Then reality would come crashing down around me. How suited are you and Florida? Momma Rose had asked. Well, considering the obligations I had here, pretty damn well-suited. Olivia worked odd hours at the grocery, and we never really budgeted for extra help for Mom. That was why I was here, working from home and not living with Norman and working at his place. And that was another thing—our business. While our customer base was in online orders, Norman was in Florida. I couldn’t bail on our shared livelihood and run off to Tennessee.
Communication with Max was spotty at times, but she was busy with her new lease on life. How could I be anything but happy for her, even though with every step she took forward, it was like a step away from me? She came online into Magecraft now and then, and we would explore or quest together, talking about nothing real but having fun at least. I encouraged her to grab on to her following and make her own YouTube channel or even play on Twitch, streaming her playtime or making videos where she broke down strategy and the best mods to use. She seemed excited about the idea, so I supported her as best as I knew how, by offering to build her a new machine. She said hers was starting to overheat and couldn’t handle the newer requirements for peak performance in the game. Norman insisted we only charge her for the parts at cost, and no labor, for which I was grateful. After his suspension from the guild lifted, he was far less contrary. Until one day, he wasn’t.
“That’s it!” Norman yelled, his voice reverberating off the walls of our small workshop. He put down the graphics card he was holding and pointed a screwdriver in my direction.
“What’s what?” I asked, not used to Norman getting genuinely upset about things, at least not in the last few years.
“You, man. You’re over there staring out the window like a lost puppy or something. And when you’re not doing that, you’re pulling at your hair or pacing around the room. I am doing everything today because your head isn’t right. I don’t want us to get backed up again, and I also thought you’d want to help build your girlfriend’s machine.” He pointed with the screwdriver to the case on the benchtop.
I exhaled sharply, almost with a grunt. “She’s not my girlfriend, Norman. Hardly. We send each other emails. Frickin’ emails. And when she periodically logs in to Magecraft, we quest together. We’re questing buddies. I’m in love with her, but she still hasn’t told me how she feels, so we’re friends. She is most definitely not my girlfriend.”
“Not the point I was trying to make, Jonathan,” Norman said, shaking his head at me. “I know you bailed on your last appointment with Tom. I didn’t tell Olivia because I figured it was your business, but right now, your business is my business, because it’s our business, and it’s going to tank without you participating!”
When I made no move to reply, he continued, gritting his teeth, “Fine. Let your brain turn into Swiss cheese. Moon over Maximus until you pine away to death. But know that I give a shit about you and this company we’ve built. So if you don’t care about your own life, care about me and what we created. Care about your family. Do what you need to do to get your damn head on right, man. Can’t you see that you need some help here?”
My breathing started to come in shorter pants, and I felt the familiar flicker of panic working its way up my spine. I didn’t like how he was calling me out because everything he was saying was accurate as hell. Was I so transparent? How did he know I hadn’t been to see Tom? Pressed up against it, I felt my fight-or-flight response kick in, and I didn’t want to fight with Norman.
“I’ll go for a walk,” I said, “and we can get some space, cool off. I’ll help with the build as soon as I get back.” I made a move toward the door.
“You can’t walk away from your own head, Jonathan. Call Tom, and sort this shit out with him and your doctor.”
Chapter 24
Maxine
“Whenever you’re launching a rescue mission remember: eyes on the prize. Get distracted, and we all go down.”
― Maximus_Damage
The pinging of my cell woke me at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday. Several weeks had gone by since “the talk” with Jonathan, and while we had been texting and emailing fairly regularly, something had felt off. Emails at odd hours, rambling sentences, or sometimes even frantic sounding messages asking how I was. I wanted to ask him about his mental health, but I didn’t know if my questions would be welcome or overbearing. I knew he missed me, and I missed him, very badly, and I felt even worse about leaving him hanging about my feelings, which were growing stronger every day. My therapist was of the opinion that I had a long way to go in my own recovery from the Wraith attack, and that even though I’d sought therapy at the time, I hadn’t stuck with it long enough. Now I had to put in the work, and in her opinion it wasn’t the healthiest time for me to get involved in a relationship. Especially a long-distance one with the extra pressures of rarely seeing each other. And oh, how I wanted to see him again. I felt like a piece of my own self was missing without him, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
The insistent pings weren’t going away. I groaned, then grabbed my phone, surprised to find messages from an unknown number. I flipped to the latest text.
