Chapter Twenty-Six #2
She loved him, and it broke her heart that he would never know that for certain now.
It broke her heart that he would never know just how important he’d become in her life.
Broke her heart that all he would remember about her was the unkindness of that flippantly made early remark and not the depth of her emotion towards him.
He’d seen it in her eyes but never heard it from her lips, and that hurt her.
It would never do. She needed to see Max, to at least put one thing to rights with him.
Yes, she’d called him Mr Two out of Ten.
That was true, Bo admitted to it, and there was nothing she could do to take it back.
She wouldn’t even try to insult Max’s intelligence by suggesting it hadn’t happened, that it hadn’t been said.
She needed to tell him the things she hadn’t said though.
Needed to tell him she loved him, so that his lingering feeling towards her wouldn’t be one of outright resentment.
But he thinks you’re brainless and talentless, her mind reminded her. You’re just a fling to him, so what do you care what he thinks of you? What do you care how you leave things with him?
She did care though. He’d been cruel to her and she’d been cruel to him, but Bo still cared. She would always care, she suspected. So, even though she knew he wouldn’t want to listen, even though she knew he wouldn’t want to hear it, she was going to tell him at least one truth.
I’ve not done much in this relationship to be proud of, Bo realized. But I can at least leave it knowing I was always honest with him. That I never lied to Max or misled him or anything like that. So, even if he hates me, I’ll still be honest with him.
Sitting up, Bo slipped out of her bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Willa next to her. Not that she could’ve disturbed Willa, even if she wanted to. Willa was sleeping so soundly a 747 could have taken off next to Bo’s summer house and it wouldn’t have woken her.
Bo pulled her dressing gown over her pyjamas, before throwing on an old pair of gardening Crocs.
It wasn’t the sexiest or most attractive of outfits, but Bo couldn’t give a flying fuck about how she looked at that point.
She wasn’t going to see Max to seduce him or anything like that anyway, so it didn’t matter what she wore.
Not that Max even cared how she looked. Whatever she’d been wearing, however she looked, he’d always been happy to see her.
Bo winced anew when she realized that Max had never been shallow about her looks, whereas she . . .
She padded up the garden quietly, hoping and praying that all of Max’s guests for the evening had gone home.
A cold thought suddenly struck her. What if Raphaella had stayed?
What if she and Max had . . . had ended up in bed together?
That was the sort of next-level shit people did when reeling from hurt and heartbreak, right?
Texting exes. Calling exes. Falling into bed with exes.
Not that Max was heartbroken, but still.
Bo knew she’d hurt him and that Raphaella had been there, willing and available to act as a soothing balm to Max’s injured pride.
For a moment, Bo stood in the garden, unhappily frozen, hoping to God she didn’t vomit all over the dividing hedge.
The thought of Max sleeping with anyone else was abhorrent to her and made her want to lose what little food she’d eaten.
It made her want to claw at her own skin and tear at her own hair and she was rigid with fear that she would enter the house and find Max and Raphaella curled up on his bed, a place she, Bo — just the fling, she reminded herself cruelly — had never been.
She took a deep breath, willing herself to get it together.
Maybe Max was in bed with Raphaella. Maybe he was in bed with somebody else.
Maybe he was alone. It didn’t matter in the end, because Bo was still going to knock on the door and get him out of that bed anyway.
She had to do this. It didn’t even matter to her if his house was still crawling with guests, because she was going to talk to him anyway.
And if he slammed the door in her face, she would wait until the morning and try again.
She would keep trying, in fact, until she’d told him the truth: that yes, she’d said that horrible thing, but also, that she loved him dearly.
A love she felt without any hope or expectation of return.
She didn’t need to knock however, because the sliding door to the kitchen was open.
She stepped through it, hardly noticing the mess of the kitchen, completely ignoring the piled-up plates, wine-stained glassware and mounds of uneaten food.
She wasn’t there to berate Max for his untidiness, was she?
She had more important things to worry about than the state of a kitchen which wasn’t her own.
So, she moved from the kitchen to the hall and was about to go up the stairs towards Max’s bedroom when she heard it, distinct in the night air: a piano playing.
