"This is why I'm here. It arrived two days ago."
Max stared at the envelope with his name and address on the front of it, noting the cursive patterns of the handwriting. He'd know that fucking penmanship anywhere. Lizzie. His heart skipped an entire beat, as the realization rushed over him like a bucket of ice water, forcing Max back in his seat with a harsh exhalation. He lifted his hands as though the mere thought of touching the envelope filled him with terror.
"I wanted to give it to you in person instead of forwarding it on to you like I do your bills."
Max swallowed, not entirely certain whether he was going to throw up or pass out. His head swam horrifically. "Ha-have you read it?" He noticed that the flap of the envelope was ripped.
"I open all your mail, like you asked me to, but I had no idea who it was from until I read the first few lines and saw the name at the bottom."
Carter ran his hands across his short hair, appearing truly torn with his having to give the letter over.
The two men sat in silence, both looking at the damned thing as though it might explode. Max shoved his thumbnail into his mouth and started chewing. It was an anxious gesture he'd not indulged in since he'd left rehab.
"What-why . . ." he mumbled around his thumb, looking at Carter helplessly. "What do I do?"
Carter's brow creased in sympathy, his gaze worried. "That's up to you, brother." He pressed his lips together. "You gonna read it?"
The squeeze in Max's chest suggested not, but the curiosity was too much to ignore. Terrified or not, Max knew that he would be reading the fucking thing one way or another.
His face must have answered Carter, who dipped his head in understanding. "You want me to stay here while you do?"
As much as Max appreciated the offer, he knew he had to face whatever that letter contained on his own. "No," he croaked.
Carter nodded. "Go take a walk, okay? Maybe call Tate. Get some space."
The air in the shop had certainly grown stuffy; Max could barely catch his breath. He allowed his finger to trace his name on the envelope. Carter's hand on his shoulder made him jump. Max hadn't even noticed him stand.
"I'll go and hang at the bar down the street," he said, his eyes drifting to the letter. "Come when you're ready and we'll talk, okay?"
Max nodded and pushed his chair back, struggling to make his legs hold his weight as he stood. Carter gripped Max's bicep to hold him steady, waited a beat, and pulled him into a tight embrace. Max didn't hesitate in returning it. He wasn't too much of an asshole to admit when he needed a hug. And right then, he needed as many as he could get.
What the hell could Lizzie want after all these years? What could she possibly have to say to him? Why now? He dropped his forehead to Carter's shoulder and breathed deeply, fighting off the petrified tears that threatened.
"I'm here," Carter murmured, cupping the back of Max's head. "You're not alone in this. Whatever you decide, I'll support you."
Max nodded and clapped his hand against Carter's back. "Thank you."
He felt Carter nod before he stepped back. "Text me," he said quietly, and without another word, he left Max in the coffee shop, wondering what the fuck he was going to do.
Grace sat on her sofa, where she'd planted herself three hours before after returning from the boardinghouse. The TV played quietly from its position in the corner of the room, but Grace had no idea what the hell was on it. She was too busy watching the guilt and regret she'd seen so clearly in Max's dark eyes playing like a damn loop in her mind.
Grace hadn't known what to expect when she'd made the decision to seek him out so they could talk, but his curt indifference and coldness certainly weren't anywhere near the top of the list. It had hurt so much seeing his uneasiness, the way he stepped back from her so quickly, his need for the earth to open up under his feet. He couldn't hide that from her; she knew him too well.
She'd spent hours reasoning with herself, trying to understand how terrified Max would be after what they'd shared. Jesus, he'd admitted as much when they were in bed. But even that couldn't soothe the harsh sting of rejection or delete the echo of his words when he'd dismissed her so readily. Could he not see how terrified she was? She pulled the throw she'd draped over herself closer. Despite the warm July air, she was cold.
Glancing at the clock to see it was a little before six, she contemplated texting Max. She fingered her cell for the hundredth time, torn between calling her therapist for advice and calling Max. No. Space. That's what he needed. She didn't want to crowd him or make him feel pressured. As she'd told him, all she wanted to do was love him, no titles, no expectations; he'd told her before that he wasn't capable of that, despite the fact that he'd made love to her so tenderly. Grace knew too well that he was a serious flight risk. If she were to ask him for anything more than he was willing to give, he would bolt. She would reserve judgment and do her best to let him mull the whole situation over. She knew that's what he needed. It was what he did.