by B. N. Toler
“What time, doc?” I grumbled.
“Eleven, same as always,” he mumbled back.
After we hung up, I shoved the phone back in my pocket, wondering what I might discover about Max the following day. Rubbing my face, I decided not to think about it anymore that night. I was exhausted from thinking about Max; why was I Max? Would we switch back? Was I about to die? The unknown was eating me alive from the inside out. Deciding to check on Waverly, I headed toward the kitchen. She’d been in there a long time, and there weren’t that many dishes to wash. When she volunteered to do them, I told her I would, but of course she was stubborn and insisted. She didn’t want Max doing her any favors.
I’d finished the dishes, dried them, and put them away in record time. My crutches were leaning against the wall, so I did it all hobbling around on one foot. Not bad for an injured lady. I would have much rather put Pim down, but with bathing, changing, and dressing her, it would have taken me forever, and I would have needed Max’s help. Letting him do it while I took care of the dishes ensured space, and it also ensured we didn’t have to speak to each other. I was doing my best to limit our interaction, but it was difficult when we were living together for the most part.
When Helen was there, it helped. Not just because she physically helped with everything, but she was also good at playing a buffer between Max and me. Unfortunately, after she got off the phone with her son, she’d had to leave. Apparently, he’d had a bad day, and she wanted to go home and make him a special dinner.
My cell rang where it sat on the counter and even from where I stood, I could see it was Matt.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself as I hopped over to it. Picking it up, I stared at the screen, biting my lower lip as I contemplated answering it. I didn’t want to lie to him. He didn’t deserve it, but if I told him what’d happened, he’d probably try to come home early, especially if he found out Pimberly and I were living with Max. His head would probably spontaneously combust if he discovered that fun little fact. Setting the phone back on the counter, I decided to let it go to voicemail.
After I had poured myself a glass of wine, I continued cleaning the kitchen. As I wiped the counters, I found Max’s keys. They were within Pimberly’s reach, and I worried if she managed to get them in her grasp she’d either put them in her mouth or lose them. Opening the drawer closest to the kitchen entrance, looking for a place to hide them, I found a practically empty and very tidy junk drawer. And right in the center was it.
A picture.
A picture of me and Max.
Touching my neck, I fought to swallow as emotion lodged in my throat. I remembered the day the photo was taken like it was yesterday.
It was a Thursday. Max had been on edge all week waiting for a call that would tell him if he got the job he’d been pining for. He’d been tense all week. So that day I called in sick to my waitressing job and packed us a picnic. Picnics for me growing up consisted of bologna sandwiches and chips, but Max wasn’t a bologna type of guy. I spent a small fortune getting the cheese, meat, grapes, and wine I knew he liked, but the money didn’t matter. I just wanted to help him relax. That was my mission.
When I showed up at his apartment that day with a frayed wicker basket I’d found in the attic that must’ve been eons old draped over my arm, he looked unsure. With some strong encouragement, he finally dressed, and we went out.
That day we laughed and sipped wine under the shade of a large tree in the park.
“You know,” he said as he gazed at the area around us. “I’ve never been on a picnic before.”
“What?” I gasped. Was he serious? “You’re kidding, right?”
When his stare met mine again I knew . . . he wasn’t kidding. “We’re different, you and me.”
“How so?”
“We come from different worlds.” This I knew. “You’re not like the other women I’ve dated.”
Something inside of me wanted to dissect that statement; over analyze it and feel insecure about it, but I didn’t. Instead, I played it cool. Sometimes the only way I could deal with my insecurities was to make light of them and blanket them in sarcasm.
Feigning a dramatic sigh, I replied, “I know. Not all girls are as awesome as me.”
He laughed and laid back, pulling me down with him, so I was leaned over his chest, our faces close. “You’re a circle,” he spoke softly as he brushed my cheek with his knuckles.
I smirked in question. “A circle?”
“You’re a circle, and I’m a square.”
I chuckled a little, more in nervousness than humor. Here we were, having the most romantic picnic, and I felt like he was about to end things with me. “What are you talking about, Max?”
His gaze fluttered down. “I mean, I’m a square. I should want things that fit into a square. Instead, I’m here, with you, the circle, trying to fit.”
Leaning down, I kissed him chastely. I knew what he was saying. We were different. We’d been dating for a few months at this point, and things were coming to a head; did we commit—really commit—or did we move on? We were a classic case of opposites attract, and while having things in common was important, I think we both found each other refreshing. He was so put together while I felt I was floundering. He had a degree, a respectable job, a 401k. I hadn’t even managed to get my associates degree yet. After I graduated from high school, I’d taken a year to think about what I wanted to be when I grew up. When I finally enrolled, paying my tuition proved challenging, and I ended up having to take a semester or two off to save. I felt like a mess. Max, on the other hand, was so put together. He impressed me. Not because of his money, but his diligence. Because of everything he’d accomplished at such a young age. I envied it.
“Do you love me, Max?” I asked, bracing myself for the possibility he’d say no.
Cutting his blue stare to me, he hesitated before he answered, “I do.” Despite his hesitation, I believed him.
