Chapter Twenty-Five

"You what?!?!" I recoil, jumping to my feet.

Confusion. Then rage. A white-hot rage sears through me. If he's telling the truth, I have every right to be pissed off. Why now? Why not before Thanksgiving? Before I let him into my life, into my bed? Did he think this was some kind of sick joke? I pinch myself. Slap my face hard enough that it stings. Absolutely nothing. Zlich. Nada. It's a nightmare.

Stumbling towards the door, needing light, I continue on my search for answers. My thoughts race in a chaotic jumble of disbelief and betrayal. Un-fucking-believable. No. No, no, no.

"God damn it, Durango!" I scream, the words ripping from my throat.

He glances up at me, eyes wide and pleading like a kicked puppy. The sight makes me sick. Grabbing the silver tray with the last rolled joint, I hurl it across the room with so much force I should try out for shotput. It clangs against the wall, mirroring the many fragments of my very trust that's been stolen from me.

"Max—please—" he rises.

I toss my hand to the side. "Save it!" I shout, cutting him off.

My arms thrash around, sending a lamp from the nightstand straight through the glass wall of windows. Shards rain down as if they're a tower of dominoes, reflecting everything I feel inside.

"You've known since before Thanksgiving, and you're just now telling me this? What the actual fuck, Durango?"

His tears mean nothing to me. "You mean to tell me you drank with my husband's beating organ?" I spit, the words ever so bitter in my mouth. "How could you?" My words endure through the deep abyss between him and I. "I'm in AA forever, Durango. How could you possibly keep drinking with another person's heart beating in your chest? Let alone Brogan's?!?!" I continue my verbal assault, each word pouring out of me like venom. "And my God, I smoked pot with you! I can't even have that!!"

Durango pleads, dodging tiny shards of glass with his bare feet. "I drank socially, Max," he says, burying his face in his hands. "My doctor cleared me a few months after the transplant, as long as it was occasional." He pauses, wiping away tears. "It wasn't even that much."

My head wavers in disgust. "Not when you're carrying my dead husband's living organ, Durango fucking Walters. Not even a little. No—absolutely not—" I throw my hand up, appealing to the empty ceiling. "How could this be happening?"

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, appearing utterly vanquished. And I can't bear to look at him in this single moment.

"I can't right now. I've gotta go." The words feel heavy and definitive. "I'll make sure Melanie knows to have Gage dropped off at your brother's."

At least the kid won't be caught in this mess.

Honestly, I don't know what else to say. I'm unsure if I'll ever want to talk to Durango again. Uncertainty eats away at me like a parasite as I pull on my jeans, grabbing the first warm thing I can find in my suitcase. A moment later, my eyes fall on the small package I wrapped for Durango's Christmas gift. Now, suddenly, the thought of romance tastes like arsenic.

Shoving my arms into the green sweater, I grab the package while my feet slip into a pair of black Dansko shoes. Socks aren't even a crucial part of this half-assed dressing routine right now. Fuck it. I just need to get out of here.

"Merry fucking Christmas," I spit, lurching the package at him. Yet he doesn't catch it, and frankly, I don't care. "I guess we'll talk in a few days." I pause, words and thoughts sticking in my throat. "I don't know. I just don't fucking know anymore."

A tear escapes, rolling down my cheek as I turn to the door. The hallway stretched out before me as if it's an endless tunnel of despair. Approaching the elevator, I press the button without a single dare to look back over my shoulder. There's simply no point. Durango won't come after me. He won't beg me to stay because he's as craven as the cowardly lion.

The elevator shaft dings, swooping open with emptiness, confirming my personal isolation. As I descend to the main floor, the sting of my words lingers. Hurtful? Maybe. But justified. How could he, the recipient of Brogan's heart, indulge in the poison that almost destroyed my life? It doesn't matter if it was Durango or Larry Bird himself. The duplicity cuts deep, leaving a wound that may never fucking heal.

When the doors slide back open, I practically leap out like a caged animal set loose. My vision tunnels again as I make a beeline for the exit, barely registering the luxurious lobby around me. But a flash of gold catches my eye, a nametag glinting under the harsh lights. Shane. Durango's age, probably another snowbird, escaped to the milder Vancouver winter.

"Sorry about your windows, man," I offer, almost amusing. "Charge whatever you need to my AMEX on file."

I scoff, the sound bitter in my own ears. Keep your fucking money, Maxwell. He should pay for the damages for all he's caused me.

"On second thought, charge your friend instead," I mutter, pushing past him. The anger simmers just below the surface, erupting with each step.

Outside, the rain-slicked streets of Vancouver shimmer under the streetlights, opposite from the stifling heat of treachery that consumes me. I stride down the sidewalk, every footfall practically a drumbeat of fury. How could he? How could Durango keep this from me? Did he think I was too fragile to handle the truth? Or worse, did he think I wouldn't care?

The image of him sitting on the bed, head in hands, flashes through my mind. All the tears and apologies—they mean nothing to me now. All I see is the deception. Months of shared meals and laughter built on a foundation of lies. The revelation of his secret poisoned the memories. My pace quickens with only one goal: the train depot. But where do I go? Back home? Back to the life I was trying to escape for just a weekend?

When the train station comes into view, I'm still uncertain where I'm going to go. But anywhere is better than here. The rhythmic clack of my shoes on the wet pavement seems to be a soundtrack to my anger. My confusion. My heartbreak.