He ground his teeth, hating how the memory made him feel, hating how what she'd asked him poked at parts of himself that scared Max to death, knowing what he'd said to her was unforgivable and categorically untrue. He growled deep in his chest and shook off the guilt.
He slapped the pad of his thumb down on the screen defiantly and pressed send.
Because fuck it, that's why.
He breathed through the thundering pulse in his ears while Carter sat stock-still at his side, seemingly without words. Both men stared at the phone, apprehension pulsing between them.
Lizzie's reply came within a minute: I'm staying at the Hilton in Midtown. One o'clock in the lobby?
That was no good. Familiar ground was important if this was going to work.
One o'clock. Sam's Diner across the street from the Hilton.
Okay. Thank you, Max.
Max pressed a button to quickly black out his cell phone screen and Lizzie's gratitude, and slumped back into the sofa, eyes closed, nausea rippling through him as though Lizzie's text was a big-ass stone thrown into his relatively peaceful little world. He couldn't figure it. Surely, he should have felt some sort of satisfaction, some sort of revelation with contacting her after so long.
But, no; all he felt was distracted. Pressure on his chest transported him back to their old apartment, to the day Lizzie left, Max on his knees, frantically calling everyone he knew in an effort to find her. The memories trickled through before the levees broke and they slammed into him, thick and fast, like white-tipped rapids, pulling him under, swirling him around, with no pause for him to catch his breath.
"You're okay," Carter murmured at his side. "Breathe."
Bizarrely, with Carter's words, an image of Grace dancing by the moonlit lake on Fourth of July weekend slipped between the chaos. Along with the echo of her laugh, her arms above her head as she twirled, and the memory of her skin under his fingers, Carter's hand on Max's shoulder was the only thing keeping his ass securely on the sofa and not bolting out the door to find the nearest dealer.
Max stood outside the diner the following day, wondering whether it was at all possible for his heart to break his ribs. It pounded so hard, it almost hurt, and every time he attempted to move forward, to enter the place, it stuttered and squeezed. He was bone tired, having not slept a wink the entire night, worrying and hypothesizing about what the hell Lizzie could have to say, what he would say.
Dragging his feet, he pushed the door open. The smell of coffee and pancakes accosted him immediately, causing his stomach to roil. He glanced around the place, sweat dripping down his neck. She hadn't arrived. Relieved that he had more time to collect himself, Max commandeered an empty booth and slid into it, fisting his hands together on the tabletop. A waitress approached with a wide smile and a name badge that read "Grace." Max blew out a disbelieving breath. Wasn't that just the last thing he needed to see?
"Fuck's sake," he mumbled into his hand before he swallowed and ordered a coffee, wishing to God it could arrive loaded with alcohol to help calm his nerves and extinguish the memory of Grace and the look of concentration on her face when she took her damned photographs, that same look that had been plaguing him since he'd awoken that morning.
He shifted in his seat. He needed to get a serious grip. Maybe he should have agreed when Carter offered to wait with him until Lizzie arrived. At this rate, he was going to fidget and vibrate his way into an early grave. He simply couldn't sit still. Grace the Waitress placed his coffee in front of him at the same time the bell above the diner door rang.
Without even looking up, Max knew it was Lizzie. His skin suddenly felt too tight, pressing on him, making him breathless.
He looked up slowly, catching her eye.
Jesus.
She was the woman he remembered, but somehow different.
She began to approach, steady but timid. Her blonde hair, which she'd always worn long, was now shaped into a sophisticated bob that hung just under her chin. Her face was the same, small and thin, but now bore lines that Max couldn't seem to recall her having before, while her blue eyes, which he'd adored, were less sparkly and more calm, more mature. He was more than a little comforted that the dead look he'd seen in them the last few months they were together was nowhere in sight.
Her gaze stayed on him until she stood at the side of the table. Max hadn't even had the wherewithal to stand. He sat back in his seat, looking up at her, not knowing what to do or say.
"Hi," she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ears.
That'd be a good start, he supposed.
Max cleared his throat. "Hi."
Her lips pulled into a tremulous smile. "May I sit?"
Max nodded. "Sure."