She stood from her seat. Max threw money onto the table and followed Lizzie through the diner, out of the door, across the street, and into the lobby of the Hilton hotel.
The elevator ride to her room was quiet except for the small ding punctuating each floor they ascended. Max caught Lizzie's reflection in the smooth steel of the door, noticing how much calmer she looked from when she first came into the diner. The lines on her face had all but disappeared and she stood taller, straighter, as though their conversation had lifted something from her. If he were honest, Max felt the same way. He felt less burdened, less heavy with the past.
The elevator reached floor twenty and Max followed Lizzie out of it and down the hall to her room. She unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter. He did as she asked, catching a breath of her perfume, sweet and unfamiliar. Standing with his hands in his jeans pockets, Max glanced from Lizzie, who closed the door, to the window, to the bed, and back again. His pulse picked up as panic began to take hold.
What the hell was he doing?
"Here."
Lizzie's voice came from his side. He looked down to see her holding a large bundle of envelopes, tied together with a blue ribbon. He took them cautiously, noting his name and address on the top one.
"What's this?"
"I wrote you a letter every day I was in therapy. It was part of my recovery," she murmured, her stare on the envelopes. "Each one tells you what I was going through, how I felt about you, how I felt about losing . . . Christopher."
Max's breath faltered as he held them tightly, overwhelmed and sad. "I don't know what to say," he confessed, meeting her gaze.
"You don't have to say anything," she replied. "I want you to have them. I want to explain and they say what I can't right now."
He turned them over in his hand and nodded. "Okay." He stood staring at them before he glanced toward the door. "Look, I'd better go."
She nodded and gradually moved to the side, allowing him to pass. "Max?"
He turned and, for a split moment, he saw the girl he remembered, lovely and ready to take life by the balls. "Yeah?"
"Could we . . . I mean, you have my number, can I- I'd like to stay in touch, maybe see you again."
Max blew out a confused breath. "I don't know, Liz. I mean"-he opened his arms, gesturing toward her and the room-"it's . . . this is all-"
"Overwhelming."
He dropped his arms to his sides. "Yeah."
She dipped her chin. "I get it."
Max stared at her, knowing her well enough to see that she had more to say. He waited.
"Can we . . ." She shifted where she stood. "I'd like it if we could hug it out."
She looked so earnest, so hopeful, that Max nodded before he could think clearly about it. Steadily, she drew closer and lifted her arms, sliding them around his neck, and pulled him close. Max's hands moved around her waist, returning the hug carefully. It was only when Lizzie lifted her nose to his neck and tightened her grip on him that he gave himself over to it, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against hers, understanding that it was a hug of apology for both of them, a hug of forgiveness, a hug that quietly and respectfully acknowledged the harrowing journey they'd shared.
"Thank you," she mumbled into his skin. "Thank you for today."
Max nodded, feeling her fingers play in the hair at his neck just as she used to do.
She hummed. "You smell the same."
Her words stirred something that felt like regret inside him. She didn't smell the same, she didn't smell of anything he recognized or wanted. Everything was so different. With a deep breath, he lifted his head but didn't loosen his hold. "Lizzie?" She opened her eyes. "I have to go."
"I know." She bit her lip, her gaze turning wary. "But I'm afraid to let go again."
More than a little surprised by her confession, Max stared at her for the length of three heartbeats. She stared back, took a deep, unwavering breath, then kissed him.
It lingered at the side of his mouth, tender and soft. Without thought, Max turned his head into it, capturing her gasp when he responded. Years ago that sound would have had Max desperate to have her, against the wall if necessary, but right then the sound caused his stomach to tilt as though he were at the top of a roller-coaster track and about to plummet to the ground. The kiss unbalanced him, made him dizzy, as if his body couldn't quite accept what was happening.
He didn't understand. Lizzie's lips should have been familiar- he'd kissed them a million times before-but now they felt strange, alien, and didn't taste the way he wanted them to, and her scent wasn't cocoa butter but different and, God fucking dammit, why the hell was he thinking about Grace when Lizzie was kissing him?