An Ounce of Hope(18)

He snorted the back of his hand, desperate for any trace of powder before he pushed the bedroom door open.

Lizzie was exactly where he'd left her, curled up in a ball, unwashed, silent, and fractured by her grief. Max could barely look at her. He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. He wanted to take her in his arms, cleanse her of her pain, and lose himself inside her. He'd make love to her, kiss her fiercely, because kissing her was his favorite thing in the world, and make her forget; make himself forget. But she wouldn't let him near her. She wouldn't speak to him.

And he missed her. He missed her so fucking much.

Stumbling around the room, he managed to undress himself and slide into the bed next to her, desperate to take her into his arms and press himself into the warmth of her skin. Despite the mere inches between their bodies, they'd never been more apart. Max stretched out his fingers, the tips of them dancing lightly over the bare skin of Lizzie's arm. He knew what that part of her body tasted like. He knew what every part of her body tasted like even though it had been months since they'd been together that way. Max understood. At least he tried to, but if she wouldn't listen to his words of love, maybe he could show her what she meant to him with his body.

Before he had the chance to consider her reaction, if he were to roll her over, kiss her, taste her mouth, and thrive off the intimacy he craved from her lips, she pulled her arm away.

"Don't," she croaked. "You stink of beer and you're high again."

He snapped, the buzz loosening his tongue and shortening his temper. "Yeah. Well, shit, I have to get my kicks somehow, right? At least one of us is living."

She sighed, her shoulders rounding away from him even more. "This isn't living, Max. This isn't living."

"What do you want from me, Liz?" he asked, dropping his hand to the mattress, away from her body. "Tell me what the fuck I can do and I'll do it. For fuck's sake talk to me!" 

But she didn't. She never did. Instead she locked him out, pulled the covers around her small, fragile body, and shuffled from the bed to the living room, where she resumed her desolate silence on the couch. Max wasn't sure which was worse: having her in bed next to him and not speaking, or her being in the other room. Either way he knew he was losing her. Shit, he'd already lost her, and he had no idea how to get her back.

Hours later, when the dawn light filtered through a small gap in the drapes, waking Max from a broken slumber, he would wonder how he hadn't heard her leave. For days, weeks, months, and years, he would torture himself about how he should have followed her into the living room; done more and pushed her further to open up to him, to share her grief with him.

Even before he skidded down the hallway and saw that her keys, shoes, purse, and coat were gone, he knew she'd left. Even as he hunted through her closet searching for a clue as to where the fuck she might have gone, and relentlessly dialed her cell phone number, and the cell phone numbers of her family and friends, he knew she didn't want to be found. And when he collapsed on the bedroom floor, calling out her name through racking sobs, he knew his heart had been broken forever.

Max twirled the three-month medallion-ninety-seven days clean-in the palm of his hand. He fidgeted and kicked a foot against his packed bag, avoiding looking directly at either Elliot or Tate, who flanked him as they waited for Carter to arrive.

"So, you've got all your paperwork, my number, your prescription, dates of your first meetings with-"

Max smirked and cocked an eyebrow at Elliot. "Yes, Doc. I have them. Just like I had them the first three times you asked."

Tate snickered into the back of his hand. His T-shirt today was bright green and declared "Warning: If zombies chase us, I'm tripping you." Max chuckled and shook his head. Truthfully, he was going to miss seeing those damned T-shirts every day. Tate was now officially Max's sponsor and the two of them would no doubt see each other a lot, what with meetings and such, but it wouldn't be the same. Max's laugh had definitely been throaty when Tate had given him his own ludicrously inappropriate T-shirt, which stated "Pugs not drugs" under a hoodie-wearing dog.

"As part of your tutelage under me," Tate had deadpanned, "you must wear this at all times." Max was certain having Tate as a sponsor was never going to be boring.

Carter pulled up five minutes later in a red Shelby GT. It was gorgeous and, Max had to admit, ten times nicer than the Maserati. Carter all but leaped out of the car, wide smile of pride front and center. The four of them put Max's bags and paintings into the trunk. Once done, Carter shook both Elliot's and Tate's hands and made himself scarce, silently acknowledging Max's need for privacy.