Chapter 12 Maddox
Maddox
Ihelp her climb into Liam’s truck, and a short, sharp laugh escapes me. The thing is even more deteriorated than the last time I saw it, which I didn’t think was possible. The passenger door groans in protest, a metallic screech that sounds like its last dying breath.
The upholstery on the seat is split, revealing a yellowish foam beneath, and the floor is littered with a collection of empty coffee cups, a crumpled fast-food bag, and what looks like a rogue work glove.
It smells like Liam, including the faint, clean scent of his detergent, but it also smells like rust and neglect.
“Easy does it,” I murmur, my hand on her arm as she settles into the seat. She looks small and fragile against the worn-out backdrop of his life.
I walk around the front and slide into the driver’s seat. The whole truck shifts under my weight. I stick the key in the ignition, and the engine turns over with a reluctant cough before settling into a rough, gravelly idle.
“I feel bad we’re taking his truck,” she says quietly, her hands folded in her lap.
“I’ll drive it back to him once I’ve gotten you home,” I tell her, my eyes on the rearview mirror as I pull out of the hospital parking lot. “Don’t worry about it.” I glance over at her. “Comfortable?”
She offers a small, tired smile and nods. “You’re all fussing over me like I broke a leg or something.”
The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re still shadowed with the remnants of her fear. My own amusement fades, replaced by the heavy weight of the question that’s been burning a hole in my gut.
“What the hell happened, Millie?” I ask, my voice low. “Really. Why did you have a panic attack?”
She turns her head to look out the window, watching the town of Driftwood Cove slide by. The rebuilding efforts are evident everywhere—scaffolding on half-finished buildings, piles of lumber in vacant lots. It’s a town in the process of healing, just like she is.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I saw him and Jessica walk in, and… it was like a switch flipped. One minute I was fine, and the next… I couldn’t breathe.”
Her explanation hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken implications. And as she speaks, a bitter taste floods my mouth.
Pathetic. That’s what I am. I’m driving her home, playing the concerned friend, the good guy, all while my heart is a clenched fist in my chest. I’m pining over a girl who is so clearly, so devastatingly, in love with my best friend.
Every moment I spend with her, every comforting word I offer, is just another form of self-torture. I’m a glutton for punishment.
I force the thought down, focusing on the road, on the practicalities. I can’t fall apart right now. She needs me to be solid.
“Do you get them often?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral. “The panic attacks? How come I’ve never known?”
She turns back to look at me, her expression thoughtful.
“No. The first time it happened was… the day after I slept with Liam for the first time.” She pauses, and I can feel the weight of that memory in the cab of the truck.
“I just thought it was all the endorphins crashing, you know? A weird side effect. It never happened again until today.”
The world outside the windshield blurs. I swallow hard, the sound loud in the sudden silence.
The day after she slept with Liam. Of course.
It always comes back to Liam. A painful, twisted knot forms in my gut.
I’m about to say something selfish, something born entirely of my own frustration and jealousy, and the words come out before I can stop them.
“If you have such strong feelings for him, Millie, why won’t you just date him? Why put yourself through all this?”
Her shoulders slump, and she looks down at her hands.
“Because I can’t,” she whispers. “I can’t lose him, Maddox.
If we… if we tried that and it went wrong…
I wouldn’t just be losing a boyfriend. I’d be losing him.
My best friend. The person who’s been there for me through everything. I’m not going to lose Liam.”
She looks up at me then, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and I see it. I see the fear that holds her captive. It’s not just about losing Liam. It’s a deeper, more fundamental terror.
“I’m scared,” she admits, her voice cracking.
“I’m scared of letting someone in that far.
Of them seeing all the broken parts, the parts I don’t even like, and deciding it’s too much.
It’s easier to keep people at a distance, you know?
To be the friend, the one who’s always okay.
