Chapter 19
NORA
Ten Toothbrushes
By the time I get to Max’s building, I’ve gone over the speech in my head a dozen times.
Calm. Direct. No crying.
I knock.
A few seconds pass. Then the door swings open.
Max is there, in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, barefoot, hair mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it all night. His eyes land on me, and everything in his face softens—then tightens.
“Nora.”
“Hi,” I say. My voice is steady. That surprises me. “Can we talk?”
He steps back immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”
I walk in, and Melody meows at me from the couch like I’m late for something important. She always did have opinions.
“I read the article,” I say, not bothering to dance around it.
He nods, jaw tight. “Figured you did.”
I turn to face him. “Is it true?”
Max blows out a breath, scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah. It’s true.”
My chest tightens. I knew the answer already, of course. But something about hearing him say it aloud makes it real in a way headlines never could.
“I figured it had to be,” I say softly. “Jake Armstrong isn’t subtle, but he’s not exactly known for publishing fiction.”
Max lets out a bitter huff. “No. You’re right. That’s why everything he writes feels especially cruel.”
I shift closer to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He’s quiet for a second. Then: “Because my dad was basically a non-entity for most of my life.”
My brows lift.
Max shifts slightly beside me, and I feel him exhale. One of those long, tired breaths you let out when you’ve been carrying something too heavy for too long.
“My mom raised me on her own,” he says quietly.
I turn to face him, giving him my full attention. His eyes are distant, like he’s looking at a version of himself that still lives somewhere else.
“She was nineteen when she had me,” he says. “Fresh out of music school, full of big dreams and jazz records. Then Lawrence Westwood happened.” His mouth curves—not into a smile, but something bitter and worn. “It wasn’t some tragic love story. He used her. She got pregnant. He disappeared.”
My heart clenches. “He didn’t offer support?”
Max shakes his head. “Not a dime. No phone calls. No check-ins. Just… radio silence. It was like we didn’t exist.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take his hand. He lets me.
“She worked three jobs some years,” he goes on, eyes unfocused.
“Taught piano in the mornings, waited tables at night, cleaned offices on the weekends. I wore secondhand everything. Lunch was sometimes peanut butter on crackers. Birthdays were whatever she could scrape together. But she was there, you know?” He looks at me now, finally.
“She showed up. Even when she was exhausted. Even when her hands shook from scrubbing floors all day. She never let me feel like I was unwanted.”
My throat tightens. I squeeze his hand. My heart’s still bruised, but the way he’s looking at me? It’s real.
“I used to think I didn’t care,” he says.
“About him. That I didn’t need him. But then I got older and started seeing how easy he made things for people he did claim.
Private schools. Inheritances. Careers handed over like party favors.
And my mom? She nearly broke her back to get me through school and keep me fed. ”
Max continues. “And now he emailed. Wants to meet. Says he’s been ‘watching my career from a distance.’ Like that makes up for 32 years of silence.”
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
His answer is immediate. “I want to tell him to go to hell.”
But then he adds, more quietly, “But I also want to look him in the eye and ask why. Why he never called. Why he didn’t care. I want him to see that I made it anyway. Without him. Because of her.”
A lump forms in my throat. I see him now, not just as the man on stage, or the one who kissed me breathless in an elevator. I see the boy he was—the one holding his mom’s hand in thrift stores, the one who learned how to make a guitar sing because it was the only thing he could control.
“You don’t owe him anything,” I say.
“I know.” He looks at me, raw and open. “But maybe I owe it to myself to face him. Just once.”
I nod. “Then I’ll be right here when you do.”
And he pulls me into him, holding on like I’m the only steady thing left.
We sit in silence for a few breaths. Max’s hand is still wrapped in mine, his thumb moving absentmindedly over my knuckles. His body is warm beside me, steady, but I can feel the storm inside him. The weight of 32 years pushing against the edge of one email.
“He wants to meet,” Max says again, more to the room than to me. “Like he’s entitled to just... walk in now. After everything.”
“You’re angry,” I say gently.
“I should be,” he snaps, then immediately softens. “Sorry. I just—I hate that he gets to show up now, when I’ve finally built something. When I don’t need him. I hate that it still matters.”
“It matters because it was never resolved,” I say. “Not because you want anything from him. You’re not a child looking for his approval. You’re a man who deserves answers.”
He stares down at our hands. “What if I go and all I get is more silence? Or worse—some polished PR apology with caviar breath?”
I smile a little. “Then at least you’ll know. At least you won’t be stuck wondering.”
His eyes flick to mine. Cautious. Searching. “You think I should meet him?”
I take a deep breath. “I think... it could be good for you. Not for him. Not to give him anything. But to take something back. Your voice in all of this. Your choice.”
