Chapter Sixteen

DURANGO WALTERS

My heart races with each step I take towards the Grand Hyatt's main lobby. The butterflies in my stomach have reached a crescendo, a symphony of anticipation and nerves. Following the signs, I wipe my brow to remove a bead of sweat on my way to the restaurant. I know this might be a breach of professional boundaries, but I can shake the need to learn more about Maxwell. I crave deeper understanding, like a thirsty traveler amidst a desert oasis.

It's hard to deny that I'm really into him, more so than anyone in a long time. If it weren't for Dirk Halstead, our paths would likely have never crossed. Despite the need to concentrate on his daughter's treatment, I can't resist the emotional connection I sense. It's a confusing mix of professional curiosity and a deeper, more visceral attraction.

As I round a divider, my heart thrums against my ribs to the cadence of a thousand wild horses. Scanning the room for Max, the buzz of my flip phone breaks the hushed atmosphere of the restaurant. Its outdated vibrations resound through the space between me and a series of fancy tables adorned with ivory linens.

I'm over here toward the back. Look for the round table with a single pillar candle in the center.

A smile tugs at my lips, navigating through the tables, each in a warm pool of light and conversation. Of course, every table has a pillar candle in the center. Before too long, I spot Max and his lean figure illuminated by another flickering candle. Our eyes lock across the room, and I feel a jolt of electricity thrash throughout my entire body. It's a silent acknowledgement that transcends the typical client-therapist dynamic.

The potential that this becomes a minefield of ethical complications lingers in my mind. Especially if my feelings for him continue to grow. But for now, I simply refuse to resist the pull of curiosity and a budding connection with somebody outside of my normal inner circle. Max waves me over, and I make my way over to him. Sweat continues accumulating at my brow as I waltz the dance of professional decorum and personal desire.

"I didn't take too long, did I?" I ask, pullout out the chair opposite Max.

He smiles warmly. "Not at all. I just got here myself."

As I sit down, a nervous energy buzzes beneath the warm confines of my sport coat. I adjust my position while a waiter approaches the table.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the waiter says. "I'm Jackson. Can I interest you in our house wine tonight?"

Without hesitation, I offer an excited nod. "Absolutely," I reply, avoiding Max's gaze. "I'll have a glass of whatever you recommend. Red, white, rose, it doesn't matter to me."

Jackson turns to Max. "And for you, sir?"

My fellow Autism Dad stammers a bit while his hands fidget on the table. "Uh, no thanks," he replies nervously. "Just a Pepsi, light ice please."

"As you wish," Jackson bows his head, already turning away. "I'll give you two a little more time to look over the menu."

Suddenly, I feel a pang of self-consciousness. Is it unprofessional to drink wine in front of a potential client? I raise my hand, stopping Jackson before he gets too far.

"Actually," I call out. "I'll just have a Sprite or something—ixnay on the wine."

Max offers a gentle smile. "Please, don't change your order on my account. Have whatever you'd like."

I hesitate for a moment, then decide to indulge. "Okay, you're right. I'll have the wine after all."

Jackson gives us a look that I could swear is a medley of amusement and exasperation before heading back to the kitchen.

"So," I begin, realizing I left the client information in my car. "I brought some references and information from past clients' parents—" my voice trails off as I realize that maybe this is the universe's way of pushing me in a different direction, one that involves getting to know Max on a more personal level.

"It's okay," Max says with certitude, placing his hand on the table reassuringly. "I have a feeling this is going to be more personal than professional, anyway."

"But—" I protest.

He shakes his head. "It's okay. I wouldn't have it any other way." He closes his eyes momentarily, then opens them again with a steady gaze. "I have a confession of my own, if you're open to hearing it."

The intensity of Max's stare sends shivers down my spine. Not chills out of fear, but a certain tingle of recognition. He feels it too, this undeniable connection. It's a relief to know I'm not just lusting after a man who might never be more than a business contact. Technically, this has happened before. Years ago, when I was still married to Bethany, I felt a similar pull towards a client's father. But out of respect for my marriage and family, I buried those feelings deep within myself. Ironically, that same man, Tom Spencer, is now one of the glowing references on my client paperwork.

"It's okay, go ahead," I encourage Max, surprised to hear myself respond with a gentle giggle—the way I often do with my younger clients. "I mean—" I fight back another chuckle. "Sorry, I mean yes, please go on—I just realized how silly that sounded."

