“Max, nobody noticed you left stressed out. Everyone's just talking.”
I heard her slide her hand across the door before she knocked once more. “If you wanna talk-” she murmured.
“Em, I'm just-”
“Hey, I know, Max. You don't have to tell me … but I'm still here. I will always be here, ready to listen.”
There was this part of me that wanted to open the bathroom door. I needed Emily to see what I'd been going through lately. Yet, if I could take everything I was and bury it someplace where nobody would find it, I'd do it in a fucking heart beat. I was tired of trying to be something I'm not. Tired of every waking minute being filled with doubt about who I am and what I am supposed to be. I was tired of waking up in cold sweats, begging the powers that be to forgive me for being such a fucking asshole. I decided to keep my bathroom door closed.
“I know. Thanks, Em.”
Lately, the good days were starting to outweigh the shitty ones. But it never seemed to fail: when the dark, vacant hole calls my name late at night, or when I'm alone, I would rather find some place to run away to. If I could only keep the voice that haunts me stuffed in the closet I've conveniently called my past, my nights wouldn't seem so messed up. I would be able to move on with my life. Leave the vestiges of my past where they belong. Why does everything have to be so hard? Why can't I move beyond the selfish pain I've inflicted upon myself?
Enough was enough. I couldn't do it anymore. I'd become an empty shell of who I always wanted to be. I was dead inside and lacked the fortitude to make something of myself. My entire life I'd struggled to maintain my textbook identity of being the good son, the best friend, the perfect brother, and the irresistible boyfriend.
I heard Emily mumble something before she shut my bedroom door and went back downstairs; maybe it was “asshole” under her breath. Who knows? I pulled open the bathroom door and shuffled to my dresser, finding a clean black t-shirt, folded perfectly, creased with crisp newness. It felt good to pull off the drenched wick-away shirt soaked with the results of my panic attack, and pull on my clean, refreshing, new plain black tee.
Emily was a perfect balance of her parents, Paul and Karen Vaughn. They were the types who would tell you their opinions, even if you didn't ask. Okay, well, more likely Mrs. Vaughn, after getting a couple glasses of red wine down her throat. Mr. Vaughn? Well, he took a backseat to Karen's sideshow, unless it was just the guys-then he'd have no problem growing some balls. His son, Jeff, who everyone knew was gay except his parents, was the exact same way. No balls when it came to Mrs. Vaughn.
Emily was pretty much the only person who was able to get my ass out of bed and to a shrink. Through those fucked-up days and months she busted my chops until I agreed to finish my last two years at Michigan. On breaks, when I came home to Aspen and I couldn't pull myself out of bed, Emily would show up at my parents' house, barge into my room, and push me until I agreed to get the fuck up. Needless to say, I never missed an appointment with my shrink when I was home.
Through session after session of therapy, trying to rid my mind and body of the painful memories that had been dictating my future, I now know it runs deeper than the moment when Mallory decided to take her life our sophomore year at Michigan. I know this dark hole saturating my life was established well before the thoughtless acts of her poisoned and sickened mind. But it wasn't until the day my girlfriend decided to kill herself that the darkness came looking for me. I'm not going to lie-I was broken, lost, fucked up, and blaming myself for Mallory's death. If I would have paid more attention, if I'd just brought her home to meet my family … maybe she wouldn't have overdosed on pills.
But who the fuck am I kidding? I was brought into this world with preconceived, unrealistic ideas that I was going to follow in my father's footsteps as an oil tycoon. I couldn't be everything to everyone. I couldn't be the good son when I can't even stand being around my dad. I couldn't be perfect brother when I am always forced to be the mediator between my parents and my brother, Calvin. I couldn't be an attentive boyfriend when my girlfriend is 6 feet under in a cemetery in Michigan.
The therapy was supposed to help me understand my part in this whole drama of life. But no matter how many times I've sat across from shrink after fucking shrink, in office after office, I just never got over the belief that it was my words that drove her to do it. She swallowed enough sleeping pills to kill a horse because I didn't have the time or energy to invest in her. She was too needy, too insecure. And I wasn't interested in being someone's savior.