He watches me like he’s seeing something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“I’m scared I’ll lose my mind if I sit across from him,” he admits. “Say things I can’t take back.”
“Then say them,” I whisper. “Say everything. You’ve earned the right.”
His jaw clenches. “I don’t want this to mess us up.”
“It won’t.” I slide my fingers up to cup his cheek. “But you have to go into this knowing you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to hurt. And you’re allowed to leave that meeting with nothing but clarity.”
He leans into my touch, eyes closing. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” I say. “But you’re not alone in it.”
He nods slowly, like he’s letting the idea settle. Then, finally, he exhales.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll meet him.”
A beat passes, then he looks at me again. “But I want to see you right after. I’m probably going to need a reality check. Or a whiskey. Or both.”
I smile. “I’ll bring both. And Melody. She’s very judgmental.”
That earns a quiet laugh—the real kind. And then I’m in his arms, and everything else fades into the background.
I hear someone clear their throat.
Not a dramatic cough—just the polite, awkward kind that says: I’ve been here the whole time.
I pull back from Max, blinking. That’s when I notice him.
A tall guy with dark curls, scruffy stubble, and the kind of relaxed posture that only comes from knowing exactly where the chips and beer are stored. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a way that somehow manages to be amused and judgy at the same time.
“Oh,” I say, mortified. “Hi. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”
Max winces. “Right. Sorry.” He turns to the guy. “Nora, this is Lucas. Lucas, this is—well. Nora.”
Lucas steps forward and offers his hand. “Nice to finally meet the girl Max has absolutely not been obsessing over like a teenage ghostwriter for sad indie songs.”
I blink. Then laugh, because what else can you do? “That’s oddly specific.”
“He gets weird when he likes someone,” Lucas says, shaking my hand. “Also emotional. And suspiciously poetic. You’re lucky you missed the phase where he brooded silently and sighed at plants.”
“I did not sigh at plants,” Max mutters.
Lucas grins. “You whispered to that ficus by the piano, man. I heard you.”
I glance at Max, who looks somewhere between exasperated and betrayed. “Is this the kind of friendship where you bully each other out of affection?”
“Exactly,” Lucas says cheerfully. “Now I see why he likes you.”
Max rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there. “He stayed after the article dropped. Made sure I didn’t smash anything or spiral into full-blown nihilism.”
“Also I ate all your chips,” Lucas adds. “Because that’s how emotional support works.”
“I really like him,” I say to Max, mock-whispering. “He’s very humble.”
Lucas says: “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. Just wanted to make sure this guy didn’t do something dumb. Like ghost you.”
“He wouldn’t,” I say softly, meaning it.
Lucas gives Max a quick look. Some quiet guy-language passes between them—one of those wordless exchanges that says more than an entire paragraph. Then Lucas grabs his jacket from the armchair, tosses Melody a dramatic wink, and heads for the door.
As it clicks shut behind him, Max exhales and turns to me. “Well. That went better than expected.”
“Are you kidding?” I smile. “I think I just met your emotional handler.”
***
It’s past midnight when I duck into the bathroom. The lights are bright and expensive-looking, and the counters are so clean they practically sparkle. And there, on the marble sink—
Is a brand new toothbrush.
Correction: ten brand new toothbrushes.
Laid out in a perfect, almost obsessive little line. Every color. Every style. Some in travel cases, some still in the packaging. One has a dolphin on the handle. One is battery-operated and vibrates when I accidentally touch the button.
I blink at them.
A sticky note rests next to the lineup, scrawled in Max’s messy, all-caps handwriting:
“DIDN’T KNOW WHICH ONE YOU’D LIKE. PICK ONE. OR ALL. –M”
I laugh—like, full-on laugh—into my hand.
When I walk back out, Max is leaning on the counter sipping a decaf espresso, eyebrows raised like he knows exactly what I found.
“You bought ten toothbrushes,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Didn’t want to get the wrong kind. I panicked. Toothbrush shopping’s weirdly high-stakes.”
“Max,” I say, grinning, “there’s one with a dolphin on it.”
“I panicked hard.”
I cross the room and wrap my arms around him, tucking my face into his chest. He smells like warm cotton and coffee and something unmistakably him.
“I like the blue one,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says into my hair. “I was rooting for that one.”
We stand there for a long moment. Just breathing. Just being.
Then he pulls back slightly, looking at me like I’m something he’s still not quite sure he deserves—but is determined to keep anyway.
“You can stay, you know,” he says softly. “Whenever you want. Doesn’t have to be a one-night thing. Or a toothbrush-emergency-only thing.”
I smile, heart fluttering. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoes.
“Yeah. I’ll stay.”
And I do.
That night, curled up in his stupidly soft sheets, with a brand-new blue toothbrush drying on the counter, I fall asleep in Max Donovan’s arms.