An Ounce of Hope(16)

Carter pushed his keys into his back pocket and took Max's hand, shaking it first then squeezing before he let go. "Of course. I wouldn't have missed it. Thank you for inviting me. You look . . . well. Better. Much better."

Max couldn't deny that he had the overwhelming urge to hug his friend, because damn it was good to see him, but instead he gestured with his hand toward the path he knew wound its way around the entire facility. "I want to show you around before you meet everyone. Wanna take a walk?"

Carter cleared his throat. "Sure."

Side by side, they walked through the melting snow, as Max pointed through the large windows telling Carter about the art room and his paintings, his group sessions and his meetings with Elliot. It was strange explaining it all, but Max didn't feel the embarrassment that had curled in his stomach the first time he and Carter had spoken on the phone. Seeing him while they spoke was certainly easier.

"Riley told me about Tate working here," Carter said as he peered into the art room where Tate was teaching a class. "Small world, huh? I think I spoke to him on the phone briefly once, but I never met him. Is he as nuts as Riley?"

Max grinned. "Crazy T-shirts aside? He's like Riley, but a little more sane. See the cane? He was injured as a medic on tour with the Marines."

"Yeah, I remember that. It was the only time Riley ever left New York back then."

"Tate hit the pills and painkillers hard when he was honorably discharged from the corps. It was all to do with his injury. Dude picked himself up, went to rehab, went back to school to train as a counselor, and here he is, four years clean and helping other addicts."

Carter smiled. "Sounds like a great guy."

"He is," Max agreed. "He's offered to be my sponsor when I . . . when I come home." Unease swirled tightly in Max's stomach.

Carter's face, however, lit up. "When do you think that'll be?"

Max shrugged. "I just got my two-month medallion, so-"

"That's amazing, brother," Carter uttered, pride and relief prevalent in his voice.

Max held out the two chips in his palm. He carried them everywhere as addicts were encouraged to do, just in case the craving surpassed discomfort; a reminder, a tangible way of counting off the days of his servitude to addiction.

Carter gazed at them, not touching, and smiled. "I knew you could do it."

"Well," Max said slowly, closing his fist around them, "I'm not there yet. Elliot thinks I should stay another month or so."




 

 

Carter's brow furrowed. "And how do you feel about that?"

Max put the medallions away and began walking, not able to stomach what would no doubt be a look of disappointment on Carter's face. "I . . . think I need it," he confessed. "I think I still have a lot I need to work out about . . . Lizzie, Christopher-all of the shit that's happened. I'm still not- I can't just forget. I'm trying, Carter, but it's not an overnight thing and I have to live with this shit over me every day when I leave here and-"

Carter's hand on Max's arm made him stop and turn. "Hey, man, it's okay," he murmured, his eyes sad but imploring. "Seriously, buddy, take all the time you need. We'll all be waiting for you when you come home. I don't care how long it takes. We all just want you to get better. I want you to get better."

Max exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face. He kicked at a lump of stubborn, unmelted snow and allowed Carter's words of reassurance to calm the disquiet in his chest. "Thanks."

They continued walking around the center. Conversation, although not stilted, felt different. Carter spoke about Kat and, although there was caution in his words, about his proposal to her. Max smiled as best as he could while Carter waxed lyrical about his Peaches, and Carter responded in kind when Max spoke fleetingly about his sessions with Elliot.

The two of them were a fucking nightmare for sure, both of them uncertain because of the weirdness Max's stay in rehab had brought to their friendship. Max could only hope that, when he finally did go home, things would be easier. He could only imagine how hard it was for his best friend. Carter had seen Max at his very worst, when he hit rock bottom, half-naked, unconscious, and unresponsive on the bathroom floor. Max had known Carter nearly his whole life and knew he'd have torn himself to shreds over it all, blamed himself, which was absurd. Max had no one to blame but himself.

And maybe Lizzie.

But he was working on that blame every day.

As part of Max's twelve steps, he'd been urged to acknowledge what his addiction had done to the people he cared for, the people who had tried for so long to help him. Christ, Carter had tried so hard, pushed Max to get better, even when Kat had asked him to step away and let Max do what he wanted; even when-in a moment of insanity-Max had pointed a loaded gun at Carter's head, he'd not lost hope, imploring Max to get the help he so desperately needed-