"I did," Max mumbled. "I knew this day was coming. I haven't slept all week. I've had nightmares like you wouldn't believe, even with my meds. I painted for the first time since I got here. I went for a run, I tried to sleep, to read, I called Carter, Elliot, but it was like a fucking lead weight around my neck. I couldn't breathe. The only thing I knew would ease it was a line." He grimaced. "So I went to the bar to find the next-best thing."
The two men sat in silence, both drained by their respective struggles. "Max, I get it," Tate offered quietly. "You know I do. But these days will happen. They'll poleax you and leave you desperate to throw your medallions away. But, I promise you, one day you'll wake up and you won't think about a line, or a pill, or any kind of fucked-up high first. You'll find something that makes you want to leap out of bed in the morning and say 'come on life, bring it, I'm ready.' "
Max picked a chocolate chip off his muffin and put it in his mouth. Grace was right. They were good, even with more alcohol in his veins than actual blood.
"Promise me next time you'll call me before you get to the bar, not when you leave it," Tate urged.
"Next time?"
"There'll be many. That's a fact."
And didn't that sound superfun? Max nodded despondently.
"Good. Now call Elliot for an emergency appointment."
Max gaped. "I can't. It's Sunday."
"Like I give a shit. Besides, I already called him first thing. He's expecting you and he's already on his way. Come on." Tate stood, clutching his cane in one hand and his coffee in the other. "I'll drive."
By the time Tate dropped Max back at the boardinghouse, it was early Sunday evening. The session with Elliot had been as hard as Max expected, although being prescribed stronger meds to help him sleep was a bonus. He didn't doubt, however, that with his hangover still teasing the edges of his brain and his stomach filled with Mickey D's, he'd sleep like a fucking baby. Before he dropped fully dressed back into bed, however, Max knew he had to apologize to Grace. He'd spoken to her like a shit and, despite not knowing her all that well, he knew she didn't deserve his temper. No one did.
So, with an uneasy fidget in his shoulders and nerves in his gut, he knocked on the door of her room.
"Just a minute!" Grace called from inside.
Max rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and waited.
Why the hell was he putting himself through this again?
Oh, yeah.
Because he was an asshole.
Because Elliot had explained how important it was to apologize for his mistakes, so he could move through life without any regrets.
Because the NA Step Working Guide taught addicts how they had to own up to their behaviors.
Because Grace was a nice girl.
The door opened with a flourish to wide green eyes that were immediately suspicious.
"Hey," Max said when she remained silent.
She exhaled hard, her shoulders dropping, her face hardening.
That right there was why he had to say sorry.
"Hey."
Max shifted his weight from foot to foot under her glare, his eyes traveling from the loose ponytail in her hair, to her makeup-free face, and down her body. She was wearing running gear, a pastel pink vest, and tight black running pants that clung to her in ways that should be illegal. She was barefoot, the polish on her dainty toes matching her top.
"I, um, I'm sorry to bother you," he stammered. "I hope you weren't busy, but I wanted to give you these." He held out a takeout coffee cup and a white paper bag.
She eyed them distrustfully, crossing her bare arms over her chest. "And what are these?"
Max shrugged and lifted the cup. "A peace-offering latte"-he lifted the bag-"and an apology muffin."
Grace frowned, still not taking either. "What are you apologizing for?"
He sighed, his arms falling under the weight of his guilt. "I'm apologizing for being a bad-tempered asshole. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that; I put you in a really awkward position and I shouldn't have." He lifted the gifts again, smiling timidly.
She seemed to consider his apology for a freakin' age before she reached out and took them with a small "thanks."
"You're welcome," he replied, pushing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
"I'll have them when I get back."
He gestured to her attire with a lift of his chin. "You're going for a run?"
"Yeah," she answered, the usual brightness slowly filtering back into her voice. "I have to fight off the chocolate calories somehow."
"Sure," he replied. "I go running, too. There's a great route down by the stream."
Her expression became animated, her smile wide and beatific. "Maybe you could show me. I like having company when I run and I'm still learning the area."