by B. N. Toler
The next morning, I yawned as I stepped from the elevator into the reception area of Dr. Banahan’s office. This guy must charge an assload, I thought to myself as I took in the space. Fancy modern paintings hung on the walls, vases filled with fresh flowers decorated the tables, and the furniture was smooth leather. I stood in the middle of the room, my 7–11 coffee I’d stopped and gotten on the way in my hand, unsure of what to do. There was no receptionist to check in with. Should I just yell out?
When a short, robust man waddled his way into the area, glasses perched on his nose, I knew he had to be the doc.
“Max, good morning,” he offered in greeting.
“Morning, Doc,” I replied reaching out my hand to shake his.
His head reared back ever so slightly as if he were surprised. After an awkward beat, he took it, and we shook. “Shall we?” He motioned a hand to the doorway from which he’d just entered.
“Sure.” I walked ahead of him and wasn’t surprised to see his office was just as nice as the reception area. He even had one of those classic therapy couches that are made for the patient to lie on and curved for the body. I didn’t want to sit on that. That felt too . . . therapy-like. I was here to get the digs on Max, not for a head inspection. Instead, I took the nice leather chair beside it and sunk in. Dr. Banahan stared at me for a moment and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. Turning, he grabbed a file from his desk, and then sat across from me, opening his folder.
“How are you today, Max?”
I snorted. If he were asking me, Liam, I’d say shitty. The unwanted raging hard-on kept me up all night then Pim decided to wake up at 5 a.m. this morning, and I was functioning on three hours of sleep, but he wasn’t asking Liam, he was asking Max. I guess, since to the best of my knowledge, Max was in a coma trapped in my body, he would probably answer he was doing shitty, too. I couldn’t explain any of this to Dr. Banahan, so I went with a simpler answer.
“Not too bad.”
“Would you like to start where we left off last time?” he asked as he closed his folder.
Sitting up, I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Actually, no. I want to do something a little different today.”
He raised one furry brow in question. “Okay . . .”
“How long have I been coming to therapy now?”
He stared at me blankly. “Not long, Max.”
Twisting my mouth, I took a moment to mull over how to say what I wanted to say. “I want you to tell me what you think of me based on what you know about me.”
“Think of you?” he inquired.
“We’ve talked about a lot, right? My life and history?” I was going out on a limb with those questions—I had no idea what they might, or might not, have discussed in Max’s sessions, but it made sense to me Max probably shared more with this guy than anyone else.
“We have,” he replied simply.
“So based on that, tell me what you think of me, or why you think I’m the way I am.”
His stare fixed on mine, his mouth flat. “And you want complete honesty?”
“I do.”
“And you’re ready to hear it?”
“I am,” I promised.
Plopping the folder on the table beside him he sat up a bit more in his chair and cleared his throat. It was evident he was preparing himself for this; possibly to say things to Max that he was scared, or had wanted to say to him for a very long time. “If I’m being completely honest Max, the last time I tried to offer you my insight, you took great offense to it. That was at our last session.”
That explained why he called to see if Max would show up to the appointment. Apparently, he’d given Max some hard truths, and Max hadn’t liked hearing his assessment. Leaning back in my chair I promised, “I’m ready to listen today.”
With a bob of his head, he surmised, “Good. That shows growth.”
“Hit me, Doc,” I told him. “I want it all.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose. I could tell he was apprehensive, but after a moment he scooted forward in his chair. “As we discussed last time, I believe medication will help with your bipolar disorder.”
Leaning back in my chair, I stared at him. Max suffered from depression. So, he wasn’t just an asshole after all. At least, not completely. He was sick.
“Earth to Max,” Waverly said loudly as she waved a hand in front of my face. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head. “Coming to the park this afternoon was your idea,” she sassed. “Do you plan to be present for any of it?”
