But then heavy footsteps sounded down the hallway and stopped outside her door.
Lea looked up. Nick stood in the doorway. He’d recently gotten his cast off and the only remnant of his run-in with the assaulters was a small scar on his chin.
She smiled weakly at him as he sat down beside her on the bed and took the shirt from her hands. “What’s this?”
“A shirt.”
“No shit¸ Sherlock. Looks a little big for you, though.”
She bit her lip and looked at him from under her lashes.
His eyes softened. “For him?”
She took it back and ran her fingers over the lettering. “Alec said they cut his other one off. Blood and stuff.”
“So you drove an hour and a half away to get him a new T-shirt?”
She’d called him on her way to work that morning, bright and early and hysterical. She’d told him about what happened, and texted him later when she found out Max was okay.
“So you’re heading in to visit?”
She nodded.
“I hope you’re going to give him a chance to explain.
Her body felt loose and fuzzy, like it was stuffed full of cotton balls. She was exhausted. “Nick, you weren’t there. You didn’t hear what his dad said. You didn’t see me walk to my car, alone. Max didn’t come after me. Or call me.”
Nick shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying any of that didn’t happen. I just think there’s more to it than that. We all saw how into you Max was.”
“Oh, so now you’re a Max apologist,” she hissed.
His jaw ticked. “You’re just being stubborn.”
“You’re not my dad, Nick.”
“No, I’m not, but I’m family. And I’m telling you that you’re so fucking scared to trust again that it’s crippling you from having a real emotional connection with new people.”
She stood up and rounded on him as he rose to face off with her. “Because when I let someone else have control, I get hurt. Other people get hurt.”
His eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
She let her eyelids droop and hung her head, pissed at herself for saying what she had. It’d been fine all tucked inside, but Nick had rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the bottle until she let out the genie of fury.
“Max did get hurt—”
“No, no no no.” Nick took a step closer. “I’m going to need you to back up. We’re not talking about Max here. What are we talking about?”
Her eyes dipped to his wrist, the one he’d broken in the accident, and he must have caught it, because he sighed. “You can’t be serious.”
She bristled. “I should have known—”
“Are you carrying around guilt for that? Seriously? You were thirteen, Lea. Thirteen years old.”
Her eyes pricked. “But I was old enough—”
“The only one responsible for what happened to us was Trent’s mom. That it’s. She’s the only one. She got behind the wheel impaired and ran the red light. I wasn’t even hurt that badly!”
“But you were hurt!”
Nick ran his fingers through his hair and tugged. “I was, okay. And so were you. But none of that was your fault.”
“But Max had been—”
“Lea, you really need to let go. You’re not so all powerful that you can control everything around you. Shit happens. And if you blame yourself when something bad happens to someone you care about, you’re going to be buried under guilt. For no reason.”
His words penetrated through the small crack in the pile of guilt remaining. Like a blinding ray of sun, she blinked at it, wondering how it had gotten this bad—when she had let this all pile up so she could barely see out.
Nick swiped the shirt off the bed where she’d dropped it and draped it over her shoulder. It was stiff and had that not-yet-washed cotton smell. “And once you let go of thinking you’re responsible for everyone else, maybe then you’ll be able to trust someone with your heart.”
“I did trust Max,” she whispered.
“I know you did. And I know he let you down. But I think you owe him a chance to explain.”
He kissed her forehead, waved good-bye and she watched the second man she disappointed that day walk out of her room.
She didn’t know what her options were. She couldn’t move forward. And she couldn’t go back. Because she’d let Max in, she’d learned what it was like to trust someone. To have someone.
But what if he only wanted closure?
THIS TIME THERE was no dirty blanket. There was no soft, deep voice or guiding supportive hand on her lower back.
There were no deep brown eyes in the soft light of the street lamp.
There was only Lea. And the shirt in a white-knuckled grip as she rode the elevator to the same floor Nick had been on.
That felt like ages ago, when it had only been several weeks? A month? She shifted her weight and eyed the glowing numbers above the metal doors.
The elevator reached her floor and she stepped out, studying the plaques on the wall to make her way to Max’s room, which she’d learned from the help desk in the lobby.
When she reached his door, she stopped in front of it, staring at the sliver of light peeking out from the crack in the opened door.
She closed her eyes, inhaled through her nose and blew it out of the mouth. Once. Twice.
She could do this. She’d visited Nick in the hospital and she hadn’t broken down.
Max was strong. He was tough.
He was okay.
She raised her hand, ignoring the trembling limb, and pushed gently on the door.
It opened and she stepped inside the small room.
Her eyes took in the prone figure on the bed, the only other person in the room besides her.
Lea gripped the shirt in both hands and brought it up to her chest, like a shield, and walked forward.
Seeing Nick in the hospital hurt her because she loved him like a brother.
But seeing Max? She loved him with a bone-deep ache, she now recognized, because the sight of him in a hospital bed, injured, buckled her knees. She sank into a chair that fortunately had been placed beside the bed and breathed deeply, blinking back tears.
