Chapter 20
TWENTY
Max
I've been pouring the wrong drinks all night. Vodka tonic instead of gin and tonic. Bourbon neat when the customer asked for scotch. My mind is a thousand miles away—or more accurately, about twenty blocks east, in a sleek high-rise apartment where Lena is presumably moving on with her life while I slowly drown in mine. It's been two weeks since the coffee shop disaster, two weeks of robotic text exchanges about Luminous Beauty obligations coordinated entirely through Tori, two weeks of sleeping on the couch because my bed still smells like Lena's shampoo. Ryan keeps telling me I look like "a sad country song come to life," which might explain why customers have been tipping with pitying looks instead of actual money tonight.
"Manhattan, please," a woman in a business suit requests, settling onto a barstool.
"Coming right up," I reply automatically, reaching for the rye whiskey. My hand hovers over the bottle as an unwelcome memory surfaces—Lena, perched on this very stool the night we met, skeptical eyes watching me mix her drink, no idea she was about to propose a fake relationship that would unravel both our carefully constructed defenses.
"Sometime tonight would be great," the woman prompts, eyebrows raised.
"Sorry." I shake myself back to the present, focusing on the simple task that suddenly requires all my concentration. Sweet vermouth, bitters, cherry. Basic bartending. I can do this, even if I can't seem to do anything else right lately.
The bar door swings open, and Ryan and Drew walk in, scanning the room before spotting me. Great. The Sympathy Squad has arrived for their nightly check-in to ensure I haven't completely fallen apart. Their concern would be touching if it weren't so suffocating.
"You look like shit," Ryan announces by way of greeting, sliding onto a barstool after I serve the Manhattan woman. "Even worse than yesterday, which I didn't think was possible."
"Charming as always," I mutter, automatically reaching for the beers they usually order.
"We're worried about you, man," Drew says, his tone gentler than Ryan's but no less concerned. "You've been going through the motions for two weeks. It's like watching a zombie tend bar."
I set their beers down with more force than necessary. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, clearly." Ryan gestures to a customer frantically trying to get my attention from the other end of the bar. "You're the picture of functional adulting."
After serving the neglected customer, I return to find my friends in serious conversation, their heads bent together like they're plotting something. Never a good sign.
"What?" I demand.
"We think you're being an idiot," Ryan says bluntly.
"More specifically," Drew adds, "we think you're giving up too easily."
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "You didn't see her face at that coffee shop. She's done. She made that perfectly clear."
"And you just accepted it?" Ryan shakes his head in disbelief. "The Max Donovan I know doesn't roll over that easily."
"This isn't some bar dispute or band disagreement," I snap, frustration leaking through my carefully maintained numbness. "I betrayed her trust. I made a bet about not falling for her, and then I fell for her, and then I hid the bet from her. She found out in probably the worst possible way. There's no fixing that."
"So you're not even going to try?" Drew asks quietly.
The question catches me off guard. "What's there to try? She doesn't want me anymore."
"Did she actually say that?" Ryan presses. "Or did she say she couldn't trust you?"
"Same difference."
"No," he insists, "it's not. Trust can be rebuilt. But only if you're willing to put in the work."
I focus on wiping down the already-clean bar top, avoiding their too-perceptive gazes. "You don't understand her history. After what Cameron did to her, making their relationship into content, exposing her publicly…and then she finds out I made a bet about her? It confirmed her worst fears about men seeing her as something to be used or won."
"Then help her understand it wasn't like that," Drew suggests. "Make her see the truth."
"I tried explaining at the coffee shop. She believes I care about her, but she says she can't be with someone she doesn't fully trust." The memory of her composed face, the careful way she maintained distance between us, still aches like a physical wound. "I respect her enough to accept that decision."
"Bullshit," Ryan says flatly. "You're not respecting her decision. You're protecting yourself from further rejection."
His accusation lands with precision, uncomfortably close to a truth I've been avoiding. "That's not?—"
"It is." He leans forward, uncharacteristically serious. "I've known you for years, Max. You did the same thing with music. When things got scary, when success was actually within reach, you walked away. You're doing it again with Lena."