I pulled open the bedroom door a crack and peered out before I stepped into the hall, caught the door knob, and pulled my bedroom door shut. Invitation only, and tonight nobody was invited to hang out in my room. I've run, walked, climbed, fallen down, and descended these stairs my entire life. And yet tonight, for some reason, my legs caved with each step I took. Like I was heading to the lion's den, more questions, more pitying faces, more words that would try and make me feel okay about my future.
“Hey! There he is. About time you came back down. We're just about to play pool, guys against gals. You with my team or hers?” my dad announced, pointing to my older sister, Camille. His words were boisterous yet filled with complete insecurity. I knew it was his way of dealing with his grown son's fucked-up life.
“Dad, come on,” Camille snapped.
“Frank!” my mom said as she came out with plates of pie.
“Oh, Nancy, Max knows I'm not serious. Isn't that right, son?” my dad asked as he accepted one of the plates from my mom. It was heaping with crushed berries and a buttery flakey crust. Mrs. Vaughn followed, handing her husband a plate equally overflowing with my mom's mouthwatering pie.
“Sure,” I mumbled.
Karen Vaughn offered me the other slice. My stomach still in knots, I declined. I noticed the frown that captured my mom's face. Her shiny brown hair pulled back behind her ears, I could tell she was stressed out about my leaving the table earlier. I noticed the glossy layer that exaggerated her vivid green eyes and the deepening line that hung between her eyebrows when she was fighting back tears.
My father was the CEO of Goldstein Petroleum and it was my destiny to eventually take over for him-a decision that was never up for discussion. It was a one-sided conversation. I'd been groomed from a young age to fill my father's shoes, just like he did, and his father before him, and my grandfather before that. According to my father, GP was one of the last family-owned petroleum companies left in the United States, possibly even the world.
These fucked-up feelings of mine were not only built upon the groundwork of the expectations my father so carelessly spat under his breath every time we were together, but also by events beyond my control. I'm shadowed by lofty dreams of becoming a reflection of my father, the great Frank Goldstein. He couldn't accept that I've always wanted to do something that made a difference in the world. If I was going to punch a clock at the end of the day, I needed to know that I'd done something to change a person's life. I didn't want to manage a group of people who stressed over bottom lines and argued for the wealthy so they could keep gorging on the souls of the less fortunate. I wanted to be someone who changed the world, one idea at a time; someone who conquered the fear of my father's wrath for not following in his footsteps.
My iPhone chimed with a text, pulling me from the negative thoughts pummeling my mind. It was from my brother, Calvin, who was across the room.
Bro U OK? U look like a ghost. Need excuse 2 leave? Dad's being a dick. Sorry.
I smiled. Calvin was one of my best friends. We had our childhood fights, our fucked-up arguments about girls, grades, and our parent's expectations. But ever since I went away to college, Cal and I had become really close. Granted, I spent most of my time being the buffer between him and my parents. Our dad thinks he's lazy, untrainable, unmotivated and will never make CEO material for GP. He and Cal are like oil and water. Our father won't even ask Cal to work for the company. He says Cal's better just staying o
ut of the way as far as GP is concerned. I see that Cal's still trying to find himself. He lives by his own standards and doesn't let the disapproval of our parents affect him … that much. He does what he wants and that rubs Dad the wrong way.
I'm OK. Thx, I texted back. It wasn't long before everyone had a plate overflowing with dessert. While everyone's belly filled, mine was still twisted in knots. Even the temptation of Mom's pie couldn't untangle the mess of anxiety that filled my stomach.
“Maxi, you sure you don't want some pie?” my mom asked as she wrapped her arms around my stomach. “Oh, dear, you're getting too thin; I can feel your ribs. You're not eating enough.”
She was the balance in the family. She was the giver, the pleaser, the one who would heal you with food and hugs.
“I'm fine, Ma. I'll gain all the weight back now that I'm home.”
“You know you can stay with us as long as you need, honey,” she whispered.