Because if they see the real me, the messy, panicked me, they might leave. ”
And that’s when it hits me, a punch to the gut that leaves me breathless. We have the same fears. The fear of being seen. Truly seen. I’ve spent my entire adult life building a fortress around my own broken parts—the pain from the fire, the injuries I hide, the love I’ll never speak of.
I put on a brave face, play the strong, silent firefighter, because I’m terrified that if anyone saw how much I’m hurting, how much I’m feeling, they’d see me as weak. They’d leave. She and I, we’re just two scared people hiding in plain sight.
I don’t say any of that, of course. I just nod, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. The rest of the drive is quiet, a comfortable silence filled with a new, unspoken understanding.
We pull up outside her apartment building. I kill the engine, and the sudden quiet is deafening. “Is there anything you need before we head up?” I ask. “Medicine? Food?”
She shakes her head, managing a real smile this time. “No. I have some leftovers in the fridge. We can just have that.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft. “Let’s get you inside.”
We both climb out of the truck.
I keep a hand on the small of her back, a silent offer of support as we walk. The building is quiet, the only sound the soft scuff of our sneakers on the worn concrete.
We’re just a few feet from her door when it happens. Her foot catches on the edge of a loose tread, a small, insignificant imperfection in the concrete. She stumbles forward, a soft gasp escaping her lips, and her full weight collides with my right side.
A sharp, white-hot bolt of pain shoots up my ribs, so intense and unexpected that I can’t stop the hiss that escapes through my clenched teeth.
My vision whites out for a second, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out.
I instinctively wrap my other arm around her, steadying both of us against the wall, my body a rigid line of agony.
“Whoa, you okay?” she asks, breathless as she finds her footing. She looks up at me, her eyes wide with concern, but then her gaze sharpens. She saw it. She saw my reaction.
“Let’s get you in,” I say, my voice strained as I fumble for her keys, my hands suddenly clumsy. I need to get inside, to sit down, to let this wave of pain subside.
“Maddox,” she says, her voice soft but firm. She doesn’t move toward the door. She’s looking at me, really looking at me, her brow furrowed. “Are you hurt? You winced.”
“I’m okay,” I lie, the words tasting like ash. I try to straighten up, to project an air of nonchalance, but the movement sends another searing jolt through my side. “Just a twinge. I’m fine.”
“Maddox,” she repeats, her tone leaving no room for argument. She takes the keys from my trembling hand. “You’re not fine.”
She unlocks the door and pushes it open, guiding me inside with a gentleness that belies the determination on her face. The moment we step over the threshold, a flash of gray fur launches itself from the couch. Nimbus winds around our ankles, his purr a loud, rumbling engine of welcome.
But Millie’s attention is entirely on me. She leads me to the couch, her hand still on my arm. “Sit,” she commands, and I’m too tired, too much in pain, to argue. I sink onto the cushions, the movement pulling at my injured muscles.
“I’m fine, Mills,” I insist, but she’s already kneeling in front of me, her eyes level with mine.
“No, you’re not,” she says, her voice quiet but unwavering. “Let me see.”
“No, really, it’s nothing. Just pulled a muscle at the station.”
“Maddox,” she says, and her hands move to the hem of my uniform shirt. Her fingers are warm against the fabric. “Please.”
I should stop her. I should push her hands away, stand up, and walk out. I should protect this secret I’ve so carefully guarded. But I’m tired. So tired of the pain, of the lies, of the constant, crushing weight of pretending to be okay.
And it’s her. It’s Millie. I am powerless to stop her.
She watches my face, searching for any sign of protest, but I remain silent, my jaw tight. She takes my silence as consent. Her fingers, with a slowness that feels both reverent and terrifying, begin to untuck my shirt from my pants.
Her knuckles brush against my stomach, and a shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. She pulls the shirt up, exposing the skin of my abdomen, and then she sees it.
“Holy fuck,” she whispers, the words a soft puff of air against my skin.
