Ugly(111)

He smiles, and with his leather clad hand, he wipes some snowflakes from my face. “Anytime.” He leans down and kisses my forehead, then leads us to his car.

Max drives in silence, and when we get home, he doesn’t try to come inside, he leaves the car idling and waits for me to take the lead. “I really…” I huff and nervously look down at my hands. “Shayne and Liam are spending the night at his place home, and I don’t think it’ll be a good idea for me to be alone.”

“Oh,” Max says as his eyebrows rise in surprise. “Um…”

I gather the words I need to say. “Max, I’ve been alone my entire life. Even when I was living with Dad, even when I was living at Trent’s parent’s place, even when I was married, I was alone. I never had a family, and I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged. But now I do, and tonight, I just need to feel like someone who cares for me is close. I’m not talking about sex. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that again. I just need to know someone I have a connection to, is close to me.”

Max’s eyes light up as he gives me a small nod, he understands what I’m saying. “I’ve been thinking about how comfortable that sofa is,” he says, breaking the tension surrounding us. He turns off the car, opens the glove department and takes out a small gift bag. “I had it in here for tomorrow, doesn’t mean you’ll get it tonight,” he says once he sees me eying the Christmas gift.

“Come on,” I encourage as I get out of the car and go to the front door.

Max follows. He takes off his coat and sets it on the sofa. “Have you eaten?” he asks.

“No, I haven’t had a chance. But I’ve got a giant headache, I might just go have a bath and go to sleep.”

“How about I make us something to eat?” He puts his hands up, as if surrendering. “Don’t get too excited, I meant something like an omelet, nothing too fancy.”

When he mentions eggs, suddenly my stomach growls and I feel famished. “Thank you, that’ll be great. I’ll just go put my things down and grab my laptop. Do you need help or will you be okay?”

He accesses the kitchen, and turns to me. “I’ve got this. You go do what you need to, I’ll cook us an omelet.”

I go to my room, put my bag down, take off my shoes and grab my laptop. I literally feel as if I can lie down and sleep a lifetime. My head is hurting, but the constant ache sitting on my chest feels like it’s lighter.

Max is cooking and I sit at the kitchen counter, firing up my laptop.

Checking my emails I have one from Michaela telling me her book has moved up to top five on the New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists. She’s also said she’s recommended me to three more authors.

The second email is from my first paid proofreading job, wishing me a Merry Christmas. She loved what I did with her book and she’s taken every suggestion I offered her. She’ll be uploading her book between Christmas and New Year.

The third, fourth, and fifth emails are all the enquiries from the recommendations Michaela gave. The great thing is, these three books will all be ready at different times, so I can take all three jobs on.

I shoot them a mail with my prices, and a Merry Christmas picture I’ve found, then close down the computer.

I finish, just as Max serves up an omelet each. My stomach appreciates the smell of the hot, perfectly cooked eggs. “This looks so good.” I pick up the fork and start eating mine. Actually, I think a more apt term is inhaling.

“Slow down. You’ll give yourself a stomach ache,” he says, as he watches me destroy the omelet.

“When I was a kid, I’d have a tummy ache all the time. Not because I’d eat fast, but because I was starving.”

“How so?” He squints his eyes and knits his eyebrows together.

“My mom died when I was young. She killed herself. Well, I suppose a drug overdose is killing yourself. All I remember of her is she always told me how ugly I was, but she was constantly slurring her words. Her eyes were dark, she lost heaps of weight and her skin was pasty. I don’t remember much else.”

“Why would she say such things? How old were you?”

“I was nine when she died. I don’t know why’d she say it, all I knew was she hated me.”

“Jesus.” He picks at his omelet.

“Dad wasn’t much better. At first he’d just say the same type of things. Then, when Mom died, it got worse. He’d beat me sometimes, sometimes he left me all alone. The beatings weren’t that bad at first…”

Max interrupts me to say, “Any beating is bad.”