My heart felt like it did a series of backflips inside my chest. “Then if you’re a square and I’m a circle, and we love each other, we’ll just have to conform.”
“Conform?” he questioned, his mouth curling up on the sides slightly.
“Reshape,” I explained. “Maybe we can become ovals . . . or ovalish.”
“Ovalish?”
“Yeah, Max,” I kissed him again, letting my lips linger against his. “Let’s be ovalish.”
Grasping my face with both hands, he pulled me down and kissed me hard. “You’re too good for me, Waverly.”
At the time, I didn’t believe that. I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world to have the attention and affection of a man like Max. “I feel the same about you,” I told him.
“What if I don’t get the job?” he questioned. He already had a job, a good one, but he hated it. It was a job he’d gotten because his father had put in a good word for him. He wanted to stand on his own; accomplish things without the influence of his father. I respected him for this.
“You’ll find another one,” I assured him.
“I’m scared one day you’ll wake up and realize the man I really am.”
It was a bold and deep confession. I’d never seen him vulnerable like this. Brushing my thumb over his lips, I peered into his eyes. “I think you’re an amazing man.”
For the next hour we kissed and laughed, floating on a cloud of hopes and illusions. When we packed up to leave, just before we made it to the street, his cell rang. It was his new boss calling to tell him he’d gotten the job. When he hung up, I squealed when Max picked me up and spun me around.
“I think you’re my good luck charm,” he told me when he set me back on my feet.
“Luck didn’t have anything to do with it. You earned this job.”
When he kissed me again, he pulled away, keeping his forehead pressed to mine. “Marry me, Waverly.”
“What?” I managed, my heart beating like a drum in my chest.
“Marry me. Let’s hop a plane t
onight and get married in Vegas.”
Looking up at him, I searched his face for any sign he was joking, but all I saw was sincerity. I’d be lying if I said the voice of reason wasn’t screaming like a banshee in the back of my mind, telling me it was too soon. I knew our differences; I also knew Max wasn’t perfect. All I knew, good or bad, perfect or imperfect, was that I wanted someone to choose me.
Really choose me.
And I thought that’s what he was doing.
I was a sucker for complicated romances; the idea that when two people loved each other despite the obstacles in their path, love would conquer all. My heart, albeit incredibly foolish, was in the right place, when, with every beat, it told me to jump head first into this thing with Max.
So of course, I said, “Yes.”
As we strolled down the walkway on our way to hail a cab, I looked up and found him still grinning. I was going to marry this man. It all seemed like a dream—a beautiful, wonderful dream.
“Stop for a sec,” I ordered as I pulled away from him. A young man, maybe sixteen, was passing by us. “Excuse me, sir, would you mind taking a picture of us?”
The kind stranger took my phone, and after I had shown him what to do, I went back to Max and wrapped my arm around his waist as I smiled up at him.
He kept this picture? Why? Staring at it, the one thing that stuck out to me . . . was me. I looked so damn happy. God, I missed that feeling; the feeling of love, security, the excitement of building a future with someone you love. The girl in this photo thought that was exactly what she was signing up for.
She was wrong.
The photo shook as I placed it back in the drawer with a trembling hand. I hated that the hurt and humiliation could still have such power over me. Memories can be vicious that way. Lifting my wine glass, I took a long sip. “You were a stupid and weak woman, Waverly,” I told myself.
“Hey,” Max said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, scaring the bejesus out of me. When the wine splashed over the rim of the glass in my hand and down the front of my shirt, I huffed a curse word. “Sorry,” he laughed as I wiped at myself. “I was just coming to see if you needed any help.”
“No, I just finished,” I grumbled after clearing my throat. I was pissed I spilled the wine, and the bitchy part of me wanted to blame him for that, too, even though I knew it wasn’t his fault.
“Cool.” He bobbed his head a few times, sliding his hands into his pockets, something I noticed he did often when he seemed nervous. “So, tomorrow I have something I have to do around eleven. Are you okay with Helen coming to hang out and help while I’m gone?”
“Where do you . . .” I stopped myself. I almost asked where he had to go, but remembered I’m wasn’t supposed to ask questions like that because I’m wasn’t supposed to care. “Yeah, that’s fine,” I finished with a sniffle. “I think Pim likes her a lot.”
“Helen is pretty smitten with her, too. Hey,” he stepped closer, lowering his head to get a better look at me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I managed, turning from him, not wanting him to see the tears in my eyes. When I spun on my foot, I lost my balance and slipped. I grappled for the counter to catch myself, but it was still wet from where I wiped it down moments before causing my hand to slip. Just before I crashed to the ground, Max caught me.
“Whoa there,” he grunted as he stumbled back attempting to keep us from falling, but it was too late. Max fell back, thudding to the floor with me landing on top of him. After we landed, we both lay there, catching our breath. My face heated as embarrassment set in. I’d just completely wiped out and my ex, who I wasn’t particularly fond of, caught me, saving me from busting my ass, and now I was propped between his legs.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” I answered as I dropped my head in my hands, mortified.
“Are you hurt?” He placed a firm hand on my shoulder before sliding it down my arm and squeezing. The contact made my back arch as I sucked in a ragged breath, the thrill it sent through me physically seizing me.