My thoughts keep my demeanor at bay. Buck the fuck up, dude. You've been out of the game for a while now. But you're coming off as kind of looney tunes. A wave of relief washes over me as Max mirrors my own sentiments. So, this penetrating connection isn't just one-sided.

"The moment we met at the coffee shop," he begins. "I felt this intense feeling that I need to get to know you," he pauses, takes a sip of water before holding up a finger. "And not because you told me you were gay," he clarifies with a wry smile. "I'm not some sex-crazed animal who wants to romp every guy who comes out to him—well—I mean, it helped a little bit I guess?—"

A grin forms on my face. "I get it."

"What I'm saying is, we were clearly meant to meet," Max continues. "It's not a coincidence that I get these intense feelings about you during the same week I find the perfect new home for Lily and me," he takes another drink of water, nervously. "Not to mention, if it weren't for Dirk, none of this would have probably happened in the first place," he concludes. I think anyway.

To my surprise, Max seems to press on. "I originally wanted to look for a place in Phoenix. Do you know how hot it gets there?"

"Not as hot as you," I blurt out, surprised by my boldness.

He throws his hands up in mock exasperation. "See? You totally get it too!"

Jackson returns to the table with a permanently fashioned smile. "Compliments of the Matre D, sir," he says, gently placing my glass on the table. "He just returned from a trip to Colorado, where his family owns a vineyard in Mesa County."

Both Max and I exclaim in unison. "Get out of here!"

The coincidence is too perfect, another sign that this connection is meant to be.

I turn to meet Max's gaze, offering a shared moment of surprise as we realize we both exclaimed the same three words to the waiter. The brief connection confirms my earlier intuition—that this is heading in the right direction. If fate exists, then this is what the universe has in store for me.

"That's where I'm from," I say, turning back to Jackson. "Born and bred in Grand Junction. Small world, huh?"

Jackson nods enthusiastically. "You don't say?"

Max raises his hand. "And I'm from Denver," he affirms. "Well, actually Carmel and Westfield, Indiana originally."

The waiter pulls out his order pad, intent on taking our requests. "Well, isn't that something, fellas? Have you decided on what you'd like to have this evening?"

I grin. "Anything that moos is fine with me—a nice prime rib would be great."

Max scans the menu, seemingly unable to place a finger on what he'll want to eat. "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll have the same."

Jackson collects our menus. "Very well, gentlemen," he says. "I'll put that in for you right away."

Swirling my glass, I can appreciate the fine aroma while formulating my next sentence. "You'll be living in Denver a short while longer, that is," I add.

Max sets down his soda, sounding confident. "Well, I offered over the asking price just to secure the house," he affirms. "We should be settled in within a month, tops," he adds. "I want Lily to start school from the very beginning of the term."

I offer a gentle approval. "Smart idea," I say. "Gage has only known Washington schools, so I'm not familiar with how Denver metro systems operate things."

He shoots me a perspicacious look. "I ‘spose we should probably figure out other arrangements for Lily Bean, eh?"

A quick giggle leaves my mouth. "Aheh," I smile. "Don't worry, I have a Rolodex full of connections," I add. "It's not a problem at all."

"Not as big of a problem as dealing with Lily's grandparents in Paris," Max sighs. "It's a living nightmare," he finishes, his hand covering his face.

Reaching across the table, my hand gently lands on his. "Shh," I offer. "Take a break from drudgery. Things will work out, okay?"

He rolls his eyes playfully. "You don't know the half of it."

I lean forward, appearing nonplussed. "Then why don't I find out now?"

Max takes another gulp of his Pepsi, then sighs. "Not here, not in public," he pleads, his head wavering insistently.

"Okay," I oblige, curling an eyebrow. "How about a nightcap after dinner?"

He shoots a finger gun in my direction. "Much better plan—that is, if you want to hear the long of it."

My heart races while another surge of intensity shoots through my spine. Of course, I want to know everything about Maxwell Williams. His struggles and his triumphs. His hopes and fears. Being there for him is what I'd choose to live for, offering a shoulder to lean on with a listening ear and a warm embrace. I can already tell he's been through the ringer. Enough is enough. And selfishly, I crave that same warmth and support for myself.

As a child psychologist, I've heard countless stories of pain, loss, and resilience. But there's something unique about Max's struggle. It's a certain vulnerability in his stare that draws me in, making me want to protect him from the storm clouds that seem to creep around him. Whatever darkness he carries, I'm ready to face it with him, hand in hand.