Inhaling deeply, I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry,” I apologized. Central park was busy, but not overcrowded. After I’d gotten home from meeting with Dr. Banahan, I needed to clear my mind. The doctor had much to say regarding Max Porter. I thought going would be beneficial; that I would discover key information about the man who’s body I inhabited, and I did. I found out a lot. Too much. Dr. Banahan had so much to say about Max we agreed to meet again when two and a half hours didn’t prove to be enough.
Coming home and staying cooped up in the apartment felt unbearable. Waverly put up a little fight about my idea that she, Pimberly, and I take an outing to the park, but when I mentioned ice cream and Pimberly squealed with excitement, Waverly folded. I had to force Helen to go home, insisting she get some rest. I knew she had to be exhausted even though she denied it.
We’d walked and visited the animal exhibits that were open to the public and had just finished off our excursion with ice cream. Glimpsing down at Pim, she had chocolate ice cream smeared all over her chubby face and hands, and her shirt was stained with it. “And . . . she’s a mess,” I chuckled.
“It was your brilliant idea to take her out for ice cream when it’s hotter than Hades out here,” Waverly quipped. Damn this woman could be a smart ass.
“I didn’t see you complaining when you downed that double scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream,” I argued. When she cast an eye roll my way, I snorted a laugh.
Waverly held her crutches together, using them for balance, and bent down to grab wipes out of Pim’s diaper bag. Her gray shorts, which looked more like sexy pajama shorts to me than shorts you wear in public, rose up as she bent over, showcasing her amazing ass. Two guys walking by both slowed their stroll and turned their heads doing an obvious double take.
Something surged through me. I don’t know if it was anger or jealousy. I didn’t take the time to analyze it before I reacted. “Move along, assholes,” I warned, my body tensed. They gave me a quick scan, to which I bucked at them, before they glanced at each other and bolted away.
What was that? I mean they were acting like assholes and deserved to be called on it, but why did I feel so protective? And angry? Shaking my head, I inhaled deeply trying to calm myself. With each day, the steroid withdrawals were less and less, but my mood still bounced a bit. The steroids must’ve been why I reacted so strongly. Waverly stood upright, her face flushed from being bent over and balancing on one foot, and asked, “What?” She was clueless about the two douche bags that had just had their stares fixated on her ass.
“Nothing,” I muttered. “You just . . .” I motioned my hand for her to back up, “just let me do this.” I swiped the wipes from her hand. “For God’s sake don’t bend over again,” I begged with frustration. This situation got more and more fucked up every day. I didn’t know how to be Max without getting attached to people or things in his life and that’s exactly what was happening. I was getting attached to Waverly. I was getting jealous over Waverly. This wasn’t good.
“Did you only force me out here so you could ignore me for most of it and act like a butt-wad for the rest of it?”
I cut a glance at her, fighting my smirk. “Butt-wad?”
She rolled her eyes, something she always did when she was annoyed, but I could tell she was trying not to laugh by the way she pressed her lips together. “Yeah,” she confirmed after a beat. “A wad of the butt. A butt-wad.”
I couldn’t help it, I
burst into laughter. Where in the hell did she come up with this shit? “Look at that, Pim,” Waverly exclaimed animatedly. “He laughs.”
This time I rolled my eyes. “I’ll reign in my butt-wadage,” I began as I wiped Pim’s face while she grumbled at me, “if you wear more clothes.”
“Excuse me?” Waverly asked.
Standing, I faced her. “You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank-top. In the park,” I added as I motioned a hand around us for emphasis.
“It’s ninety-five degrees out,” she argued as she smoothed her hair back that was tied up in a high ponytail.
“Yeah, and you’re wearing three inches of fabric over your body.” I was exaggerating—her clothes were scarce, but not that scarce—but if exaggerating got my point across I would do it.
“I’m a grown woman, Max,” she pointed out. Then she got snarky. I noticed she did this from time to time. “Last I checked, you’re not my father or my man. Therefore, it’s not your business.”
I glowered at her. She had a point. A good one. I did, too. Kind of. “Okay,” I agreed. “You’re right, but I’ll just add this—”
“Of course you will,” she interrupted with a grumble.