"I'm not walking away," I protest. "She ended things."
"And you just accepted it," Drew points out. "Didn't fight, didn't pursue, didn't make any grand gestures to prove you're worth trusting again."
"Grand gestures are for movies, not real life."
"Maybe," Ryan concedes. "But real love means fighting for someone when it matters. Does she matter, Max?"
The question hits me like a physical blow. Does Lena matter? She's all that matters. She's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before sleep. She's the reason music is flowing through my head again after years of silence. She's the woman who saw through my carefully constructed nonchalance to the scared, passionate person beneath—and loved that person anyway, until I gave her reason not to.
"Of course she matters," I admit quietly. "She's everything."
"Then why are you here, moping and pouring the wrong drinks, instead of fighting to get her back?" Ryan demands.
"Because I'm terrified," I confess, the words finally breaking through the numbness I've been cultivating for two weeks. "Terrified she's better off without me. Terrified she'll never trust me again no matter what I do. Terrified of trying and failing and having to live with the certainty that it's over instead of this…limbo."
Drew's expression softens. "That's the thing about love, man. It's always terrifying. But sometimes you have to risk everything for the chance at something real."
"When did you two become relationship philosophers?" I ask, trying to deflect from the uncomfortable truth of their words.
"We've been watching a lot of rom-coms," Ryan admits shamelessly. "Research to help your sorry ass."
Despite everything, I laugh—a genuine sound that feels foreign after weeks of hollow existence. "And what do these rom-coms suggest I do? Stand outside her window with a boombox?"
"Not with your taste in music," Ryan snorts. "But seriously, you need to show her that you're willing to be vulnerable, to risk rejection, to put yourself out there completely."
"And that rebuilding trust takes time and consistent effort," Drew adds. "You can't just explain once and expect everything to be fixed."
They're right, and the realization hits me with startling clarity. I've been passively accepting the end of the best thing that's ever happened to me. I've been respecting Lena's boundaries, yes, but also protecting myself from the harder, more vulnerable work of fighting for her, of proving day after day that she can trust me again.
I think about all the moments—the night in the rain, the hallway at the charity gala, the weekend at the cabin, countless quiet evenings and lazy mornings that transformed a business arrangement into the most authentic relationship I've ever experienced. I think about how she defended me to Sophie, how she encouraged me to play music again, how she gradually shed her carefully curated persona to show me the real woman beneath.
And what did I do? I hid the truth about the bet until it exploded in our faces. Then I explained once, accepted her rejection, and retreated to lick my wounds.
"I'm an idiot," I mutter, the realization washing over me.
"Finally, he gets it," Ryan says triumphantly. "So what are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know yet." But for the first time in two weeks, purpose stirs within me, replacing the numb acceptance I've been hiding behind. "But I'm not giving up. Not without a fight."
Drew claps me on the shoulder. "That's more like it."
"I'm still on shift for another three hours," I say, glancing around at the steadily filling bar.
"I'll cover you," Ryan offers, surprising me. "Kevin's coming in for the late shift anyway. Go change your life or whatever."
"You'd do that?"
"Consider it penance for my role in this whole bet fiasco." He stands, coming behind the bar to grab an apron. "Besides, I make better tips than you anyway."
"In your dreams," I retort, but I'm already untying my apron, my mind racing ahead to what comes next. How do I begin to rebuild Lena's trust? How do I show her that what we had—what we could still have—is worth fighting for?
Twenty minutes later, having raced home to change and make myself marginally more presentable, I find myself standing outside a flower shop, paralyzed by indecision. Flowers seem simultaneously too trite and too necessary. What kind of flowers say "I'm sorry I made a bet about not falling for you, then fell for you, then hid the bet, but I love you more than I've ever loved anyone and please give me another chance to prove you can trust me"?
The florist, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, watches my internal struggle with poorly concealed amusement.
