An Ounce of Hope(37)

They set off again five minutes later. Their pace was good and they were on their way back to town within the hour. Max slowed to a stop when Grace called out. He turned to see her grabbing her right side and then her hip, flinching.

"You okay?" He jogged back.

She waved him off. "Yeah, yeah. I just . . . I have an old injury that flares up sometimes. It'll pass. Go on, keep going, I know my way back from here."

"It's fine," he assured her. "I've hit my miles. I don't mind walking."

They walked the rest of the way back to the boardinghouse. Max listened to Grace wax lyrical about her job at Whiskey's, how having a job was so important to her, and how excited she was about the house and the progress the workers were making. Max listened, wondering exactly how she found such joy and delight in everything. He'd never met anyone who saw such positivity in everyday things; even his asshole behavior seemed to have been forgiven and forgotten.

Her outlook was refreshing and, Max had to admit, infectious. He found himself smiling as she talked, watching her hands move frantically as she described how she wanted to decorate and furnish her house. He didn't doubt that, without her hands, she'd be rendered mute.

"Maybe I could buy one of your paintings," she commented. "A Max special. I could give it pride of place in my living room."

Max rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Maybe."

"What do you paint about?" she asked, her tone interested as opposed to nosy. She kept her eyes on the path ahead.

"Stuff," he replied petulantly. He noticed the exasperated look she threw him. "I vent," he added. "About things that I went through. When I was . . . in rehab, I attended art therapy sessions. It helped me express what I couldn't in group or with my shrink."

Max surprised himself with the outpouring of information and the fact that he didn't feel vulnerable sharing with Grace. He didn't know her all that well, and to share so freely was new for him. She didn't respond but she didn't look anything other than attentive, which she always did when he spoke.




 

 

"It's great that you have that," she said eventually.

They reached the boardinghouse, climbed the stairs to the first level, and stood at their respective doors, once again awkward and fidgety.

"I enjoyed today," Grace said, tapping her finger on her door handle. "Thanks."

"Me, too," Max replied, and, weirdly, it was the truth.

"We'll have to do it again sometime."

"Sure."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"Why not? Tomorrow."





In fact, tomorrow's run turned into a run the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every afternoon of the following two weeks, once Max was finished at the site, or in the morning before Grace went to work at the bar, they ran the same route, through the forest and down by the stream. They ran, Grace photographed some more, and they talked, but never about anything too deep or serious. It was banter and it was fun.

Over the days that followed, Grace learned that Max had lived in New York for most of his life. His best friend was getting married at the end of the summer, and Max was going to be the best man. He loved cars and owned a body shop, played acoustic guitar, loved rock music, and, despite his modesty when it came to his artistic talents, he knew about colors and techniques, better than he let on. She knew he was an orphan, but didn't push on the details and steered clear of anything to do with his rehab, although she knew his therapist's name, and he talked about his sponsor, Tate, frequently.

Since he'd knocked on her door, shocking the hell out of her with his apology and a chocolate muffin, Grace had started to see more of Max O'Hare's sunnier side. With each day that passed, he became less dark, more relaxed, and that smile she liked so much started to come easier. She liked making him laugh, too-the sound forever wrapped around her like a warm hug-and tried to do it as often as she could. He looked so much younger when he laughed, less weighed down by life.

Unlike other men Grace had come across since her ex-husband, Grace didn't feel anxious around Max. On the contrary, in Max's presence she felt calm and safe. She couldn't deny the night he'd been so abrasive at the bar had been horrible, but the more time she spent with him, the more she came to understand how out of character his mood had been. She knew too well how the mood swings of addicts were unpredictable and erratic and, if she and Max were going to be friends, she had to be prepared for that.

Maybe she was a lunatic for wanting to know him better, just as Kai had exclaimed on the phone when she'd mentioned Max. Maybe she was a glutton for punishment getting involved with a man who was a recovering drug addict, but she couldn't find it in herself to worry or care. The truth was she liked him. He was handsome, funny, and honest.