45. Inescapable Things #2
I take my sweet time, sliding off the panties, then tossing them to him. Because my man’s addicted, he brings them to his nose and inhales before he lets them go. “Now, sit on my face. Since what I’ve really been thinking about all day is eating you. You’re mine, Everly. All mine.”
I feel like his. But I’m not yet. Not really. That doesn’t stop me from climbing over him and straddling his face. He eats me like I’m his last meal.
I come so hard, I nearly black out. I nearly forget that everything we share is a secret.
Maybe soon it won’t be.
And maybe, like the butterfly, it’ll be easy.
* * *
This is hell.
A few days later we’re back and in an SUV we rented. Max is driving, Zaire is in the passenger seat, and I’m in the back seat with Jenna and Elias. I didn’t hire Leighton or another freelance photographer for this job since it’s more personal. A cell phone camera seemed the right speed for today.
But Elias evidently made a pitch to Zaire about taking the photos, so he’s here like he’s Ansel freaking Adams with his iPhone.
We’ve already visited a number of homes, with Max delivering meals for seniors who still live alone but have diminished mobility.
Now, we’re making the final stop at a senior center.
“You know,” Elias begins as Max nears the Aquatic Park neighborhood, “I volunteered with Meals on Wheels during college.”
Of course he did.
“And it was so eye-opening,” he says, bloviating even more. “I felt like I learned so much. Truly, it’s been an honor to be a part of this today. Thanks, Zaire. Thanks, Max.”
Zaire inclines her head, giving a crisp nod while Max grunts out a thanks.
“Where did you go to college?” Jenna asks, seeming intrigued.
Thank god she’s here to handle him. It’s too hard being in this space with all these people and all this pretending. It’s wearing me down. It’s stressing me out. It’s driving up my anxiety. I feel claustrophobic.
As Jenna peppers Elias with more questions about his supposed glory days, Zaire asks Max if he’s given more thought to Date Night.
I feel queasy as he says blandly, “Every day.”
My thoughts start spinning, so I do one of my grounding exercises, focusing on things I can see, hear, and sense, till Zaire says, “Would that work for you, Everly?”
I snap to it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“I thought it would be nice to have dinner with Garrett and Clementine again. And you and Max later this week. Just to go over everything you’ve done and make sure we’re all set with this project.”
And to decide on Date Night.
The clock keeps ticking. Louder and louder still. “Of course,” I say quickly, then brace myself for Elias to invite himself.
And on the count of three…
“I’d love to come too,” he offers.
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer,” Zaire says, and I fight off the world’s biggest grin.
When we arrive at the senior center, Max gathers the meals from the back while Elias snaps more pictures of him taking out the food.
Once inside, Max drops them off in a community room that’s bustling with older San Franciscans.
I hang back near the entrance, staying out of the way as the once grumpy goalie chats with nearly each person there, saying hi to some women knitting, asking questions of a couple guys doing a jigsaw puzzle, and making small talk with some men playing cards.
Max said he wasn’t naturally affable, but here he seems most at ease.
I bet it comes from how he helped take care of his grandfather.
As he moves from table to table, it looks like his cup is full.
Like this is more than part of his image makeover. Like this is The Real Max Lambert.
It’s a good look, and I’m seriously proud of him.
A man with wispy strands of hair who’s hunched over his table calls Max over.
The older man tilts his face toward Max and asks him something.
Max shakes his head and replies. The man keeps asking questions and Max’s expression turns more concerned, more worried.
I wish I could make out what they’re saying.
It looks like Max is trying to reassure the man but doesn’t know how.
Soon, a woman who works at the center comes over and intervenes.
With tension in his jaw and sadness in his eyes, Max heads for the exit where I’m standing with Elias. He swallows roughly, uncomfortably too, then mutters as he passes us, “Excuse me.”
And Elias has the audacity to snap another picture. But as Max turns into the nearby men’s room down the hall, I wheel on Elias, raising a finger. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” It’s asked so innocently.
