An Ounce of Hope(12)

"You made a phone call this afternoon," Elliot started, gazing at him over the rim of his Phillies mug as he took a sip. "Who did you speak to?"

Max slumped in his seat and drew a large breath. "Carter."

Elliot smiled. "Great. How is he?"

Max's molars ground together. "Engaged." The word shot from him like a bullet from a gun, smothered in hurt, jealousy, and anger. "He's . . . he's fucking engaged." He rubbed his hands down his face¸ hating the word and hating himself for being such a selfish prick.

The sound of Elliot's mug being placed back onto the side table ricocheted through Max's brain. His tired, addled brain. Fuck. For the first time in four weeks, Max craved a line.

He craved three.

And a bottle of Patrón held by a woman with long legs, great tits, and no morals.

Yeah, he could seriously go for a hot, sweaty, coke-induced fuck to clear his mind.

"You're angry." Elliot didn't pose the question but implied it in the small lift of his hand.

"Yeah," Max barked back without a thought. "No. Goddammit, I don't know what to feel."

Honestly, his head was a cacophony of fucked-up.

He stood from his seat and paced toward the window, which overlooked the vast gardens of the center. The snow was thick and glittered in the afternoon sun. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the frigid glass. The conversation with Carter had been fine. He'd managed to hide his shock and unacceptable anger at Carter's news. He'd thanked him for the box of treats and they'd shot the shit and joked about Riley's planning of the bachelor party, but it was strained. At least on Max's side.

"I don't know why I feel so-I can't even describe it." It was like a coiled wire around his insides pulling tighter and tighter.

"I understand."

Max turned to his therapist. "You do?"

"Of course. He's your best friend. There's history there. You've seen each other through the hardest parts of your lives and now you're here. His life is moving forward and you feel stagnant."

Max blinked. Well, shit.

"But you're not stagnant, Max," Elliot urged. "The changes I've seen in you in the past couple of weeks have been remarkable. You're opening up."

Max pushed his hands into his pockets. "It doesn't feel that way." With a sigh, he meandered back to his chair and sat down, heavy and weary. He fidgeted under Elliot's unrelenting silence, and tried to hide under his hood. "I want Carter to be happy," he said finally, picking at the cuticle around his thumbnail. "I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."




 

 

"Who is he marrying?"

"Kat. They met when he was inside Kill. It's a long story but they also have a lot of history. Saved her life when he was, like, eleven." He laughed without humor. "He's crazy about her, totally fuckin' gaga."

"Like you were with Lizzie."

Max flinched, although the pain he was so used to had numbed considerably. "Yeah, just like that."

Elliot shifted in his seat. "And this is the problem."

"Maybe," Max confessed quietly.

Maybe he was envious that his best friend had found what Max had been so desperate to have. Maybe he was angry that Carter was living his life while he was stuck in East Bumfuck nowhere. Maybe he was a shithead for thinking anything other than congratulations for the man who had always had his back.

"I don't want my past to excuse my resentment. It's shameful," he murmured.

"But you need to handle it instead of pushing it away," Elliot replied. "Deal with the jealousy and move on. When you get home, you can celebrate with him, enjoy his happiness; things will feel different, better."

Max wasn't so sure, but he could hope.

"Besides," Elliot added brightly, "you're young; you could meet someone, fall in love again."

Max's eyes widened while his heart galloped and pounded behind his ribs. "No way," he hissed.

Elliot shrugged, nonplussed. "Why? Life moves on, Max, as Carter is showing. You, too, can have love and joy again."

Max shook his head firmly. "Fuck that. I'm never giving myself to someone like that again. Ever."

It'd kill him for certain.

Besides, all addicts were discouraged from getting involved in romantic relationships in the first twelve months of their recovery. Relationships were too unpredictable and the ups and downs were potential triggers for hitting a luscious Baggie of white powder or a large bottle of Jack. Not that Max could contemplate having a serious relationship ever again. His interactions with women prior to his admittance were fleeting and emotionless. He was a red-blooded male with needs, after all, and his merry-go-round of eager ass was exactly what he needed: detached and simple.