"Let me guess," she says finally. "You messed up big time, and you're hoping flowers will help your case?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You've been staring at those roses like they might bite you for about ten minutes." She crosses her arms. "What did you do?"
"It's complicated." I run a hand through my hair, a nervous habit that's left me looking perpetually windblown lately. "But basically, I betrayed her trust, and now I need to prove that I'm worth a second chance."
The florist nods thoughtfully. "Roses are too obvious. Lilies too funereal." She taps her chin. "What's she like, this woman?"
The question catches me off guard. What is Lena like? Not the polished influencer image she presents to the world, but the real Lena I fell in love with.
"She's complex," I begin, the words flowing easier than expected. "Funny and sharp and secretly insecure. She can't whistle and she's afraid of geese. She pretends to be perfectly put-together, but she's most beautiful when she's messy and unfiltered. She's brave in ways she doesn't even recognize."
The florist's expression softens. "Sounds like you know her well."
"I thought I did," I admit. "I hope I still do."
She moves through the shop, selecting stems with practiced precision—soft blue delphiniums, cheerful yellow ranunculus, delicate white anemones with dark centers. "These," she declares, arranging them in a simple glass vase. "Nothing too perfect or symmetrical. Beautiful but real. Like your girl."
The bouquet is unlike anything I would have chosen—not traditional roses or predictable lilies, but something unique, slightly unconventional, surprisingly perfect. Like Lena.
"It's perfect," I say, reaching for my wallet. "How much?"
"Normally? Eighty-five dollars." She wraps the vase in brown paper, securing it with twine. "But for true love in need of redemption? Seventy-five."
I hand over my credit card, oddly touched by the ten-dollar discount on my romantic desperation. "Any advice to go with the flowers?"
"Be honest," she says simply, returning my card. "No more secrets, no more half-truths. If you want her trust back, you have to earn it with complete transparency."
"Thank you," I say, carefully taking the vase. "For the flowers and the wisdom."
"Let me know how it goes," she calls as I exit the shop. "I'm invested now!"
The subway ride to Lena's building passes in a blur of nervous anticipation. What am I going to say? What if she refuses to see me? What if the flowers are too much, or not enough, or completely miss the mark? By the time I reach her block, I've mentally rehearsed and discarded a dozen different speeches, none of them adequate to express what I need her to understand.
Her building looms before me, sleek and modern and intimidating. The doorman eyes me suspiciously as I approach, flowers clutched in white-knuckled hands, probably looking like every rom-com cliché come to life.
"I'm here to see Lena Carter," I tell him, aiming for confidence and achieving something closer to desperate determination.
"Name?" he asks, reaching for the intercom.
"Max Donovan." I swallow hard. "She might…she might not want to see me."
He gives me a look that suggests this isn't his first rodeo with relationship drama. "That's for Ms. Carter to decide."
As he speaks into the intercom, announcing my presence, my heart hammers against my ribs. What if she refuses to come down? What if she tells the doorman to send me away? The flowers suddenly seem absurd, my entire plan half-baked and doomed to failure.
The doorman listens, nods, then turns back to me. “You can go up.”
Relief and terror war within me. She's willing to see me. Now I just have to find the right words to begin rebuilding what I broke.
I take the elevator up and head to her apartment number. My chest is tight as I knock on her door, but then the door opens, and there she is.
Lena.
Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater—the real her, not the Instagram version. My heart constricts at the sight of her, at the wariness in her eyes when she spots me.
She steps outside, keeping the door propped open behind her—an escape route, a boundary. "Max," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "What are you doing here?"
All my rehearsed speeches evaporate. In their place is only raw, unfiltered truth.
"Fighting for us," I reply simply. "If you'll let me."
Her expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes—surprise, wariness, and beneath it all, a tiny spark I desperately hope is the same thing burning in my chest: love, complicated and bruised, but not extinguished. Not yet.
And in that moment, I know with bone-deep certainty that no matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do to prove myself, I won't stop fighting for Lena Carter. For us. For the real thing that grew from the most artificial of beginnings.