25. Clayton
Clayton
It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen Max, but we’ve texted nonstop.
That’s what concerns me since I haven’t heard from him in almost a full day.
I’m sitting at the dinner table with my parents, telling them stories about work.
I decided to get a job as an ER technician to give me a better chance at becoming an ER nurse.
A little in and out of the conversation from checking my phone nonstop, I’m brought back to the current as the doorbell rings.
“Do you have any company coming?” I ask, rising to my feet as I head to the door.
“No. I don’t know who that is,” Dad says.
Moving through the short hall around the staircase from the kitchen, I unlock the door and open it. Max is standing on my parent's porch. A split lip, a bruised cheekbone, a cut over his nose, and a single duffel bag over his shoulder. He looks like hell.
“Oh my god. Max, are you okay? Who did this to you?” I push out, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. I close the door behind him, taking his bag from him.
“My dad and I got into a fight last night. I found the first flight here.”
We move into the living room, me guiding him the entire way as if he isn’t able to move himself. I sat him down on the couch, shoving his bag to the side and sitting beside him.
Mom comes into the living room. “Max. Oh, sweetie, what happened?”
Max sits here and tells us about the night he had. It started with him telling his father about me but it morphed into his lifelong anger to his father along the way.
“I’ve just had so much rage buried inside of me over him. I just wanted to fight him, but I lost,” he says, waving a hand to his face. “It’s fine though,” he laughs. “Really. Looks worse than it is.”
“Bill! Get an ice pack,” Mom yells out to my dad.
A moment later, my dad is out here with a bag of peas. “I couldn’t find an ice pack. What do you-” his words stop short.
I take the frozen peas from my dad and rip off my t-shirt to wrap around it before putting it to the dark purple bruise along his face.
He winces.
“I just want to lay down, please,” he begs, voice soft.
“Of course, Max. You guys go up to Clayton's room,” Mom says. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Amy,” Max smiles and whimpers. Even smiling hurts him.
Smiling. Hurts. Him.
Mom and Dad go back to the kitchen. I rise, grabbing Max’s bag in one hand, the peas still in the other, and leading him the way to my room.
As soon as we get into my room, he makes a beeline for the bed and drops onto it. Shoes still on and everything. Walking over, I take his shoes off his feet and move to his waist and take off his belt to make him more comfortable.
“Your parents reached out at one point for my address to send out graduation cards on your behalf. It had your address,” he says, explaining how he got here, but that was the least of my worries.
“Great,” I mutter. “Why did you instigate him?”
“It’s what I always do,” he mutters into the comforter. I pull the covers from beneath him, putting the blanket over him.
“Move over,” I say and he shimmies to the side. Sliding into the bed next to him, I pull him into me. It’s as if he was waiting for the moment, because when his head lays on my chest, I feel the wetness from his tears.
I run my hand over his hair, caressing him and saying nothing. Just being here for him and I’ll let him be the one to tell me what he needs. Right now, that’s a shoulder to cry on, and if need be, I’d be that every day for the rest of my life.
Sunlight shines in through the curtains that are opened a crack. Max and I still tangled limbs. He’s still sleeping, his arm wrapped tight around me. A soft knock is at the door. “Come in,” I say.
Mom comes in, a tray in her hands. When she comes closer I see that it’s breakfast. Two cups of orange juice, two plates. One with a stack of bacon and the other a stack of pancakes.
“I figured you two might be hungry, but I’ll just leave it,” she says, setting the tray on the desk by the door. “How is he doing?”
“Cried himself to sleep last night. Hasn’t moved since.”
“Is it because of you?” She asks, her tone gentle, trying not to make me feel bad about the situation. I slide out Max’s hold, he stirs a little, but falls deeper into the pillows.
“Not quite. He has never had a good relationship with his father,” I say, keeping my voice low so as to not wake him. “His father was always too hard on him. Never seeing the good he did. Never wanting him. It’s just a lot of anger that being with me cracked open between them.”
“Well, he is welcome to stay here. As long as he needs it.”
“Thanks, mom.”
She leaves and when I turn around to go back to the bed, Max is lying there. Eyes open and looking right at me.
“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t tell her, but she cares about you, Max.”
“I’m not mad. I don’t think I have any anger left.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Max runs off anger and if it’s not there, that means there’s nothing, and I don’t know what that means for him.
“I’m fine. Really,” he tries to convince me but I don’t believe him.
“Are you sure?”
“I promise,” he confirms. “What’s that?” he nods his head toward the tray behind me.
“Pancakes and bacon and orange juice.” As I say the words, I hear his stomach rumble. “When did you last eat?”
“Before the fight with my dad.”
“Max!” I shout, rushing the tray over to him. “Eat up, then.”
He does and by the time his stomach is full, whatever happened the other night seems to be long gone. The only recollection that it ever happened is the marks on his face.
Sleep and a meal revived him. That sadness which was weighing down on him is gone. I’m not sure how he does it, but if he says that he is okay, I believe him. When it comes to how he is feeling, he doesn’t lie to me, and I’m going to choose to believe that.
Because I trust him.
“All I want is to focus on this. Us. The future that we have in store. Whatever it holds, I don’t care, because as long as it’s you and me… It’s all I need,” Max says, leaning over the tray between us and placing a kiss on my lips. “All I’ll ever need.”