An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)

by Sophie Jackson

  “Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled into his hand before he swallowed and ordered a coffee, wishing to God it could arrive loaded with alcohol to help calm his nerves and extinguish the memory of Grace and the look of concentration on her face when she took her damned photographs, that same look that had been plaguing him since he’d awoken that morning.

  He shifted in his seat. He needed to get a serious grip. Maybe he should have agreed when Carter offered to wait with him until Lizzie arrived. At this rate, he was going to fidget and vibrate his way into an early grave. He simply couldn’t sit still. Grace the Waitress placed his coffee in front of him at the same time the bell above the diner door rang.

  Without even looking up, Max knew it was Lizzie. His skin suddenly felt too tight, pressing on him, making him breathless.

  He looked up slowly, catching her eye.

  Jesus.

  She was the woman he remembered, but somehow different.

  She began to approach, steady but timid. Her blonde hair, which she’d always worn long, was now shaped into a sophisticated bob that hung just under her chin. Her face was the same, small and thin, but now bore lines that Max couldn’t seem to recall her having before, while her blue eyes, which he’d adored, were less sparkly and more calm, more mature. He was more than a little comforted that the dead look he’d seen in them the last few months they were together was nowhere in sight.

  Her gaze stayed on him until she stood at the side of the table. Max hadn’t even had the wherewithal to stand. He sat back in his seat, looking up at her, not knowing what to do or say.

  “Hi,” she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  That’d be a good start, he supposed.

  Max cleared his throat. “Hi.”

  Her lips pulled into a tremulous smile. “May I sit?”

  Max nodded. “Sure.”

  She dropped her red bag onto the seat opposite and slid in. Max took the time to watch her, trying to see the woman he’d cherished for so long. He wasn’t sure whether he succeeded. She was still devastatingly striking; her white vest top showed off her unblemished skin and delicate collarbone, while her stone-washed, knee-ripped jeans he’d noticed as she came near highlighted how petite she still was.

  It was a strange paradox being confronted with this part of his past. A part that had been, at one stage, all he knew, all he cared about, wanted, and loved, and yet, sitting there with Lizzie in front of him, the surreal unfamiliarity of it all settled on him like a lead weight.

  Grace the Waitress appeared at their table again before either of them could speak. Lizzie looked at Max’s cup.

  “Coffee,” he offered.

  Lizzie dipped her chin, then addressed their server: “Same, please.”

  They sat as the other people in the diner milled around them, and stared at each other in a way that was neither affectionate nor uncomfortable. Lizzie fiddled with a ring on her index finger. Max noted that there wasn’t one on her wedding-ring finger. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to the engagement ring he’d bought her.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said quietly toward her coffee once it arrived. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I wasn’t sure, either,” Max admitted, his voice gruff with nerves.

  She tilted her head toward her shoulder and poured milk into her cup. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t.” She settled the milk down and looked back at him, her gaze meandering over his face and chest. “You look well. Different, but well.”

  Max glanced down at himself, pondering what changes she saw. “You, too,” he offered instead, hating how his voice caught on every word.

  She blushed a little. He’d never seen her do that when they were together. She’d always been so confident, so strong and formidable. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he had to accept, considering what she’d been through, what they’d both been through, there were bound to be differences. They weren’t the same people, and that filled Max with a profound sense of sadness.

  “I’m glad you got my letter. I wasn’t sure you’d still live in the city. Do you still have the shop?” Lizzie asked.

  Max nodded. “Same shop, same apartment.” He sipped his coffee, the awkwardness of small talk almost intolerable. “You?”

  She shook her head. “I moved back to Florida for a while, stayed with my family. I’m working now and have a small place.” She smiled. “I like it. I’m happy.”

  Max swallowed, not returning her smile. If nothing else, in spite of their history, all he’d ever wished for her were good things. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

  Even though it was the absolute truth, annoyance slithered across his back. “So is that why I’m here, for you to gloat and tell me how happy you are?”

  Despite his best efforts to stop it, his voice was clipped and bitter, but, to her credit, Lizzie didn’t react other than to shake her head.

  “No,” she replied softly. “That’s not why I wrote.” She took a deep breath and paused. “I . . . wrote because, after everything that happened between us, after losing . . . him, I wanted the opportunity to explain.”

  “So explain,” Max said unsympathetically.

  Lizzie licked her lips. “After he died, I wasn’t the person you met, the person you loved. I didn’t like who I became.” Her gaze drifted to Max’s hands. “I was so lost. I was . . . broken.”

  Max inhaled through his nose, sitting back. “And I wasn’t?”

  “I know you were,” she answered quietly. “That’s why we couldn’t help each other. That’s why I had to leave.”

  As much as he wanted to understand and accept what she was saying, Max couldn’t help but feel cheated. “Yeah, you left,” he said toward his cup. “After everything that happened between us. You left me without a word, no letter, no note, no postcard when you got to wherever the fuck you went. Nothing.” Although his temper had begun to rally, Max’s voice remained calm and level.