Bo knew the sound like she knew herself.
Recognized it after a summer of hearing it in her heart and in her dreams. She knew who was making it too: Max. Max was awake and playing his piano.
She opened her mouth, going to call out Max’s name, before she stopped.
The music tonight was the angriest she’d ever heard Max play, the furious notes and loud chords at odds with the soft familiarity of the piece he was playing.
Instantly, Bo knew that this wasn’t a rehearsal for Max.
No, this was a release of outrage, and she crouched in on herself to hear it.
She refused to be cowed though. Refused to snake back to her summer house and leave everything she felt unsaid. So, with her heart beating fast and on shaky legs, she snuck into Max’s study, slipping into her usual corner and waiting for Max to finish.
He knew she was there, of course. She recognized his awareness of her presence by a sudden tension to his shoulders and back, and by the sudden jarring sound of a missed note as his hands stumbled over the keys.
Still, he masterfully played on, and Bo found a small degree of comfort in the familiarity of this moment.
Her, sitting in the corner of this room, listening intently to the music, while Max played, fully aware of the silent witness to his creativity and genius.
It was achingly comforting, and Bo never realized before this moment how much she’d loved these times. How much she would miss these times.
Bo hugged her knees to her chest, her dressing gown wrapped around her legs, and as she heard the notes begin to play that signalled the end of this piece, found herself wanting to cry.
Never again would she quietly sit in the corner of this room and hear Max play.
Never again would Max turn and smile at her after he’d finished a piece.
Never again would she kiss him at the end of a rehearsal. Never again. Never again.
When at last Max’s hands stopped, and silence filled the room, he turned to the corner to look at her blankly.
“You didn’t knock,” he said flatly, and Bo shrugged.
“I never needed to before.”
There was no smile at this shared past. No smile at this hint towards their shared intimacy. Instead, Max sighed, before he looked at the clock on the mantlepiece.
“Three a.m.,” he stated. “It would be, wouldn’t it?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Bo replied, for no real reason, other than a need to speak.
“I can’t help with that. Why are you here, Bo?”
She chewed on her lip. “I need to tell you something.”
“If it’s that you find my personality as repulsive as you apparently find my face, I’ll pass on hearing that information. There’s only so many mortal wounds a man’s pride can take in one evening.”
She shook her head. “I don’t find you repulsive, Max.”
“No?” Max gave an ugly laugh. “Mr Two out of Ten, remember? Someone you tolerate only because I’m good at fucking you?”
Bo winced. “Max, look—”
“No, you look.” Max’s voice was ice cold. “Do me a favour, Bo, and get the hell away from me. Do you know how hurtful what you said was? Do you? I don’t know if you do.”
“I do!” Bo protested. “If I could go back in time and not say that . . . that awful, fucking horrible thing I said, I would. I can’t though. I can’t go back and take it back, no matter how much I might want to.”
“You mean, you did say it?”
Bo took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Max shook his head at her in disgust. “What’s the point of you being so beautiful if you’re so fucking ugly inside?”
That was too much, and Bo leaped to her feet. “You’re one to talk,” she spat back.
“What do you mean by that?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean, I know exactly what you think of me too, you know.”
“Do you now?” Max crossed his arms too, mirroring her pose. “I don’t think you do.”
“I do,” Bo insisted. “Raphaella said everything.”
At his ex-girlfriend’s name, Max’s face went stony. “You spoke to Raphaella?”
“No. I overheard her,” Bo confessed unhappily. “You should have kept your guests off my property. She was talking to a friend about you, and she happened to mention the woman you were seeing. She meant me, right? Unless you were sleeping with someone else when we were together.”
Max said nothing. He stared at her, his face still stone-like, as though waiting for her to go on. Bo inhaled deeply.
“You said that I was just a fling. A talentless, brainless fling. Just an out-of-work actress,” Bo’s voice cracked as the awful reality of those words and this moment settled upon her.
“And a woman you could never be serious about.” Hot, angry tears built in Bo’s eyes, and she wiped at them furiously.
I will not cry in front of him, she decided. I will not cry in front of him and let him know how much he’s hurt me.