“Would you want teenage Pimberly to leave the house wearing that?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped. Looking down at herself, she raised her head and narrowed her gaze at me. “No. I guess I wouldn’t.”
My eyes almost bulged out of my head. “What?”
“What?” she echoed, unsure of what my ‘what’ was asking.
“Did you just,” I paused and moved my head around like a robot computing, “agree with me?”
Her mouth curved slightly, a whisper of a smile. “Shut up, Max,” she warned.
“Was that a yes?” I pushed. I couldn’t deny I loved doing this to her. The woman did not want to laugh at me . . . or Max rather . . . and I didn’t doubt she would consider biting off her tongue before letting herself do it. Even though I knew it pissed her off that she found anything Max said remotely funny, I loved knowing it was me that made her want to laugh, not Max.
“Are you saying I look slutty, Max?” she inquired, one sassy brow quirked as if she were daring me to answer yes.
Wow.
She flipped that on me fast.
“Not at all,” I insisted.
“Then what?” she pushed. “What are you saying?”
At moments like this, a man wants to say something, anything, to change the subject, and we usually fail miserably. It’s a statistical fact that 99.9 percent of men would say something bad here and end up putting their foot in their mouth. I knew I was doomed. Still . . . I had to try.
“You look good, Waverly,” I acknowledged. “Not slutty.”
“Then why the sudden interest in my wardrobe choice? Do you want to tell me my hair looks like crap, too?”
Letting out an exaggerated sigh, I ran a wide palm down my face. And here we go . . . this outing was heading straight for the shitter. “No one said anything about your hair,” I defended. “Stop twisting my words.”
“What words?” she laughed haughtily. “All you said was wear more clothes. I asked why did you say that? Do I look fat? Do I look slutty? What?”
“I didn’t say any of that,” I grumbled, my blood pressure rising.
“Then why’d you say I need to wear more clothes?”
“Because you look sexy as fuck,” I growled taking a step toward her, doing my best to keep my voice down. Damn, this woman could be frustrating. “I said it because I hate that every guy that passes by is staring at your ass.”
She stared at me, a pinkish glow spreading across her cheeks. I’d made her blush, and it looked damn beautiful on her. Her gaze flicked to my mouth where it lingered a moment before moving up to meet my stare again. I waited for the backlash, I knew it was coming, but I didn’t back away. I figured she’d rail me. She’d tell me I had no right, that I’m an asshole, but the verbal whip never came. Instead, she cleared her throat and looked down at Pim.
“We should probably get her home now.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, after a beat. “That’s a good idea.”
As I pulled the wagon and Waverly maneuvered on her crutches down the busy New York City sidewalk, I scolded myself. I’d said too much. I had no right to say those things . . . convey those thoughts and feelings because all she saw and heard was Max saying them. Not me. I was losing control of the situation, not that I ever really had control of it to begin with.
When we got back to the apartment, I busied myself making guacamole, of all things, while Waverly sat in a chair in front of Pimberly and tried feeding her mashed sweet potatoes. Pimberly squawked and pushed Waverly’s hand away every time she tried to put a spoonful near her mouth.
“She won’t even try them,” Waverly whined.
Walking over to them, I bent down so I was on their level. “Feed it to me. Maybe if Pim sees me eat them, she’ll try them.”
Waverly stirred the potatoes before spooning out a heaping scoop and feeding it to me.
“Oh . . . that’s so . . . yumm . . .” I had to pause as the flavor hit me. I liked sweet potatoes, but this stuff tasted like ass.
“It’s so yummy, isn’t it?” Waverly preened, reminding me I was supposed to be helping.
“Oh, yes,” I choked out as I forced myself to swallow some of it. “Did you make this, Mommy?”
“Yes, I did,” she informed me as she lifted one brow, warning me not to insult her dish, “and you love it, don’t you?”
“Love?” I pondered while smiling brightly for Pim, nodding my head. “Love is a strong word, but it’s definitely different.”