  “I know.” Lizzie closed her eyes slowly, making Max’s teeth grind. If she began to cry, he didn’t know what he might do. Walking out seemed like the best response, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave, Max. I swear. I wanted to get in touch, but . . . I was so scared and then it seemed like it was too late.”

  “And now?”

  Lizzie sighed. “I knew I was going to be in New York. And I guess I got to the point where I had to see you again, to tell you why. It seemed like the perfect chance. I realized that, if I know you at all, you’d need that much.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I wanted the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am.”

  And then she stared at him, blue eyes beautiful and blazing, as if she’d rehearsed what she was about to say a thousand times. “I’m so sorry, Max,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I lost him. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t help you, help us through it, and that I left you alone when I knew it would devastate you. I’m just so sorry for everything, and I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope you can find it in yourself to someday forgive me.”

  Max opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, blocked by the sudden shock of emotion swelling in his throat. Lizzie became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He looked toward the windows of the diner, angry and willing them away, breathing through pursed lips. “You nearly killed me,” he uttered, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning back to her. “Do you understand that? You nearly killed me.” He shook his head. “To lose Christopher was one thing, but to then lose you— I . . . Jesus, Lizzie, it was like I died.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks then, but Max didn’t care. It was more emotion than he ever remembered seeing from her after they lost their son and, in a strange way, it was comforting. It meant that she was alive again inside, aware, and breathing.

  “You said his name,” she croaked, smiling through her tears.

  Max frowned. “Of course. He was my son.”

  “You were never able to say it. It’s good
to hear.”

  Max sniffed. “I guess therapy and rehab has its uses.”

  Lizzie’s eyes widened. She nodded slowly. “Therapy helped me.” She laughed humorlessly. “Although I still struggle with his name, I wouldn’t be sitting here without it.”

  Max’s temper slowly cooled while he watched her wipe the tears from her face with a napkin. “Did you think of me at all?”

  The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

  Lizzie looked up, seemingly surprised by his question. “Every day,” she replied softly. Max nodded shortly. “And you?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking down at the table. “I hated you for it.”

  “I understand.” She sat back, not appearing hurt. “How are you, Max, really?”

  He shrugged, wanting to be honest. “I’m . . . okay. Surviving. Living from one day to the next.”

  “And you have someone, someone who makes you happy?”

  Grace’s laughing face immediately flashed through Max’s mind, stealing his breath away. “I—I’m not . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not . . .”

  Lizzie smiled. “It’s all right.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “I’ve been seeing someone for a couple of months. Nothing serious. But . . . it’s nice. I like that I want to date again.”

  Max prepared himself for the devastating impact those words would bring, but, oddly, the pain never came. How could that be? He’d loved this woman, spent years with her, worshipped her body, breathed every inch of her in, and yet the indifference that settled over him, knowing that she was seeing someone else, was like a warm blanket, easing the pressure that had built in his chest since the day her letter had arrived.

  They sat for the next hour, talking. It was stilted and awkward, like a couple on a first date. They shared their experiences of therapy, how their recoveries were going, and how old friends were. She asked about Carter and he asked about her family; she told him about moving into her new place and he told her about Preston County, leaving out certain details though they drifted through his mind like leaves on a breeze. She apologized repeatedly and, despite the sincerity with which she offered her remorse, Max felt neither comforted nor fulfilled by it, as though her repentance made no difference to the past or the present he now lived.

  “So, I have something for you,” Lizzie said, pulling her bag closer and delving into it. She rummaged through it, frowning. “Dammit. I must have left them.”

  “What?”

  “They’re in my room at the hotel,” she grumbled. “I was so stressed about today, I . . . would you mind if I went to get them?”

  “What is it?”

  She suddenly looked embarrassed. “It’s just something that I need you to have.”

  Max cocked an intrigued eyebrow. “Okay.”

  She paused for a moment, regarding him carefully. “Why don’t you come with me? I won’t be long.”

  In her room? Max was shaking his head before he was speaking. “I don’t think that’s—”

  Lizzie’s laugh was loud and unexpected. “Really? What do you think will happen?”

  Actually, Max wasn’t sure, but being alone with her in a hotel room didn’t make him feel as comfortable as it probably should have. He licked his lips.

  “Fine,” he said, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. “I should be heading back anyway.”

  She stood from her seat. Max threw money onto the table and followed Lizzie through the diner, out of the door, across the street, and into the lobby of the Hilton hotel.

  The elevator ride to her room was quiet except for the small ding punctuating each floor they ascended. Max caught Lizzie’s reflection in the smooth steel of the door, noticing how much calmer she looked from when she first came into the diner. The lines on her face had all but disappeared and she stood taller, straighter, as though their conversation had lifted something from her. If he were honest, Max felt the same way. He felt less burdened, less heavy with the past.

