Chapter 12
Ellie
I’m meeting Maddox for lunch, at the little café he loves so much. It’s vegan, which neither of us is, but that does mean there are some delicious and healthy choices on the menu. That doesn’t always compute, but it does here at Sally’s.
I glance at my phone and see that he’s running a little late.
That’s not normal for Maddox, as I’ve discovered over the last few months we’ve been hanging out.
He’s usually on time, and when he commits to something, he sticks to it.
At least some of that is because he doesn’t have a phone.
That still seems insane to me, but I’m working on it.
I smile indulgently to myself as I sip my matcha.
It’s delicious. Cinnamon. The key to making everything taste good, in my opinion.
I browse the menu, even though I’m only doing it to pass the time.
Sally will do her thing and bring us what food and drink she thinks will work for us today.
It’s a cute place, old-fashioned. A little like being in a time capsule.
It’s one of Maddox’s favorite hangouts, along with an old Irish pub in the East Village and an amazing pizza place in Brooklyn that Amelia introduced him to.
For a man who doesn’t drink, he spends a lot of time in places that serve alcohol.
I look at my phone again, which is pointless. He can’t message me. It’s okay, I tell myself. I don’t have to be anywhere else right now.
Maddox and I have, just like he suggested, become friends. I didn’t think it would be possible, not with the way he makes me feel. I mean, the man is hot with a capital H. And, come to think of it, a capital O and a capital T as well.
But he’s also a genuinely great guy. We have a lot in common.
Shared interests, mutual connections, the same sense of humor.
It’s been great getting to know him all over again.
We’ve been to gigs and galleries, shopped at farmers markets, strolled in Central Park, and volunteered at the community garden project I’m involved in.
Mainly, though, we’ve just talked. So so much.
That night in Morocco wasn’t a fluke. We really do get on freakily well.
I’ve told him a lot about myself, and he’s shared things, too.
I now know more of what happened with Yasmin, the girlfriend who took her own life.
He knows that my father is in prison, though not what for.
I still like to keep that part of myself, well, to myself.
Maddox is one of the most emotionally intelligent people I’ve ever met, and I know he wouldn’t judge, but also I know that he’d no longer see me as just Ellie, his friend, but as Ellie who had that awful thing happen to her when she was just a kid.
And that’s another reason we should probably remain friends and nothing more.
Maddox isn’t the kind of guy I could keep secrets from if I was sharing the rest of my life with him.
It would feel disingenuous, and he is the opposite of that.
This I tell myself to make me feel better about not being more than friends, which I very much want, even if it’s a little scary.
I think we’re both still keeping secrets, but that’s okay. We all have our secrets, don’t we? Very few people know the full truth about my life, and there’s a reason for that. Once people find out what happened to me, they tend to look at me differently. They pity me. Or see me as damaged.
I am not damaged, though. Maybe a little cracked, but who isn’t?
Maddox gets that. I think he’s the same.
He’s a paradox of innocence and wisdom, always searching for beauty in a world that he knows first-hand can be ugly.
He’s told me about his dark days, about the drugs and the drinking.
The rows with his dad. The way he stormed away from this family.
His grief for his mom, and the way that developed into a deep-seated rage that almost ruined his whole life.
It’s hard to imagine him in a rage now. He’s a gentle soul, despite his size and the sheer brute strength of him.
He never judges. Never raises his voice.
He’s kind and sweet and generous, making time for everyone around him.
He’s on first name terms with some of the local homeless people, offering them food when they need it, paying for nights in emergency shelters when that’s what they want.
Tells them about meetings he attends in case they want to join.
He’s thoughtful. He thinks before he speaks.
He treats people with the kind of respect that you rarely see in the modern world—the kind of respect that only people who have hit rock bottom themselves can give.
He’s also still the best-looking man I have ever seen in real life.
I sigh into my drink as I spot him running towards the café.
No, scratch that, he’s the best-looking man on the planet, including on TV, in movies. Even compared to the heroes in my books.
He’s wearing gray sweats and white sneakers, pounding along the sidewalk with a file tucked beneath his arm and a scarf streaming out behind him.
Gray sweats on a hot man. The goddess’s gift to women, to make up for periods and the agony of childbirth.
I try not to stare at the very obvious man parts bouncing around in there.
He’s my friend. My pal. My buddy. I need to start thinking of him as sexless, like a Ken doll.
Which is difficult, because Maddox obviously has a monster dick.
Fuck. What is wrong with me?
He bursts into the café in a cloud of sweat, attracting the attention of every single woman in here, as well as a few men.
It’s the beginning of April, and spring is doing its thing.
As is traditional this time of year, I’m starting to worry about what I’m going to wear in the office during the height of summer.
Sure, we have air conditioning, but I still have to ride the subway and walk from the station.
Summer in New York is way stuffier than Chicago, and that kind of heat can be difficult for us curvy gals.
“What are you thinking about?” he says, stopping at the table and taking his scarf off. He looks healthy, fit, and edible. “And I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Uh, I was thinking about potential thigh chafing,” I say honestly, shrugging. That’s not sexy, is it? And that’s okay, because Maddox is my friend. I don’t need to be sexy around him. “Hot weather, full thighs.”
He looks distracted as he sits across from me and sips the green tea that’s already waiting for him. “Cycle shorts?” he suggests. “Maybe some tea tree oil mixed in with almond, massaged in?”
