to talk about.”

  “No. I don’t know anything more than her name. I don’t pry. And I wouldn’t normally ask, but after the way you acted in there, I think it’s time you tell me.” Then she added, “Even if it’s hard.”

  Max chewed on the inside of his cheek and picked at the ice that coated the railing. Anything he could say felt ridiculously inadequate. “She was my girlfriend.”

  “I figured that much out already. Are you still in love with her?”

  Max’s shoulders slumped. She really didn’t know? No one had told her? “Are you thinking she broke up with me?” Max asked. He still couldn’t look at Emmie and, instead, flicked his finger against the small icicles that hung off the railing.

  “Are you saying you broke up with her?”

  That question finally made Max look over at her. Emmie’s eyebrows were nearly to her hairline. Max could see her trying to make sense of things. Like, why would Max feel badly about kissing her if he’d already moved on from Jade?

  “Jade is dead,” Max said. The final word looked like a puff of smoke on the frosty air. Max covered his broken watch with his right hand.

  Emmie’s expression went blank. “I—I’m sorry.” By the look on her face, Max could see her calculating the height and depth of the emotional-bullshit mountain she was going to have to climb in order to get to him again. Was she up for the challenge? Did she have the right kind of protective gear? Because this was about to get messy.

  Max shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and wished he’d thought to grab his coat. He’d never expected to be out here so long.

  “Max, I’m so—”

  “No.” Max stood and took several steps toward the sidewalk, keeping his back to her. “Just don’t.” A truck rumbled past, leaving a trail of smoky exhaust in its wake.

  “Don’t what?” Emmie asked.

  Max hung his head and once more fought back the sob that was building deep within his chest. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  With dry eyes, Max turned to face her. He would not cry. He didn’t let anyone see that—not his parents, not his teammates, not even Quack Linda, even though she was sworn to confidentiality, and certainly not Cardigan John. He grimaced at the sincere acceptance on Emmie’s face.

  “I’m not trying to be a dick,” Max said. “Or, I should say, more of a dick. But those words…I hate them. They’re too small. They don’t fit. It actually makes me feel worse when people tell me how sorry they are.”

  Emmie reached up toward him, and when Max came closer, she took his hand. She pulled him back down on the step beside her and hooked her arm through his. She was warm. And she was here. And for the life of him, Max couldn’t understand why.

  The library door opened, then after a few seconds closed before either of them turned around to see who it was.

  Emmie didn’t say anything. She just held Max closer. He knew it was more than he deserved after how he treated her inside, but he let her work her magic, stilling his heart until he felt his shoulders relax and his lungs fill with air.

  “That’s not something you get over,” she said. “You shouldn’t just get over it.”

  Max shook his head. Emmie didn’t get it.

  “Was she sick?” she asked.

  Max shook his head again, unable to say anything more.

  “Hey, if you don’t want to talk about it, I get it,” Emmie said. “It’s okay. I can go back inside.” She placed both hands on the icy step, readying to stand.

  Max put his hand on her elbow, the nubby texture of her coat warming his fingertips. He didn’t want her to go. He’d talk about Jade if it meant Emmie would stay. “It was a car accident.”

  Max felt Emmie’s body flinch, and her subtle reaction made Max feel like he was taking a corner too sharply and he needed to grab the oh-shit handle in his jeep. Without thinking, his fingers wrapped around the edge of the step.

  Max took a big breath. “She was thrown from the car. They said she died instantly.”

  “What?” Emmie asked, her voice rising. “Oh my God, Max.”

  Emmie’s eyes were wide with disbelief. Her reaction was right on target. It was too much to believe. Max had gone through the first couple weeks after the accident waiting to wake up from what he was sure was a horrible nightmare.

  He swallowed hard and stood up again. He moved to the other side of the step where he’d originally been sitting and leaned back against the railing, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his hoodie. “Jade was a really good singer,” Max said, though he didn’t know why it mattered. “Did you know that?”

  Emmie shook her head. Of course she didn’t know that.

  “I should have told her that. And man, could she laugh.” Max’s nose was red and running, and though he still didn’t cry, he sniffed loudly. His weakness didn’t seem to make Emmie uncomfortable. He was supremely grateful for that.

  “She was usually really serious, but then when something hit her as funny, she’d get this blank look, and then she’d start to shake, and then she’d laugh so hard she cried. I used to love to make her laugh like that. I think that’s what I miss the most.”

  “Max…”

  “When someone dies, it’s the stupid stuff you miss.” Then he tipped his head skyward. The only consolation in death was that at least now Jade was free of pain. His own pain, Max feared, would never go away. That was, until he met Emmie—and now he might have killed that possibility too.

  “It’s just so unfair,” Max said. “It makes me mad. They say I’
ve got anger management issues.”

  “Sounds about right,” Emmie said. “Sounds well-earned too.” Her teeth were chattering now, which made Max seek out his own warmth by ducking his chin inside his sweatshirt. “So is that why you’re Vigilante Man on the ice? You’re out to stop the injustice of the world? You know that’s a fight you’re never going to win, right? You can’t take care of everybody.”

  Max took two steps forward along the step and sat down so their knees were pressed together. He cupped both Emmie’s hands in his. “I know that. I don’t need to take care of everybody, but I do want to take care of you, Emmie.”

  Emmie’s jaw dropped open, and Max cut her off before she could say anything. “I know you don’t need me to.” He raised their hands to his mouth and blew warm air onto them. “I just want to. The problem is—and I didn’t realize it until I was kissing you in there—you should be with someone who not only wants to care for you, but can actually pull it off. I’m not that guy. I’m actually a terrible person.”

  “You’re not a terrible per—”

  “What would you think if I told you that, other than the funeral, I’ve never visited Jade’s grave? Not once.”

  Emmie didn’t respond immediately. Max imagined she was trying to reason out what kind of person wouldn’t visit his girlfriend’s grave. Finally, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What is it about hockey guys that makes them think they get to call all the shots?”

  “Ha. That’s cute,” Max said, tipping his head to the side. “But I don’t get what you mean.”

  “I told you before. I’m the only one who gets to choose whom I push away, and whom I let into my life.”

  Emmie ducked her head, and her eyebrows pulled together, causing a little wrinkle. Then she looked up at Max, and the expression on her face made his breath catch in his throat. “It’s you, Shepherd. You’re the guy.”

  A small smile slowly pulled at the corners of Max’s mouth. She was a glutton for punishment, that was for sure. And patient. And perhaps a bit of a martyr. For a second he thought about warning her off.

  “I’m going to be a jerk,” he said.