“Thanks, Ma,” I answered.
It wasn't like I didn't want to stay and hang out, but I wanted to move on with my life. I earned a degree in education when I went back to the University of Michigan. I'd come to terms with Mallory's death, understanding she was sick beyond our relationship; what she did wasn't because of me but because she needed help beyond what I was capable of giving her. It still stings sometimes when I try and see myself as boyfriend material, though. I mean, the last person who filled the role of my girlfriend decided to end our relationship, permanently.
It was Cal and Camille who said I should follow my passion of becoming a high school teacher. Maybe because they were the only people on the face of the earth who knew how it felt to live under the expectations of our father. So, with their encouragement I am doing what I want to do. I'm working to become a high school history teacher, something my father would never approve of. Don't get me wrong. He respects teachers, believes they are the salt of the earth, but he just didn't see his son doing that. He had my life all mapped out, with his thick fingers dragging the red sharpie across the route I was supposed to take. Struggling to make a living wage wasn't in the great plan he had marked out for his children. I had been so intent on being what my family expected me to be, I wasn't truly living my own life. So when my shrink told me I should tell my father that I graduated with honors with a degree in education, and it would be good for me to take back the control of my life, I laughed in her face and decided I was done being shrunk. I no longer wanted to partake in her little psychology project.
I looked around at everyone happily finishing their pie and congregating in the great room to play some pool. I grabbed some empty plates from the dining room and made myself useful. The best part, nobody noticed I slipped into the kitchen. Nobody except Emily.
“Hey, Max, are you going to come out and play some pool with me?” She placed the plates she was holding on the black granite island anchored between us.
“Did Jeff leave?” I asked, trying desperately to change the subject.
“Yeah, he said he had to get on the road before it got too dark. He said to say goodbye.”
“Well, it was cool that he could make it over. He still friends with Michael?”
“I know what you're doing, Max. Stop trying to change the subject. Yes, Jeff and Michael are still a couple. And while you're still trying to avoid talking about what's going on with you, let me just add: no, my parents still don't know he practices that lifestyle,” Emily declared as she walked around to my side of the granite island.
No more space between us, and nothing more than friends, Emily, as tiny as she was, pulled me into her arms and hugged me through the moment I wish I could just pretend didn't exist. I wrapped my arms around her too. Her warmth burned through my thin, black t-shirt, and her curly, brown hair tickled my cheek as I buried my face in the crook of her neck.
~ Max ~
I was alone in the kitchen with Emily, vulnerable as fuck. Being wrapped in the warmth of someone who wasn't blood related really messed with my head. Emily rubbed her hands across my back, making my skin react to her touch. It was more than a healing or friendly hug. I couldn't help but pull her closer to my chest. She let out a slow hum as I tightened my arms around her. I wasn't meaning to make it more than what it was. I just wanted to feel comfortable in my skin again. Her aroma, pleasurable with sweet pears and refreshing cucumbers, tugged low in my gut.
I let out a breathy growl against her hair. Finally, I was somewhere else. The anxiety that thrust and pulsed through my veins a mere five minutes ago disappeared in her embrace. I could breathe and I could feel her breathe. I welcomed her movement as she shifted in my arms. Without thinking, I collected her curls in my fingers, pinned them behind her ear, and pushed my lips to the bend of where her jaw met her neck. I felt her head sway back and I accepted her invitation to drag my mouth down the side of her neck and against her collarbone. I pushed my hands to either side of her face, tangling my fingers into her hair, and kissed my way up her chin, finding the corner of her curvy lips. Needing to feel the comfort of her tongue tangling with mine, I bit her bottom lip gently, coercing her to open her mouth. And when she did, our kiss took me somewhere else. The warmth of her lips, the fervor of our kiss. She let me push further as my tongue, sultry and unrestrained, discovered the fuel to the fire raging in my belly. The charge had been ignited and I fell straight into the raw desire to forget all my pain. I pushed against her, trying to erase all the marks of loneliness seared across my soul.