Unknown: Heya Maximus, this is Deathdrop again. I swiped your digits from Jonathan’s phone. Can I call you? It’s important.
I was instantly awake and alert. For Deathdrop to be reaching out, something had to be wrong. I quickly banged out a reply.
Me: Yes!
The phone rang in my hand, and I picked up immediately.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my Spidey-senses tingling.
“It’s Jonathan. He’s not doing so good.” He paused. “I’ve been trying to keep him going, Max, I swear. But I think he needs more help than I can offer. He’s coming unglued.”
“Unglued, how?” I asked, picturing a room full of newspaper clippings hung on the wall with pieces of string crisscrossing them. I instantly scolded myself for the wayward thought. I should know better than to stereotype manifestations of people’s mental health.
“I think … I think you should see for yourself. I think he needs you, more than he’d ever admit. And I need backup. The more support he has right now, the better. Feel like hopping on a plane? You can crash at my place. I have a spare room, and I’ll even pick you up at the airport.”
I floundered for a moment, almost falling out of bed as I scrambled for pen and paper from my desk across the room. I poised the pen and said, “Give me all your info. I’ll book a flight ASAP and text you the details for my arrival.”
After haphazardly packing my largest suitcase, I got on the horn with Lois via Skype. If we were serious about her moving down here soon, she had to know I was skipping town for an indeterminate amount of time. I gave her the condensed version of events as she looked at me with wide eyes, nodding now and then in understanding. Then, in typical Lois fashion, she unleashed hell.
“So you’re finally going to tell him, then,” she said.
“Tell who what?”
“Max! Don’t play dumb. You’re finally going to tell Jonathan you love him.”
“Love him?” I slowly sounded out the words. Did I love Jonathan Owen? My heart, so confused and torn with worry over his health, and still unsure about the nature of the connection we had forged that weekend, pounded in my chest so loudly I was sure Lois could hear it. I thought back to lazy hours in bed together, talking and touching and feeling like the only two people in the world. I remembered his kindness to my friends, the respect shown to my mother; everything right down to that ridiculous squirrel and flying melon.
I closed my eyes to stop the tears pooling in them from spilling over, and broke into a wide smile. “Holy shit,” I whispered, and the chuckle I heard from my laptop made me laugh, too. I loved him. I had met my enemy and fallen ridiculously, stupidly, gloriously in love. My therapist’s words echoed in my mind, that I might not be in a good place to be in a relationship. Well, that was all fine and well, but I had to follow my heart here. And it was telling me to get t
o the airport, stat.
“Lois, I think you missed your calling. You should be a relationship coach. Sorry, but I’ve got to jet. Literally.”
Once again I found myself in an airport, looking around for the face of a stranger. Only this time they were carrying a neon orange sign that read MAXIMUS_DAMAGE. I shook my head at the overkill—Deathdrop could have gone with plain old Max—and made my way toward the tall, lightly muscled man leaning on a cane. He wore a band T-shirt and jeans with work boots, and wild blond hair with a somewhat neatly trimmed beard. During my quick assessment as I wheeled my suitcase over, I also noted that he had kind-looking eyes, so probably not a serial killer. Just a dedicated prankster who I could either thank or throttle for arranging my weekend with Jonathan.
At my approach, Deathdrop stuck the sign under his armpit and put out his hand. We shook, and the action caused me to choke up with unexpected emotion. This guy knew about Jonathan and me. He was Jonathan’s best friend and probably cared about Jonathan even more than I did, and yet he needed my help. I had to buck up and do what I came here to do.