“No,” I squeaked as I tried to calm the flutters in my belly. What was happening? Why did his touch do that to me? When he didn’t release my arm, I turned my head and looked back over my shoulder at him. His chest heaved up and down, his eyes burning into mine. I wanted to believe it was the fall that had him worked up, but I knew better. Whatever shock I’d felt; that intense body encompassing sensation . . . Max felt it, too.
Neither of us spoke; we only stared at one another with the same burning question lingering in the blaring silence between us.
What the hell was that?
Even in the best of our days, I’d never felt that when Max touched me.
I’d never felt that with anyone.
So why was I feeling it now?
And what did it mean?
As if awakening from a dream, Max jerked his eyes away. With some awkward maneuvering and soft grunts, he managed to get us both off the floor. “I’m sorry about that,” I apologized.
“No worries.”
Looking down at myself, I frowned. “My shirt is ruined,” I observed, desperate to move past what had just happened.
“If you want to take it off,” his mouth curved into a devious smile, “I can wash it for you.”
Was he . . .
Was he flirting with me?
I leered at him in disbelief to which his smile only grew.
He was.
He was seriously flirting with me.
It was equal parts thrilling and awful.
I hated him, and if I hated him, why did I want to giggle like a dumb little twit? Then I wondered, did he say that to throw me off? Get under my skin? After the bike stunt earlier, I knew he enjoyed getting me fired up. Was this just him messing with me again? If his end game was, in fact, just to get me fired up, I had news for him. Two could play at that game.
Curving my mouth into a coy, teasing grin, as if I were humored by his offer, I slowly lifted the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head and tossed the stained garment at him. As the fabric slid over his face, it revealed Max with a slack jaw and widened eyes.
He definitely hadn’t seen that coming.
His gaze flicked back and forth between my face and my lace bra. At least he was trying not to look at my chest, but it seemed he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it made me shallow, but that felt damn good. I enjoyed torturing him a little. My snarkiness poked at me, whispering for me to tell him, Does it feel good to look at what you can’t have? I shoved her down. It wasn’t her time or place.
Turning, I grabbed my crutches and positioned them under my arms. Pointing to the shirt still plastered to Max’s chest, I said, “Wash that on cold, and it needs to be hung out to dry. Thanks.”
Dropping my head back, I stared up at the ceiling letting out a long slow breath. She took her shirt off in front of me. I know I’d suggested it, but it was only a joke. I thought she’d spit fire at me and maybe we’d forget about what happened when we touched. What in the hell was that? Why was it every time I touched this woman I felt like my insides fucking sparked? She was attractive . . . Okay, more than that. In lamest terms she was sexy as fuck even when she looked at me, or Max, with distaste. I didn’t know much about her, but from what I did know, she was a pretty kick-ass lady. She was a great mother, and she worked hard to get ahead in life despite the obstacles before her. I admired that. So maybe I was attracted to her, but that still didn’t explain it—why did touching her do that to me?
Then the way she looked at me . . . the way our eyes locked . . . I don’t know. It was fucking intense. And her breasts. Fuck. Now I had the image of her in a lacy bra seared into my brain. Remembering her dark gaze fixed on mine, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth, her breasts, it all hit me. Jerking my head down, my eyes about bugged out of my head.
“Noooooo,” I grumbled as I stared at it.
The bulge.
I had a hard-on.
I had a hard-o
n in another man’s body.
“Noooooo,” I groaned again. This. Was. Not. Happening.
But it was.
To describe having an erection in my predicament as ‘uncomfortable’ would be a monumental understatement. This wasn’t just one of those kind-of-hard erections that might settle down after some time.
Nope.
Not for me.
Because life was giving me it’s big middle finger.
Max’s dick was fucking concrete and throbbing.
Looking down at my crotch I informed it, “You are not getting jerked by me tonight. No fucking way, man.”
“Who are you talking to?” Waverly asked, this time scaring the shit out of me. I spun around and leaned over the counter, my hips slightly twisted away from her, doing my best to hide my dilemma. She had a towel wrapped around her and was somehow managing to keep it up even while holding the crutches.
“Just . . . t-t-talking to myself,” I stuttered. “Thought you were heading to bed?” I asked, my tone laced with nervousness.
Narrowing her gaze at me, suspicion riddled in her eyes, she answered, “I am. Just wanted to let you know I’m taking a pain pill. Do you mind listening out for Pim?”
“Oh, of course,” I blurted, anxious for her to leave.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her mouth curving up on one side, as she stared at me like I was an idiot. She knew. At least I think she knew. Her removal of the shirt bit had rendered the exact outcome she’d hoped it would.
I knew she knew, but I refused to acknowledge it. “Yeah.” I nodded. “Just . . . tired. Don’t worry about Pim. I got her covered.”
“Well . . . goodnight,” she murmured with a muffled chuckle and left.
I let my head drop, and it thunked against the counter. What the hell was I going to do? I had a raging boner and no way to relieve it. There was no way I was jerking off. No fucking way. After a few minutes, I went into the living room and plopped on the couch, covering my lap with a pillow and doing my best to think of anything that might deter a hard-on. It was going to be a long night.