Max was asleep, his face slack. He looked so young without the cocky smirk and squinted eyes. In sleep, he was almost boyish, those beautiful eyes hidden from view, his long, thick, dark lashes resting on his cheeks.
He lay on his back, shirtless, with the thin blanket twisted around his hips, and that made her smile through her tears. She imagined him bitching about wearing a gown, teasing the nurses about showing his ass.
She placed a shaking hand on the bed and leaned closer. There was a bandage behind his ear and bandages on his hands. Bruises darkened his face, highlighted with abrasions.
When the tears threatened again, she dropped her eyes to his chest and watched his chest rise and fall.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
He was breathing. He was okay.
She ran a finger down that vein on his bicep, the pulsing of blood a physical reassurance he was alive.
She wanted to rest her head on his chest and listen to the beat of his heart until it was the only rhythm she could hear, until she heard it in every song.
She licked her lips and opened her mouth, words . . . some words on the tip of her tongue.
But nothing came out and she looked at the shirt, now a wrinkled mess in her lap. She unfolded it and laid it flat on her knees, smoothing out the creases, picking a piece of lint off the sleeve.
What would he say if he woke up? Would he thank her for the shirt and for the good time? Would he seek closure?
Movement drew her eyes back to the bed. Max had shifted; his head rolled toward her, eyes blurry and half open. “Who . . . ?”
His gravelly voice wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
Max’s eyes drifted shut again and his face twitched, like he was fighting sleep or the drugs, whatever was pulling him under.
She leaned forward, needing to touch him now. She cupped his cheek and brushed a thumb along the corner of his mouth. His skin was hot, the stubble on his cheek a welcome sensation on her palm.
“Max,” she whispered.
His eyes fluttered again and his mouth opened.
Deep voices outside the open door drew her attention. She whipped her head around because she recognized that one voice.
Max’s father.
She looked back down at Max, whose eyes had closed again, but his hands grasped the sheet, like he was reaching for something.
The voices drew closer and even though every part of her body wanted to stay in that chair with Max, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling the echo in her own veins, her head took over. Lea pulled her hand away from his face, recognizing this would most likely be the last time she touched Max.
She shoved the shirt in his grasping hand and with a quick peck on his forehead, she hopped up from the chair and slid behind the door.
Seconds later Max’s father walked in with another man, who she assumed to be one of Max’s brothers.
With their backs turned, she slipped out from behind the door and trotted down the hallway to the elevators.
She stabbed the DOWN button once. Then double-stabbed it. And then smashed her palm on it repeatedly, wanted to get out of this hospital and away from Max’s dad and away from the feeling that she was going in the exact opposite direction she should be.
She looked up at the display, saw the elevators were at the stupid basement and huffed.
But when she tried to resume her assault on the elevator button, a hand covered up her plastic victim.
She looked up and froze.
Because his face sent her brain mixed signals. He had those slate-gray eyes of Max’s father, but he had Max’s nose and mouth.
He was a little shorter than Max but no less attractive. And her feet felt rooted to the floor as his gaze took her in.
She tried to hide her recognition, because while he must be one of Max’s brothers, he couldn’t know who she was. Lea cleared her throat. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
He took his palm off the button and leaned back on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “So you’re Lea.”
What? “How do you—?”
“I was at the shop yesterday.”
She flashed back and remembered another man standing in the garage office while her relationship crumbled around her.
“I’m Cal. The oldest.” His voice was so like Max’s, not enunciating the t in oldest.
She clenched her fists and raised her chin. “Well, you know who I am, then.”
His eyes drifted behind her and then met her eyes again. “You visit Max?”
She swallowed. “He was sleeping.”
Those icy eyes narrowed. “So he didn’t know you were there?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He kind of woke up but . . . he didn’t seem to know what was going on. And I left when I heard . . .”
Cal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he looked pained. “Look, my dad—”
Saved by the bell. The doors dinged open and she quickly slid inside. She didn’t want to hear him make excuses or explain how she couldn’t be with Max. She knew.
She jabbed the CLOSE DOOR button, but Cal slapped a hand on the elevator doors so they sprung back open. “Lea—”
“I’m sorry, I need to go. Please let the doors close.” Her voice cracked. Oh God, she was going to cry. In front of Max’s brother.
He seemed to fumble with words. “Do you want me to tell him you were here?”
Did she want Max to know? She jabbed the CLOSE DOOR button again and met Cal’s eyes. “Do what you need to do.”
The doors slid closed, and then the tears flowed. Was getting closure supposed to feel this painful?
Chapter 22
VOICES FILTERED IN through the haze of sleep and pain. He searched for that musical voice, the one he wanted to hear more than any others.
He swore he felt the touch, heard his name from those beautiful lips. But when he blinked awake, all he heard was a football game on TV. His dad and Brent faced away from him, drinking coffee and watching the game. Cal sat in the chair beside him, reading a magazine.
Max’s one hand rested on the thin, scratchy hospital blanket but the other hand gripped something soft.
He blinked and raised his hand. Wrinkled fabric fell to his chest and he frowned.
Cal leaned over, grabbed it and unfurled it.