Pimberly grasped the bowl on her tray and slid it closer to her. Scooping the orange mush out with one hand, Waverly and I went silent in anticipation. She was going to try it. It didn’t matter if she used the spoon or her hand as long as she ate it.
Pimberly examined the orange mush stuck to her hand, sneered at it, then whipped her hand in my direction, flinging the mush, covering me. My right eye was sealed shut, some of the mush having landed on it, and she’d managed to get it in my hair and on my shirt. Waverly roared with laughter, and then Pim followed.
“Is that funny?” I laughed, wiping at my eye.
“So funny,” Waverly agreed, her face red.
Taking the bowl from Pim, I scooped some in my hand. “Is this funny?” I asked Pim in a sing-song voice.
“What are y—” Waverly tried to get away, but it was too late. I smeared the potato down the side of her face sending Pim into hysterics.
We were all laughing as Waverly stood on her good foot and put both hands in the bowl before smearing them down my face. We wrestled each other while we bellowed, I made sure not to go too far with her ankle hurt, but before I knew it we were on the floor, our bodies wracked with laughter, the bowl empty and upside down beside us.
As we lay beside each other, trying to calm down, I took inventory of the kitchen. Could one sweet potato really create this much mess? Damn.
Waverly raised her head and looked at Pim. “She’s a smart girl, that one. She just figured out a way not to have to eat her sweet potato.”
“We got played,” I feigned disbelief.
Hopping back up to my feet, I took Waverly’s hands and pulled her up. She held the counter for balance as I got Pim out of her high chair. “We all need a bath.”
“What a waste,” she noted as she looked at herself, and then at me. “She didn’t even get a bite.”
Glimpsing down at Pim, I murmured, “You owe me one, kid.”
When I looked back at Waverly, she was glaring at me. “I make excellent mashed sweet potatoes.”
“That’s why Pim refused to eat them, and they’ve ended up all over us and this kitchen.”
Quirking a sassy brow at me, she warned, “Watch it, Max. I may need you to wash this shirt for me, too.”
She was flirting with me, threatening to pull another stunt lik
e the night before when she took her shirt off in front of me.
“Is that a threat?” I questioned.
“Maybe.”
With Pim in my right arm, I bent down and grabbed Waverly’s legs, folding her over my shoulder.
“Put me down, Max,” she screeched as I hoisted her up. She had a death grip on the back of my shirt as if it would somehow save her if she fell. “You’ll drop both of us!”
“No, I won’t,” I grunted as I laughed. Briskly, I walked us through the living room into the master bathroom before sitting Waverly on her feet near the sink so she could use it to balance herself. Her face was flustered, and her shirt had ridden up making her look out of sorts.
“Have you lost your mind?” she hissed as she tugged her shirt down. “You could have dropped Pim.”
“I would have dropped you before I dropped her,” I insisted. Still holding Pim, I opened the shower door and turned it on. Swinging the door open wider, I motioned to Waverly. “Go on in,” I instructed her.
Scowling at me, she said, “I’m not getting naked in front of you.”
“Who said anything about getting naked?” I smirked. “We can get that shirt washed while it’s still on you.” Before she could question me, I wrapped an arm around her waist and walked all three of us in, making sure to hold Waverly under the water the longest. The water was cold, and she howled as she fought me to let go of her.
Finally, I caved, “Okay, okay, calm down.”
“Let me go,” she yelled.
“Okay, but hold my shoulder for balance.” Her hand clutched my upper arm as she put her full weight on her good foot. Her chest was rising and falling with each labored breath she took, and her ponytail was a sopping mess hanging off the back of her head. I reached around her and adjusted the knob making the water warmer.
“You’re an asshole.” she shivered, her lower lip quivering.
“I know,” I agreed, “but you had it coming.”
“Is that so?”
“You threatened me,” I explained as I shifted Pim a bit.
“Threatened to flash you? That warranted all of this?”
