Chapter Twenty

DURANGO WALTERS

In just ten minutes, I manage to shake off my half-asleep, half-imagined scenario of Max lying next to me. Knowing he's miles away in Indiana offers a bittersweet ache in my chest, packing up his sister's belongings to start anew here in Washington. But the memory of his gentle stare, the grin that could melt glaciers, lingers in my mind. It's a lifeline, a tether of sorts, to a future that seems both impossibly far away and tantalizingly close.

Stumbling into the kitchen, a sharp pain under my foot jolts me completely awake, connecting with a rogue Lego. "Goddamn it, Gage!" I hiss, even though I know my son is still sound asleep in his bed. Hobbling to the sink, I can't help but envy Max. His daughter's biggest worry is probably which cartoon character to watch, not these tiny plastic landmines scattered across my floor.

I reach for my trusty coffee mug, its cheesy hospital logo ushering a reminder that I must login to my patient portal to pay my arranged bill online for this month. As I fill it with steaming water, a wave of loneliness washes over me. Max is supposed to be here, sharing this quiet morning ritual with me. We're supposed to be building a life together, not navigating a long-distance relationship.

The thought of him with the Baxters sends a shiver down my spine. I have this nagging feeling that this trip could be a defining moment for us, where we either embark on a shared future or part ways painfully. The warmth of the mug and its polished ceramic material keep me grounded in the present. I need to focus on what I can control. Gage needs me to be the best father I can. Max needs me to be the best partner, a beacon of love and support for his new transition, even when distance and doubt threaten to tear us apart. This ordinary morning, with a simple cup of tea, becomes my symbol of resilience and a testament to the enduring power of love in the face of adversity.

I wonder what Max is doing right now. Is he buried under piles of cardboard and packing tape, or is he catching a breath of fresh air with his mom on the porch? Maybe clutching a coffee mug of his own? The urge to call him, to hear his voice and check in on the entire gang is too overwhelming when I have a loaded morning of bills and chores to complete. How is he handling Lily's emotions as she boxed up her childhood memories? How is he dealing with all of it?

But then, another wave of insecurity strikes me harshly as the winter wind grows cold. After only a handful of weeks, a few stolen moments of intimacy, do I have the right to intrude? We haven't even defined our relationship yet. The thought of being too eager or clingy makes me sick to my stomach. And yet, there's this undeniable spark between us. It's a connection that transcends the physical. Our pillow talk, the vulnerability we've shared, has been like unraveling a tangled knot. We've truly revealed hidden depths neither of us knew existed. Oh, the memory of Max's touch, the way his laughter fills my apartment. It all feels like a dream. A stolen glimpse of a future I desperately want to believe in.

As I finish preparing an English muffin, my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings. It's been ages since I last ventured into this unknown realm. Stop it, Duke. My thoughts keep getting ahead of me this morning and I can't help but entertain the fantasy of Max and me being together, living together, and our children growing up as siblings would. And yet, as much as I crave Max's presence, the truth is I must tread carefully.

The lingering pain in my foot from the Lego assault has thankfully faded as I make my way into the home office. Meanwhile, a recognizable twang of my computer tower fills the air as a gentle steam fogs up my reading glasses in the process. I reach into the file cabinet for my folder containing medical statements. Since my computer is ages old, it takes an agonizing eight or ten minutes to finish booting up. Those who know me don't associate the term ‘tech savvy' with me at all—my Motorola Razor phone should be tangible evidence of that. As is my trusty crimson-red Compaq computer.

My abysmal focus zeroes in on the magenta and blue logo emblazoned on my coffee cup, a parting gift from the hospital stay I'm about to continue paying on this morning. Then, with the medical statement in my grasp, the dates of the hospital stay at Mount Sinai Health jump out at me like a toad at twilight.

JUNE 6, 2017 through JUNE 14, 2017

A jolt of adrenaline courses through me, and the inhibitions I had about calling Max completely vanish. Now replaced by a frantic urgency, needing answers to a burning question that's only sparked a minute ago. Hastily, I scramble through the papers on my desk, searching everywhere for my fucking phone. Being that I haven't memorized Max's number, the landline sits uselessly in the corner. It's just dawned on me that my cell phone is likely trapped between my car's seats.

With another burst of energy, I leap to my feet as my robe flaps open. I quickly rush out the front door towards my driveway as the cold pavement stings my bare feet. The crisp fall air whips around me, nipping at my exposed chest, but I hardly notice. My mind's racing to the same rhythm as my heart, mixing dread with anticipation.

Of course, in my haste, I fumble with the keys, and they clatter to the ground. "Fuck!" I curse, bending down to retrieve them. Fingers trembling, I find the key to unlock my door and jam it into the lock, desperate to get inside and find my phone. After rummaging through the driver's side, I finally spot the fucker, nearly swallowed whole underneath the seat. I shimmy my fingers between the phone and metal frame, triumphantly pulling out my precious relic. It may be a dinosaur in the smartphone age, but this Razor phone holds a charge like no other.

My heart pounds as I climb behind the wheel, anxious and sweating with fury to dial Max. The ringing on the other end feels interminable, each beep amplifying the nibbling apprehension in my gut. Gripping the steering wheel, I focus on regulating my breath. Did something happen? Is he okay?

Finally, Max's voice fills my ear. He's still groggy with sleep, but there's a certain balminess to it that instantly calms me down.

"Hello?" He murmurs exhaustedly.

I exhale a shaky breath. "Took you long enough to answer. Christ, you must be busy."

A chuckle on the other end of the line eases my nerves, if only slightly. "Yeah, I'm sitting here at IHOP with Lily and my sister," Max replies. "Hurry up, babe, finish your apple juice and follow Mellie into the bathroom to wash up."

"Oh, yeah," I say, glancing in the rearview mirror to my Gladys Kravitz-esque neighbor pretending to check her mail. On a Sunday, no less.

Max continues. "Yeah, so what are you doing?"

"I thought you'd be buried under piles of cardboard and crumpled newspaper by now," I reply, hoping the grin in my voice comes through.

"Well, I was yesterday," he says. "But we finished packing Melanie's apartment and we're already back on the road—we should be back by Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest."

Relief finally consumes me. Max is okay. Lily is okay. They're coming—home. But this respite is short-lived, quickly replaced by a renewed sense of urgency. The clock is ticking, and I need to figure out what's bothering me about that hospital bill.

"Hey," I continue. "I don't wanna bring up any terrible memories or anything, especially while you're on the road," I assure him, running my fingers through my hair. "But when did you say Brogan passed again?"

A brief silence fills the telephone line, heavy with unspoken emotion.

"Oh, ummm, June 9th, technically," Max replies softly. "Since the wreck was before midnight."

June 9th. My eyes instinctively drop to the vertical scar that runs the length of my torso, matched with a sudden chill coursing through my entire body. It's the same fluttering sensation I felt earlier, now returning with a vengeance. Meanwhile, a single tear escapes, sliding down my cold cheek.

"Oh, I thought that was it," I drone. For a second, the world seems to tilt on its axis as a wave of dizziness threatens to knock me down. My breath catches in my throat, and I grip the steering wheel for dear life. "I thought so."

A million thoughts race through the mazes of my mind, every notion more bewildering than the last. The pieces of this puzzle unexpectedly fall into place with a sickening click. The dates align. Could it be? Is it possible that the heart beating in my chest right now once belonged to Max's husband? This thought is both exhilarating and terrifying in the same breath. I need answers. But I'm also left pondering whether telling Max about this will help him or hurt him.