She dropped her red bag onto the seat opposite and slid in. Max took the time to watch her, trying to see the woman he'd cherished for so long. He wasn't sure whether he succeeded. She was still devastatingly striking; her white vest top showed off her unblemished skin and delicate collarbone, while her stone-washed, knee-ripped jeans he'd noticed as she came near highlighted how petite she still was.
It was a strange paradox being confronted with this part of his past. A part that had been, at one stage, all he knew, all he cared about, wanted, and loved, and yet, sitting there with Lizzie in front of him, the surreal unfamiliarity of it all settled on him like a lead weight.
Grace the Waitress appeared at their table again before either of them could speak. Lizzie looked at Max's cup.
"Coffee," he offered.
Lizzie dipped her chin, then addressed their server: "Same, please."
They sat as the other people in the diner milled around them, and stared at each other in a way that was neither affectionate nor uncomfortable. Lizzie fiddled with a ring on her index finger. Max noted that there wasn't one on her wedding-ring finger. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to the engagement ring he'd bought her.
"Thank you for coming," she said quietly toward her coffee once it arrived. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I wasn't sure, either," Max admitted, his voice gruff with nerves.
She tilted her head toward her shoulder and poured milk into her cup. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't." She settled the milk down and looked back at him, her gaze meandering over his face and chest. "You look well. Different, but well."
Max glanced down at himself, pondering what changes she saw. "You, too," he offered instead, hating how his voice caught on every word.
She blushed a little. He'd never seen her do that when they were together. She'd always been so confident, so strong and formidable. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he had to accept, considering what she'd been through, what they'd both been through, there were bound to be differences. They weren't the same people, and that filled Max with a profound sense of sadness.
"I'm glad you got my letter. I wasn't sure you'd still live in the city. Do you still have the shop?" Lizzie asked.
Max nodded. "Same shop, same apartment." He sipped his coffee, the awkwardness of small talk almost intolerable. "You?"
She shook her head. "I moved back to Florida for a while, stayed with my family. I'm working now and have a small place." She smiled. "I like it. I'm happy."
Max swallowed, not returning her smile. If nothing else, in spite of their history, all he'd ever wished for her were good things. "I'm glad it worked out for you."
Even though it was the absolute truth, annoyance slithered across his back. "So is that why I'm here, for you to gloat and tell me how happy you are?"
Despite his best efforts to stop it, his voice was clipped and bitter, but, to her credit, Lizzie didn't react other than to shake her head.
"No," she replied softly. "That's not why I wrote." She took a deep breath and paused. "I . . . wrote because, after everything that happened between us, after losing . . . him, I wanted the opportunity to explain."
"So explain," Max said unsympathetically.
Lizzie licked her lips. "After he died, I wasn't the person you met, the person you loved. I didn't like who I became." Her gaze drifted to Max's hands. "I was so lost. I was . . . broken."
Max inhaled through his nose, sitting back. "And I wasn't?"
"I know you were," she answered quietly. "That's why we couldn't help each other. That's why I had to leave."
As much as he wanted to understand and accept what she was saying, Max couldn't help but feel cheated. "Yeah, you left," he said toward his cup. "After everything that happened between us. You left me without a word, no letter, no note, no postcard when you got to wherever the fuck you went. Nothing." Although his temper had begun to rally, Max's voice remained calm and level.
"I know." Lizzie closed her eyes slowly, making Max's teeth grind. If she began to cry, he didn't know what he might do. Walking out seemed like the best response, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to. "You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave, Max. I swear. I wanted to get in touch, but . . . I was so scared and then it seemed like it was too late."
"And now?"
Lizzie sighed. "I knew I was going to be in New York. And I guess I got to the point where I had to see you again, to tell you why. It seemed like the perfect chance. I realized that, if I know you at all, you'd need that much." She ran a hand through her hair. "I wanted the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am."