“Deathdrop,” I said as we shook hands.
“Maximus,” he replied, giving me a similar once-over.
“I think we can go by street names, yeah?” I said, breaking into a small smile. “It’s Maxine, or just Max. And your name is Norman, right?”
“Yeah. But no Norm, okay? I hate that nickname,” he said, taking my suitcase from me with his free hand and navigating us through the arrivals terminal.
My first instinct was to argue that I could handle my own luggage, but I got that he was helping his guest.
“Cool by me,” I answered, wondering why I had packed so much crap.
I had taken a leave of absence from work, which Thuy said I was due for anyway, with so many unused vacation days sitting there. She said that the other catalogers in the region could pick up my slack for the time being as I had certainly been carrying the brunt of the workload for long enough. I was totally honest with her about where I was going and why. I told her I didn’t have a firm return date, but that I should only be a few weeks. She was equally as forthright when she said that my job would be waiting for me on my return, and that I would be missed. After frantically packing and calls to my mom, Thuy, and Norman, I stopped by the library to drop off my gaming consoles. I wanted the teen gaming nights to continue even if I wasn’t there to bring in my equipment every week.
We wove our way through the crowded terminal to Norman’s beast of a truck, quiet settling between us.
He offered to let me use the radio, but instead I blurted out, “Tell me everything, please. I’ve been imagining everything from him going all A Beautiful Mind to … I don’t even know. I should have researched bipolar disorder. I should have done some damn reading. I was so busy with my own stupid shit, I barely skimmed the Wikipedia article on it.”
“Hey, stop that,” Norman said, reaching out and quickly clasping one of my nervously quivering hands in his. He squeezed my hand and released it, putting his back on the wheel. “We all screw up, Max. Do I think you should’ve been more involved in learning about Jonathan’s condition? Yes. But you can fix that now, if you are willing to put in the work.”
I half-smiled and nodded. I was worried about Jonathan, and even more worried that Norman and I had decided to make this a stealth operation. Jonathan didn’t know I was coming, and I hoped he would be cool with it.
“So, again. Tell me everything, please?”
Norman ran a hand over his beard and started carefully. “He hasn’t been the same since he got back from Tennessee, but I think all that emotional upheaval was a trigger for underlying issues.”
“So falling in love …” I trailed off.
“Oh, girl, the ship sailed on him being in love with you a decade ago. That’s not what set him off. It was probably the intensity of you two hooking up and then being separated without knowing where you stood. It’s not your fault, you had a perfectly normal reaction to your nemesis showing up and not knowing how to deal with the fact that he’s a damn decent guy.”
“I care about him so damn much, in ways I never thought possible,” I confessed. “But I still feel awful about my part in this.”
“Well, here’s the funny thing, and I’m going to be blunt, because I always am. It’s not about you or your feelings. It’s not about me, or his mom, or his sisters. It’s about Jonathan, and he’s hurting. We have to help him get his feet back on solid ground and out of that hypomanic head of his, or hand him a rope so he can climb out of a hole of depression.”
“Wait a minute. He’s depressed and manic? How the hell does that even work?”
“Hypomanic. ‘Hypo’ meaning under, so not quite full on mania. And welcome to the joys of bipolar disorder. It’s called a mixed episode, and I’m certain that’s what’s going on. It happened before, when he needed to go on new meds. The problem is, the stubborn ass is dodging his therapist and doctor. That’s where I’m hoping you can come in, convince him that we are all trying to help him, and to go see them.”
I took that all in and gazed out the window, processing this new information. “Won’t the therapist come to the house if the family asks?”
“Yes, but here’s another funny thing I’ve learned being Jonathan’s friend through all this: the decisions have to be his. We can’t stage an intervention and like, ambush him with his therapist. We can’t haul him to the car and drag him there either. He has to take charge in the decisions about his mental health.”