Max’s eyes widened. It was a Cross Keys bowling shirt. Max reached out and grabbed it. He brushed his hands over the fabric and the smell of coconuts overwhelmed the cotton smell.
Lea. He hadn’t imagined her voice after all.
He raised his eyes to Cal’s. “She was here.” He didn’t phrase it as a question because he knew. It was her scent on the shirt and the tingle on his cheek where she’d cupped his face and the sound of his name echoing in his ears in her musical voice.
She had come.
Despite everything that had happened, she’d cared enough to visit and buy him a new shirt. A shirt she hated and rolled her eyes at whenever he wore it.
She cared.
His whole body flushed hot. He had a chance.
“Hey.” Max’s father stood at the end of the bed, drawing his attention away from the shirt. “How’s the head?”
Max was too tired to act macho. “Hurts like a bitch.”
His dad blinked at him, his gaze lingering on the bandage Max was sure was visible behind his ear. But something else worked behind those cold eyes, something Max couldn’t read. And his dad’s body language was all wrong. He was always tense, but confident. And now his posture radiated an odd anxiety.
“They had a gun,” his dad said. The word gun said with so much venom, it hit Max in the chest like a bullet. “They whipped my kid with a gun.”
His tone was all wrong. His words were all wrong. Max couldn’t remember the last time his father even acknowledged Max was his kid. Or had ever been a kid. He was always supposed to be a man.
But he kept talking, his eyes burning into Max. “You didn’t stay and fight. Always told you never back down until the whistle. But you ran and called for help.”
It was a statement of fact, and for once, Max couldn’t determine the meaning behind the words. Was he ashamed of Max? Cal stiffened beside him and Brent came to his feet, standing on the other side of Max’s bed, his gaze darting between Max and his father.
They were a triangle of Paytons, Max’s father at the end of the bed and his sons making up the base.
Max remembered his dad’s words, that he’d take on all three guys. That he’d stand his ground.
Life isn’t a Jason Statham movie.
And this time, Max spoke up. “It wasn’t a game, Dad. There was no ref. There was no whistle. I—”
“I know that!” his father roared, the sudden emotion like a blast of hurricane-force winds, rocking all three of his sons back. Then, like his shout had weakened him he sank into the chair at the end of the bed, rested his elbows on his knees and thunked his head in his hands.
Max had never seen his dad in this position. The man before him now was a stranger. A stranger who radiated uncertainty and maybe a little bit of regret.
Brent sank down onto the bed beside Max and they all stared at the hunched broad shoulders of their father.
Finally, Cal cleared his throat. “Dad?”
He raised his head and those eyes were right on Max. “You did the right thing.”
Max sucked in those words on a sharp inhale and then held them there, letting them swirl around in his head, pump through his veins and feed his body, because he didn’t know if he’d ever hear them again in his father’s voice. When he needed to breath again, he exhaled roughly. But those words, he’d kept them. They weren’t escaping.
“Dad—”
The big man shook his head. “They had a gun.” He r
epeated again. This time drawing out the word on a groan. Max bit his lip so he didn’t talk as his father continued. “Thought I’d been teaching you boys the right thing all this time. I thought fighting, eye for an eye, was right but . . .” He closed his eyes slowly and then popped them back open, zeroing in on that bandage on Max’s head. “They coulda killed ya.”
They could have. Max knew that. They hadn’t killed anyone yet, and they might not have wanted to. But accidents happened. Fingers slipped. Bullets hit flesh.
His dad shook his head, visibly shuddering. This wasn’t the response Max expected. He thought he’d be called a coward. He thought he’d be told to get out of bed and take it like a man.
He hadn’t his father to practically break down at the foot of his bed while all three sons watched.
As much as he told himself that he hated his father, he didn’t. It was his dad who’d raised him with his brothers when his mother bailed. Sure, he bitched but he did it. He kept them in a house and fed and clothed.
And he’d tried.
That was better than what Jill did.
Jill bailed. Jack and Jill went up the hill but only Jack came back to take care of his family. His dad wasn’t a quitter in things that mattered. He just had to know when quitting was the smart thing to do.
Brent’s eyes were wide and Cal gripped the sheet near Max’s hip with white knuckles. Max took a deep breath. “Well, they didn’t, Dad. I’m here. I’ll be okay.”
He hoped, at least. His head hurt but he was alive and he remembered everything and knew the year and the president so it couldn’t be too bad.
His dad nodded toward the shirt. “What’s that?”
Max folded the shirt carefully on his lap. “My girlfriend brought me a shirt.”
“Girlfriend?”
Max raised his eyes. “The girl who came into the shop last night. The one you were an asshole to? Yeah, that’s Lea.”
His dad frowned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Max shook his head. “I was an idiot. She surprised me, and then you brought up the lie I told you, about how it was just a one-time thing. And I froze.” Max took a deep breath. “I was on my way to apologize to her when I got jumped. I care about her and I’m a lot in love with her and now I feel like I have at least a slim chance of getting her back if she cared enough to visit me.”
Make It Right Page 20