“Don’t use that picture.”
“Why not?”
“He’s obviously upset.”
“It’s a real-life picture. It shows Max has feelings.”
Elias has no idea. “No,” I say firmly, standing my ground.
He gives me a look like I’m a Pollyanna. “This is the stuff people love, Everly. Seeing the real side of an athlete. I know it because I played sports.” Of course he went there. “And I know because I interact with the real people at every game,” he adds.
And he went there too.
“And I know that part of the job in PR is to protect our players. This is personal. Please delete it,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t care what Elias suspects about me. He’s not posting a photo of Max visibly affected like that.
Annoyed, Elias stares at me for several seconds then relents. “Fine.” He makes a show of deleting it.
“Thank you.”
Max comes out of the bathroom, dragging a hand through his hair. It looks like he’s been hit with bad news, and I want to run to him and comfort him.
But I can’t.
When we get to the car, I tug him back, a few feet away to quickly ask. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“That man was asking about his son. If he was coming to visit. And I tried to talk to him, but then the woman who came over, she said his son had already visited and—” He stops like there are stones in his throat, then he pushes on. “This is how it started with my grandfather. The forgetting.”
My throat swells. My eyes sting. “Max, I’m so sorry.” He takes a small step toward me before he must think the better of it.
I can tell he wants to hold me as much as I want to be his shoulder to lean on.
Instead, I have to wait till later that night, when he comes over for our movie night that he invited me to. It feels like an endless wait, but as I curl up in his arms, I try to believe that soon we’ll have more than stolen moments.
* * *
One more night.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what Max tells me on Thursday evening as we get ready for dinner together at my place.
I feel antsy but in a whole new way. In a Christmas Eve kind of way.
Once we make it through dinner, I can devise a proper plan for talking to Zaire.
One that’s thoughtful. One that shows this relationship with Max is serious.
One that shows how much I want the promotion or at the very least to stay in my job.
If she doesn’t make an exception to the unwritten rule, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I’m strong enough to handle it.
I button my blouse and fluff out my hair in the bathroom mirror. It’s down tonight. “Like my blowout?” I say to Max. I used one of the lifetime supplies this evening.
“Love it,” he says, then comes up behind me and presses a kiss to my neck. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing?”
I smile. “Yes. But I’m not doing it tonight.
I have an early Zoom meeting at eight tomorrow with the East Coast and you have that interview tomorrow with The Sports Network,” I say, reminding him of both our schedules, and of the interview he agreed to do with our broadcast partner.
Plus, I don’t want him to get too excited.
I need to get some rest after this dinner—not come home and brainstorm how to save my job.
There will be time in the near future. “Let’s focus on this dinner and we can start figuring it all out tomorrow.
And come up with a smart plan. I promise. ”
Tomorrow night Max leaves for a week-long stretch of away games on the East Coast—ones I’m not attending—so I’ll have some time to put plans into motion.
“I know, sunshine. I know. But I’m here for you.”
I turn around, smooth a hand over his purple shirt, then meet his eyes. “We’ve got this.”
“We do.”
He kisses me and then we head to dinner together in his car.
It feels like the start of the next phase of us, even though we walk in side by side like colleagues rather than lovers.
Still, I can’t help but feel that fizzy sense of hope.
Soon, very soon, we might not have to pretend.
We’ve made it through this project, and we’re almost out on the other side where we can sit down, talk, and figure out all the next steps.
That feels even more possible when we reach the table and Clementine is holding a glass of champagne. “To the makeover queen,” she says to me.
Her praise makes me feel like I’m valuable to them, regardless of who I love. That I’m useful even if I’ve bent a rule. That they’ll understand I’m too important to let go just because I fell for an athlete.
I hope so. I really hope so. “It was a tough job, but someone had to do it,” I say playfully, then we sit, and I take my glass and clink with the others.
But when I steal a glance at Max, something like suspicion passes in his eyes. I write it off though. I must just be seeing things.