“But if he’s too sick—”
“I know you’re new at this, so you’re going to have all kinds of preconceived notions and make all kinds of well-intentioned mistakes. Trust me on this one, we have to be the supporting players here. Jonathan is the one in this fight. We can’t charge in headlong or force him into anything. We have to be there to listen, not judge, and to help him find the path through the dark forest of his brain. And yes, I like metaphors. I wanted to be an English major. Do you mind if I smoke? I hate it, but every now and then when stress gets me, I need one of the stupid cancer sticks to calm down. Habit I picked up overseas.” Norman looked straight ahead as he drove, his hands tight on the wheel.
“I don’t mind,” I said, because I didn’t. Before this was over, we probably were all going to cope in a myriad of ways with the situation and with our feelings. Norman pointed to the glove box, and I popped it open, finding the almost full pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I took one out and handed it and the lighter to him, and he nodded his thanks.
The Happy Acres Trailer Park where Norman lived was less than a five-minute drive away from Jonathan’s home. It felt almost like an itch, being so close but unable to go to him. Norman and I had agreed the best way to break it to Jonathan that I was in Florida was for Norman to bring Jonathan to his house, instead of me knocking on Jonathan’s front door. That way it would be up to Jonathan whether to tell his family I was here. While Norman went to pick him up, I set about making a salad and some wraps for dinner. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and Norman had been nice enough to point out the stuff in the fridge waiting to be tossed together.
I was folding up a fifth wrap—I’d made plenty since most men I knew practically inhaled their food—when I heard the rumble of Norman’s truck. I quickly placed the wrap on the pile with the others and moved to sit down on the couch. I was suddenly feeling very, very anxious about this. Why had I agreed to any scheme hatched by Deathdrop? No, Norman, I reminded myself. Not the trickster from Magecraft, but Jonathan’s best friend who only had his best interests at heart. Calm down!
“You know I hate surprises, man.”
I heard Jonathan’s voice at the front door, and I could feel myself inadvertently shrink back into the couch cushions as far as possible. My breaths were shortening, and I thought I was on the verge of an anxiety attack as the door pushed open and Jonathan came inside, alone. Norman must have decided to give us a few minutes. Jonathan scanned the kitchen, then advanced on
the plate of wraps. He hadn’t seen me, but he’d sure seen the chicken salad and spinach fare. The food was in his hand and halfway to his mouth when I stood up and coughed. He spun around, and as soon as his eyes hit me, the wrap went sailing to the floor.
“Max!” he sputtered, wiping stray chicken salad from the front of his shirt.
“Hey, Jonathan,” I said, all my anxiety forgotten as we locked eyes.
I broke into a wide grin, and instinct took over. I ran to him and grabbed him in my arms. He must have been in a bit of shock because it took him a few moments to get with the program. Then he gripped his arms around me tight, burrowing his face in my hair as I sought shelter in the crook of his neck.
“Maxine,” he murmured, nuzzling me gently.
I just held on, inhaling that comforting sandalwood and sunshine scent, now tinted with the odor of sunscreen and fresh-cut grass. I tangled a hand in his dark ponytail, urging his head to rest against mine, forehead to forehead. We looked each other deep in the eyes, and any bit of doubt about coming to Florida to help out was gone. This had been the right thing to do, for him and for me.
“Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why aren’t you in Green Valley? How did you even find out where Norman lives? Why did he—” He paused, and then loosened his hold on me, backing up a fraction. He let out a long breath as he closed his eyes and released me, turning to pace around the kitchen. “He sent for you, didn’t he?” he asked accusingly.
“If I hadn’t wanted to see you, I wouldn’t be here, no matter what Norman said,” I answered, putting conviction in my voice.
I took a step toward him, and he took a step backward, butting up against the kitchen counter like a skittish cat. Okay, not the reaction I’d expected, but I had expected a steep learning curve. Cornering him was definitely falling into the category of well-intentioned mistakes that Norman had warned me about. I took a few steps back and made sure my arms were loose and open at my sides, palms facing toward him.
Dewey Belong Together Page 20