My torso is a mottled canvas of deep purple, angry blue, and sickly yellow. The bruises spread from my ribs down to my hip, a grotesque map that I carry with me every single day.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice hoarse. I want to pull my shirt down to hide the evidence of my weakness, but my arms feel like lead.
“I need to see,” she says, her eyes fixed on the damage.
Her gaze is filled with a mixture of horror and a fierce, protective anger.
Her fingers, so gentle, trace the edge of the largest bruise, a dark, sprawling bloom over my ribs.
The touch is light as a feather, but it sends a fresh wave of agony through me.
I flinch, and she snatches her hand back as if she’s been burned.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes.
“It’s okay,” I manage, my eyes squeezed shut.
This isn’t how I imagined it. Not this. Not her discovering my brokenness like this, in the aftermath of her own collapse.
I always imagined, in my most foolish, private moments, that it would be different.
That it would be a choice. But this is just another accident, another painful collision in the dark.
Her hands move to the buttons of my uniform shirt.
Her movements are sure, methodical. She works them down one by one, her knuckles brushing against my chest with each one.
Then she peels back the shirt, her gaze dropping to the T-shirt underneath.
Without hesitation, she hooks her fingers under the hem of that too, and I lift my arms mechanically, allowing her to pull it over my head.
The cool air of the apartment hits my skin, and I sit there, half-naked and exposed, every flaw, every scar, every painful secret laid bare for her to see. Her eyes roam over my chest and back, taking in the network of smaller bruises, the faint white lines of older scars.
“How did this happen?” she asks.
I swallow, the lie I’ve told a hundred times dying on my tongue. The look in her eyes, the raw concern on her face, it breaks something open inside me. I can’t lie to her. Not anymore.
“The fire,” I say, the words quiet but clear. “A beam fell. It… it pinned me for a few minutes.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “That was months ago. Maddox, this looks recent. Some of these bruises are still fresh.”
“I’ve been okay,” I say, the excuse sounding weak even to my own ears.
“You’re not okay,” she says, her voice shaking. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just above a particularly nasty, dark bruise on my side. “You’re not okay at all. This looks like it happened yesterday.”
I let out a long breath. “I slept in at the station the other night. The bunks aren’t as comfortable. I think I bruised a few ribs again.”
“Have you been to the hospital?” she asks, her eyes flashing with anger. “Have you seen a doctor?”
That’s where I have to draw the line. I take her hand, my grip firm. “I can’t, Mills.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because the captain can’t know I’m hurt,” I explain, the words tumbling out in a rush. “He’ll take me off the crew. He’ll put me on desk duty or, worse, send me home for good. I can’t… I can’t do that. I need to be out there. I need to help rebuild.”
She stares at me, her expression a mixture of disbelief and fury. “You’re crazy,” she says, her voice low. “Absolutely crazy. You could have internal damage, a punctured lung, and you’re hiding it so you can play the hero?”
“Mills, please,” I beg, my voice cracking. “Don’t.”
She swallows, her anger softening into a deep, aching sadness. Her eyes scan my torso again. “What other injuries do you have?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Show them.”
I close my eyes. I can’t. But I have to. I slowly turn, giving her a view of my back. I tell her about the pain in my hip and the one in my shoulder. I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“Millie,” I say, my voice thick with a shame I can no longer hide.
She moves closer, her hand gently resting on my uninjured shoulder. “You should have told us,” she says, her voice breaking. “You should have told me. Or Liam. We would have helped you. We’re your friends.”
“I can’t,” I say, the words a raw confession. “I can’t be weak. Not in front of you guys. Not in front of him.”
“You should’ve told us,” she whispers.
And then she does the one thing I’m not prepared for. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a hug. It’s a gentle, careful embrace, her arms avoiding the worst of the bruises, but the pressure against my back is still enough to make me wince.
“Shit. I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice muffled by her hair. I press a soft kiss to the top of her head, a gesture of pure, unadulterated affection. “I’m okay.”