  The elevator reached floor twenty and Max followed Lizzie out of it and down the hall to her room. She unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter. He did as she asked, catching a breath of her perfume, sweet and unfamiliar. Standing with his hands in his jeans pockets, Max glanced from Lizzie, who closed the door, to the window, to the bed, and back again. His pulse picked up as panic began to take hold.

  What the hell was he doing?

  “Here.”

  Lizzie’s voice came from his side. He looked down to see her holding a large bundle of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. He took them cautiously, noting his name and address on the top one.

  “What’s this?”

  “I wrote you a letter every day I was in therapy. It was part of my recovery,” she murmured, her stare on the envelopes. “Each one tells you what I was going through, how I felt about you, how I felt about losing . . . Christopher.”

  Max’s breath faltered as he held them tightly, overwhelmed and sad. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed, meeting her gaze.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she replied. “I want you to have them. I want to explain and they say what I can’t right now.”

  He turned them over in his hand and nodded. “Okay.” He stood staring at them before he glanced toward the door. “Look, I’d better go.”

  She nodded and gradually moved to the side, allowing him to pass. “Max?”

  He turned and, for a split moment, he saw the girl he remembered, lovely and ready to take life by the balls. “Yeah?”

  “Could we . . . I mean, you have my number, can I— I’d like to stay in touch, maybe see you again.”

  Max blew out a confused breath. “I don’t know, Liz. I mean”—he opened his arms, gesturing toward her and the room—“it’s . . . this is all—”

  “Overwhelming.”

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “Yeah.”

  She dipped her chin. “I get it.”

  Max stared at her, knowing her well enough to see that she had more to say. He waited.

  “Can we . . .” She shifted where she stood. “I’d like it if we could hug it out.”

  She looked so earnest, so hopeful, that Max nodded before he could think clearly about it. Steadily, she drew closer and lifted her arms, sliding them around his neck, and pulled him close. Max’s hands moved around her waist, returning the hug carefully. It was only when Lizzie lifted her nose to his neck and tightened her grip on him that he gave himself over to it, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against hers, understanding that it was a hug of apology for both of them, a hug of forgiveness, a hug that quietly and respectfully acknowledged the harrowing journey they’d shared.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled into his skin. “Thank you for today.”

  Max nodded, feeling her fingers play in the hair at his neck just as she used to do.

  She hummed. “You smell the same.”

  Her words stirred something that felt like regret inside him. She didn’t smell the same, she didn’t smell of anything he recognized or wanted. Everything was so different. With a deep breath, he lifted his head but didn’t loosen his hold. “Lizzie?” She opened her eyes. “I have to go.”

  “I know.” She bit her lip, her gaze turning wary. “But I’m afraid to let go again.”

  More than a little surprised by her confession, Max stared at her for the length of three heartbeats. She stared back, took a deep, unwavering breath, then kissed him.

  It lingered at the side of his mouth, tender and soft. Without thought, Max turned his head into it, capturing her gasp when he responded. Years ago that sound would have had Max desperate to have her, against the wall if necessary, but right then the sound caused his stomach to tilt as though he were at the top of a roller-coaster track and about to plummet to the ground. The kiss unbalanced him, made him dizzy, as if his body couldn’t quite accept what was happening.

  He didn’t understand. Lizzie’s lips should have been familiar— he’d kissed them a million t
imes before—but now they felt strange, alien, and didn’t taste the way he wanted them to, and her scent wasn’t cocoa butter but different and, God fucking dammit, why the hell was he thinking about Grace when Lizzie was kissing him?

  Wasn’t this what he wanted? Wasn’t this what he’d hoped for? Didn’t he want the chance of being with Lizzie again after everything that had been before?

  “No,” he mumbled against her mouth, answering his unspoken question aloud.

  He didn’t. It wasn’t right. Not now. They were different people, wanting different things. There wasn’t even a glimmer of sweet nostalgia, of happier moments, when they would feast on each other for hours. Her kiss simply reminded him of a time in his life that he would never forget but was ready to move forward from.

  He gripped Lizzie’s waist. “No,” he repeated. He pushed her away gently, spotting the high flush in her cheeks and the lust in her eyes.

  “Oh God, Max,” she exclaimed, hiding her mouth with her palm and stepping back. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—I never should have . . . I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Max closed his eyes, her protests reminding him of the way Grace had apologized for kissing him, her mumblings, her shock, and the taste of her on his tongue when he’d reciprocated with more passion than he’d ever felt in his life.

  Standing there staring at Lizzie, with the odd sensation of her mouth still tingling across his lips, as God was his witness, Max would have given anything for it to have been Grace instead. He’d have given anything to get the chance to kiss her again, to kiss her the way she deserved, to push into her body and hear her call out for him, to hold her and make her laugh.

  He coughed, almost choking on those realizations as they flooded through him, sweeping away all the panic and anxiety of the last week, leaving nothing but hope and determination and something that felt suspiciously like love in their wake.