“Max,” Emily whispered as she began to wiggle away from me.
“Mmmm?” I hummed, forgetting we were in my parents' kitchen, still riding the wave of comfort she created in my body.
“I hear your dad calling us to go and play pool.”
It wasn't until she mentioned my father that the sounds from the other room began to fill my ears. Instantly, the voices began to invade the peace I'd had for a moment. I let go of Emily, realizing who it was that I was finding comfort in. Talk about leading her on. Whether it was unintentional or not, she was a woman-a woman who would read more deeply into this than what it was: a moment of weakness. My heart exploded into a hammering palpitation.
Shit, shit, shit. What the fuck have I done? Son of a bitch, I have to fix this … now.
My throat went dry, and the words I needed to say created a clusterfuck in my head.
“Em, I am so sorry, I … ahhh. I shouldn't have done that. I don't like you … I mean, not that way. Not that you aren't … beautiful, but … Damn, it was an asshole thing to do. Please, forgive me,” I stammered, trying to find the right words to say without offending her.
“Hey, stop, I get it. No worries, we both got carried away … that's all.” Emily said as she took a couple of steps back.
“I've fucked this up. I shouldn't-”
Emily grabbed my face in her hands, looking at me. I noticed her usually clear, blue eyes were damp and clouded with disappointment, glistening with the pain or desire I'd just caused.
“Listen, Max, just stop. I should've known you were going to react that way. It's my own fault. You're a guy who hasn't been with anyone in two years, and you are lonely. I totally get it.” She lowered her hands, and started for the great room. I snatched her arm and spun her around to face me.
“It wasn't like that. Kissing you the way I did wasn't coming from my need to get off. I wasn't trying to fuck away the shitty feelings I'm having. I felt comfortable, safe, even needed, and I confused your comfort for something it shouldn't or will never be. Em, you're like a sister to me.”
“And that right there is why I should go.” Emily pulled open the kitchen door. “I'm going to tell everyone that I don't feel well. I'll call you later.”
I heard her give everyone the flimsy excuse that she was tired and that she was just going to call it a night. I heard my mom trying to argue but then surrender.
I took a deep breath and checked myself before I headed out to the great room. I couldn't help but feel the temperature in the room rise. Summe
rs in Aspen weren't particularly hot, but they were warm nonetheless. Seeing how I was just hot and heavy with Emily in the kitchen, I prayed they had a couple of windows open in the great room.
“There you are. I started to think you were hiding so you wouldn't have to play pool. Finish all the dishes in there?” my father asked before tossing me a pool cue.
“Naw, I didn't get them done, but it's a start,” I said.
“Thanks for starting them honey,” my mom said as she kissed my cheek and headed toward the kitchen.
“Oh, come on, Nancy, we need you to play now that Emily left. You know Max is on your team. He's a gimme,”
“And what does a gimme mean, Frank?” my mom turned back around and headed toward him. Her evergreen eyes constricted.
My dad shrugged his shoulders and held his hands up in front of him.
“It means you ladies have just as good a chance as winning as us fellas. Max evens out the teams. That's all.”
My father's words hovering around me began to morph into nothing more than white noise as images of Emily and our kiss fired through my head. Her lips, her taste-unexpectedly delicious. I wasn't supposed to kiss her … ever. I dragged my phone out, ready to call her to apologize for my indiscretions and thoughtless acts, but she'd only be down the driveway by now.
“Alright, boys, I'll play. But be warned, be careful underestimating my team. I have a mean serve,” my mom proclaimed as she went over to Camille and Karen and slapped them a high five.
“Mom, sorry to tell you this but you serve in tennis, not pool,” Calvin said with a chuckle.
“Well, that's what you think,” she snapped.
“The only thing you should serve … is me,” my dad tossed back jokingly.
“Excuse me? Mister who can't cook himself a grilled cheese sandwich,” she came back at him.
“I can cook a grilled cheese,” my dad answered as he tried to convince everyone in the room that he wasn't helpless in the kitchen.
The Wilson Mooney Box Set Page 81
