Chapter 6 #2
He brought the weather with him. He looked exhausted. His shoulders were slumped slightly, the first crack in his posture I’d seen all day. He was carrying a gym bag and a grocery sack.
He dropped the gym bag by the door. He locked the deadbolt. Click.
The sound echoed. We were locked in. Just us.
"Hey," I said, closing my notebook.
Max looked at me. He didn't say hello. He walked straight to the kitchen, set the grocery bag down, and braced his hands on the edge of the sink, hanging his head.
He breathed in. Out. In. Out.
It was rhythmic. Controlled. But there was a tremor in his hands that traveled up his arms.
"Max?" I slid off the counter. The playfulness died in my throat. "What’s wrong?"
He didn't answer. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. He scrubbed at his skin aggressively, dripping water onto his shirt.
Then, without a word, he turned and walked to the supply closet. He pulled out a bottle of bleach spray and a toothbrush.
My stomach twisted.
He went to the backsplash behind the stove. It was already spotless. I had watched him clean it yesterday.
He sprayed the bleach. The chemical smell hit the air, sharp and stinging. He started to scrub the grout lines with the toothbrush. Hard.
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
"Max," I said, stepping closer. "The kitchen is clean. You cleaned it this morning."
"It’s not clean," he muttered, his voice tight. "Dust settles. Grease accumulates. Entropy is constant."
"Entropy?" I frowned. "Max, talk to me. What happened?"
"Nothing," he snapped. He didn't look at me. He was fixated on a microscopic spot on the tile. "My mother called."
Ah. The layer peel.
I stopped. I knew about parents who called only to demand things. I knew the tone of voice my father used when I was an asset to be managed.
"What did she want?" I asked softly.
"She found a storage unit," Max said, scrubbing harder. The bristles of the toothbrush were splaying. "She says she needs money to pay the back rent on it. She says there are... treasures inside. Antiques. Things she can sell."
He laughed, a harsh, jagged sound.
"It’s garbage, Imogen. It’s always garbage. Newspapers from 1998. Broken lamps. Clothes that smell like cat piss. But she needs to save it. She needs to keep it."
He sprayed more bleach. The fumes were making my eyes water.
"If I don't send the money, she loses it. She cries. She says I'm abandoning her. If I send the money, I'm enabling her. I'm paying for her to live in a tomb of trash."
His arm was moving faster now. Violently.
"I can't control it," he whispered. "I can't stop the accumulation. It just piles up. It suffocates everything."
He wasn't talking about his mother anymore. He was talking about his life. The pressure. The draft. Me. The feelings he wasn't supposed to have.
He was spiraling. The Warden was losing the keys.
I moved.
I didn't think about the awkwardness of last night. I didn't think about my virginity or his rejection. I just saw a man who was drowning in invisible water.
I walked up behind him.
"Max," I said.
He didn't stop scrubbing.
I reached out and placed my hand over his on the toothbrush.
His hand was shaking. His knuckles were white. He was gripping the plastic so hard I thought it would snap.
"Stop," I whispered.
He froze. His muscles were rock hard under my hand.
"It’s clean," I said, pressing my chest lightly against his back. "Max, look at it. It’s clean."
He let out a shuddering breath. He dropped the toothbrush. It clattered into the sink.
He turned around in the circle of my arms, trapping himself between me and the counter. He looked down at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. The mask was gone. He looked young. He looked scared.
"I hate the mess," he rasped. "I hate it."
"I know," I said. I reached up, my hands finding the tension in his neck. I started to massage the cords of muscle there. "That’s why you live here. In the box. With the grey walls."
"And then you came," he said, searching my face. "With your glitter and your chaos and your... everything."
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I know I'm a lot."
"No," he shook his head. He reached out and grabbed my waist, pulling me into him. "You're not a mess, Imogen. You're... color. You're the only thing in this whole damn life that isn't grey."
My heart stopped, then restarted at double speed.
He rested his forehead against mine. We stood there in the kitchen, smelling of bleach and sweat and sandalwood.
"About last night," he breathed.
"You don't have to explain," I said quickly. "I get it. I'm... I'm a project. You don't want to complicate—"
"I stopped," he interrupted, "because if I had been inside you, Imogen, I wouldn't have been able to let you go. And you deserve better than a guy who’s one phone call away from a breakdown."
I pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
"You think I want perfect?" I asked. "Max, look at my family. We are the poster children for 'Perfect on the Outside, Rotting on the Inside.' I don't want perfect."
I ran my thumb over the scar in his eyebrow.
"I like the cracks," I whispered. "That’s where the light gets in. Isn't that what the quote says?"
"Leonard Cohen," he muttered. A small, tired smile ghosted his lips. "You listen to Cohen?"
"I have depth," I teased softly.
He huffed a laugh. He leaned down and kissed my nose. It wasn't sexual. It was tender. It was a thank you. It was an admission.
"I'm keeping the money," he said. "I'm not sending it to her."
"Good," I said. "Use it for something else. Something for you."
"Maybe I'll buy you dinner," he said. "Since bagels are empty carbs."
"I would like steak," I said. "Rare. Like a predator."
He pulled me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He inhaled deeply.
"Steak it is," he murmured.
We stood there for a long time, the silence of the apartment settling around us. But it wasn't heavy anymore. It was warm.
I realized then that the danger hadn't passed. It had just changed shape.
Last night, I was afraid of having sex with him.
Tonight, standing in his arms while he fell apart and put himself back together, I realized the stakes were infinitely higher.
I wasn't just going to give him my body.
If I wasn't careful, I was going to give him my charcoal-stained, glitter-covered, terrified little heart.
And I had a feeling Max Vane didn't break things by accident. He would break me methodically, perfectly, and I would probably thank him for it.