I nod, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Because now I’m imagining my thighs being massaged by his big hands, the oil getting rubbed into my skin, his breath warm against my flesh.
“So. Where have you been?” I ask. “And why are you carrying papers?”
He places the files on the table and grins at me. He looks sheepish but also excited.
“It’s research. For a business plan. And yes, printing everything out isn’t great, but sometimes I just want to hold something in my hand, you know?”
Dear mother. Yes. Back to his hands again…hang on. Rewind. “A business plan?”
He nods. Sally brings us a platter of hummus, falafel, and carrot sticks, along with a much-needed basket of warm pita triangles. “Go on,” he says, smiling at the look on my face. “You’ll just be distracted if you’re staring at that bread the whole time. Eat, Ellie.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I’ve often felt self-conscious eating around other people, especially men.
The whole experience with Owen wasn’t unusual.
People assume that if you carry extra weight, you are greedy and lazy and have no self-discipline.
In reality some of us are just made this way, that’s simply our natural body shape.
It can make you feel a little embarrassed as you tuck in, knowing that people might be looking at you and thinking what a glutton you are.
I don’t feel that with Maddox, though. We both love food, and we enjoy eating out together.
I dip the delicious freshly baked goodness into the hummus, amazed as ever that something as dull as chickpeas can taste so decadent.
“Good?” he asks.
I finish my mouthful. “Not as good as yours.”
Maddox’s homemade hummus is to die for. Almost as orgasm-inducing as the man himself. Because yes, he is partly responsible for all my orgasms lately. Even when I try not to think about him, he turns up anyway in my fantasies. His thick fingers and his sinful lips especially.
He’s looking pleased with himself, and I wonder for a horrifying moment if he can read my mind.
Then he reaches out with a napkin to dab some stray food from the side of my mouth.
His fingers graze against my skin, and just like that, I’m imagining him touching me again in other, far less innocent places.
Does he notice the way my body reacts when he touches me?
If he does, he very carefully ignores it.
He is celibate. We are just friends. Nothing will ever come of it, other than a whole lot of yearning on my part, and some feverish dreams that leave me restless and embarrassingly damp in my lady parts.
“Business plan,” I say, distracting myself. “Spill.”
“I want to buy this place,” he says simply. He’s calm on the surface, as ever, but I can tell he’s also excited—and maybe a little nervous?
I gape at him playfully, a carrot stick in my hand. Then I waggle it at him. “What? You want your own restaurant?”
“Yeah. Is it a stupid idea? It probably is. I have no training. I never even went to college. You can tell me, Ellie, I trust you. Am I being dumb?”
“God no,” I assure him, dropping the food and holding his hands in mine. In an actually purely platonic way. He looks so nervous. All four of his big brothers are highly educated and hugely successful. They are the very definition of alpha male overachievers. How must it feel to be Maddox?
Personally, I think he’s incredibly mature. He knows himself in a way most people never do. But compared to the others, it’s possible even he could feel like a failure.
“Maddox, you’d be amazing. Your cooking is to die for, honestly. The best I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve tasted a lot.”
I edge slightly into self-deprecating there, and he shoots me a warning look. He doesn’t like me dissing myself, even when I’m obviously joking. “Seriously, Maddox, I think it’s a great idea. But why do you need a business plan? Couldn’t you just, um, you know…”
“Buy it outright and see what happens?”
I nod. No use shying away from it. That is what I mean. He’s in a financial position most people could only dream about. I know he lives a humble life, the odd splurge on a precious Yankees cap aside, but he has money. He wouldn’t need a loan, or to convince an investor to take a chance on him.
“Because I don’t want to play at this, Ellie.
I want it to be real. I want it to work.
I have no desire to be a master of the universe like my brothers, and I wouldn’t be doing it for the money, I’d be following my passion.
But I also want it to succeed. I want it to be valid, to have a chance.
So I think the best way to do that would be to go it alone, like any other start-up.
I’m putting together the business plan, and I have some investors in mind, and…
” He blows out a breath, steadying himself.
“But now that I’m saying it out loud, I’m not sure. It’s a lot.”
“It is a lot. But you’re more than capable. Besides, you wouldn’t be doing it alone.”
“I told you, I don’t want to ask my brothers for help.”
“I don’t mean your brothers, silly,” I tell him. “I mean me. I can help. With the business plan, with putting together proposals, presentations. You also need to get a phone.”
“What? Why?”
“Because modern business relies on them, Maddox. You can’t communicate with everybody by carrier pigeon forever.”
He grimaces, but reluctantly agrees. “You’ll really help?”
“Of course I will. That’s what friends are for, right?”
He holds my hand in his and drops a gentle kiss on my palm. It’s the barest of touches, but my heart absolutely skyrockets. He keeps hold of my fingers, and I subconsciously follow the scar he has across his knuckles. “Thank you, Ellie. That’s really generous of you.”
“I’m happy to help,” I tell him. And have any excuse to spend time in your company. Wisely, I keep that latter part to myself. “How did you get this?” I ask, running my fingertips over the scar.
He looks uncomfortable and pulls his hand away. “Football accident,” he says, quietly. He stares at the pita bread intently before picking some up and eating it.
I don’t react, but I’m fairly sure that Maddox just lied to me for the first time ever. It makes me feel unsettled. We’ve been so honest with each other during this second chance at friendship.
Still. He’s entitled to his secrets. We all carry scars. Some are physical. Some are hidden inside us. And they’re probably the most dangerous of them all.