6 #3
“There was a time when I believed everything that came out of your mouth.” My gaze falls to his lips, then further down to the floor.
I tuck the cleaning supplies to my chest, feeling terribly vulnerable, stricken by the memory of how I used to long for and absorb every single syllable that spilled from those lips.
“I get that we’ve grown apart, but—”
“Grown apart?” I snap. “We haven’t grown apart, Mitch. You left. You cut me out.”
Warm tears build in my eyes, so I hurry toward the back dining room, glad to see Mabel has gone up to bed. In an effort to end Mitch’s incessant chase, I try to slam the door behind me, but he’s quick to stop it with his big mitt of a hand.
“Hang on a second. We need to talk about this.”
“No, we don’t. Goodbye, Mitchell.”
He drops his hand, letting me shut the door, which has zero dramatic impact considering it’s a French door, and he stares at me through the little square window panes. I can tell he’s fighting not to laugh. Even if his lips remain in a straight line, a smile dances in his eyes.
He reopens the door, and I take a step back, letting him. No matter the amount of anger pumping through my veins, no matter the years I’ve stewed in my hate for him, I won’t deny the bond that somehow still lingers between us. It’s too strong, too significant… And I fucking hate it.
Usually, when the inn is vacant, like today, I cherish the solitude and the serenity, the way the house creaks under its own weight and age. But now, I wish guests filled the room to cushion me from Mitch’s overpowering presence.
“Why won’t you just leave?” I ask, overcome with defeat and desperation.
“Here’s the truth,” he begins, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I’m a free agent, but you’re right, no one wants to take me on.” His shy, uncomfortable grin fills me with pity, but I ignore it. “Honestly, it wouldn’t matter if they wanted me, because my hip is too fucked up.”
“You always were a sensitive wimp,” I tease, my voice low, but a strange rush washes over me at the sound of his light laugh.
“Exactly. And now I’m paying for it.”
“So, what, you’re quitting? Retiring?”
“No, I can’t retire. I’m thirty-one, for fuck’s sake.” He pulls out a chair, flips it backward, and straddles it. I set the cleaning supplies on the table and sit across from him. “My agent, Phil, has been shopping around for a team. He means well, but no one wants me.”
“Someone wants you,” I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. Blood rushes to my cheeks. “I mean, there are some shitty teams out there. Like in Bratislava, or those distant places. I’m sure one of them would love a scrapper like you.”
He smirks, but then squints. “How do you know I’m a scrapper? I thought you didn’t watch my games.”
“I don’t. I’m just repeating what I’ve heard Bill say.”
His focus drops to the back of the chair where he drums his fingers against it. “You used to love watching me play,” he says as an afterthought.
“I used to love a lot of things.”
We grow quiet, but strangely, it’s not an uncomfortable silence.
Then, snapping out of his daze, he blinks and runs a hand down his face. “Listen, I’m planning on being here for a bit and if Dad wants us to do this together,” he says with a wince, like he hates the idea of us teaming up as much as I do. “Then I owe it to him to try.”
“You’d be wasting your time.” I lean back, taking in the old room. “This place had a good run, but all good things eventually end.” We lock eyes. He looks so sad, so hopeless; I force myself to ignore how it makes my heart ache. “The sooner you and your parents accept that, the better.”
“No! I refuse to accept that.” He slams his fist on the table with enough force to show me he’s serious. “I need to do this, Maxine.”
He relaxes his fisted hand, then slides it across the table, laying it palm up. His fingers open, as if waiting for mine. The easy connection between us tugs at me, and I consider taking his hand, but then quickly shove mine into my lap instead.
Mitchell’s jaw clenches as he pulls back. “I won’t deny there’s still a lot of hate between us, but if I can stow my shit, can’t you do the same?”
The air around me crackles with tension. I believed we were headed to a place of forgiveness and that there might be a chance we could move on, but I guess I was wrong.
This isn’t about making up. This is about hammering one final nail in the coffin of what used to be us.
“I would rather the inn go bankrupt than let you help me.” I don’t even recognize the resentment in my words, and when he recoils, I can see he doesn’t either.
“That’s extreme. Even for you, Max.”
“It’s Maxine. I told you to stop calling me Max.”
“But I’ve always called you Max.”
“And if you were still that guy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
He exhales a quick breath, nodding. “You’re right.” He crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt stretching against his biceps. “Doesn’t mean you need to be so damn stubborn. I can help you. I have the money.”
“Yes, yes. We all know how rich you are,” I say with an eye roll.
“I’m not rich, but I have enough to help. Whatever this place needs.”
I stare at him, then shove my chair back. “This place doesn’t need a thing. This place will be just fine without you.”