Chapter 13

13

Luke

It's been a week since I've seen or spoken to Max, and I've come to appreciate what people mean when they say they are crawling out of their skin. I can't help but constantly replay the conversation, dissecting each word I said and didn't say, trying to put them back together in a way that might have salvaged the situation. Dozens of times I've picked up my phone to text him—putting things into a careful, well-thought-out form, absent of the heightened emotions and shouting we'd devolved to before. But I don't, because maybe I'll only make things worse. Maybe he's done with me, and by the simple expedient of ignoring my existence, he's telling me so.

I'd wondered, during the first practice this week, whether Marcos would confront me. He hadn't, which had both relieved and pissed me off. Getting punched in the face would have been a nice, painful little reprieve from the clusterfuck of my emotions. Instead, he'd surprised me by acting as though nothing had changed; we were teammates, friendly to each other on the field, but barely even acquaintances beyond that. Max and baseball were the only things tethering us together, and one of those connections was already fractured. He pretended not to notice, or care, and so I followed suit and did the same.

Margot, unfortunately, seemed to be taking the opposite approach. Daily, I received text messages and phone calls about how she's just checking in and perhaps you'd like to check in with Max, Luke? I've tried to explain to her that I'm giving him space, and that he would reach out to me if he wanted to talk; this has been met with a stony-faced proclamation of how idiotic boys are, and that all my problems would be solved if I only stopped moping around and talked to him.

My phone buzzes on the desk beside me, and I throw up a little prayer to any god that might be listening: please let that be Max. It's not—of course it's not—and I try not to feel disappointed at the sight of Margot's name on the display.

Want to go out tonight? We could see a movie.

I've got homework.

It's Friday, do it tomorrow!

Rain-check, Go. But thanks for offering.

Laying the phone back down, screen facing toward the desk top, I prop my forehead in my hand and look down at the economics textbook I've been trying to read for the last hour. Margot has been inviting me out regularly this week, and I recognize her efforts at trying to distract and cheer me up, even though I've been refusing them. I don't want to be cheered up, unless it comes in the form of Max.

A knock at my bedroom door is the next distraction, and it's one I choose to ignore. My roommates take hints a lot better than Margot does.

"Luke," Bryce calls, rapping against the door again.

"For fuck's sake," I mutter, annoyed. Closing my eyes, I raise my voice: "What?"

"You've got a visitor."

"Tell her to go away," I call back, thinking it's Margot and that she's now upped her game to attempted abduction. Clearly tiring of shouting through the door, Bryce opens it. I turn my desk chair around, crossing my arms and scowling at him. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Don't be fucking rude," is all he says, before striding back up the stairs.

Cursing under my breath, I get up to close the door, visitor be damned, when Max steps into view. He looks awful. The delicate skin under his eyes is blue with sleeplessness, and there is a hopeless slump to his shoulders; my heart gives a demented little jolt at the sight of him. He stops at the threshold, toeing the line between the hallway and my room like a vampire who has to be invited inside.

"Hey," he says uncertainly. "Sorry, is now a bad time?"

He's already turning away, clearly having heard the exchange between Bryce and I. I nearly leap across the room and grab him, desperate to keep him here after not having seen or spoken to him for a whole week.

"Hello, you," I breathe, and I swear to god I can see a spark light up in his eyes at the words. "Come in. It's not a bad time at all, come in. Here," I sweep aside the clean laundry that's on my bed, waiting to be folded, "you can sit. Do you want something to drink? Eat?"

I'm rambling, heart rabbiting around in my chest and palms sweaty. He's here, he's here, he's fucking here! Inappropriately, I want to smile, even though I know there is a strong possibility of this being unenjoyable. I watch him, greedily drinking in the silhouette of him beneath his baggy shirt as he takes a careful seat on the edge of my bed and links his hands together.

"No, thank you," he says, sounding as formal as though he was offered tea by the Queen of England. "Uhm…"

"Max, I'm so, so sorry," I couldn't stop my mouth even if I wanted to. Sitting down in my desk chair, I move it as close to him as I dare. "I know you're mad at me, and you have every right to be, but I wasn't trying to lie to you or pull a fast one on you. I didn't know how to bring it up and so I didn't, and now I've fucked everything up, and I'm just really sorry."

"Luke, that's not?—."

"I miss you so damn bad. God, I miss you. You're, like, my favorite person, you know that? I don't even think I knew that until this week, but it's true. And listen, I know that you don't need somebody to take care of you, or to treat you with kid gloves or anything, but I wasn't trying to do that because I think you're weak. I was doing that because…well, I don't know, because you're mine, which means you're mine to take care of."

Max's eyes are wide and locked on mine. He looks shocked; I walk back what I just said and flinch.

"Okay, that sounded a little insane. I don't mean you're mine like I own you, I mean it in a romantic kind of way. Like, you're my boyfriend and… well, you get the idea. Jesus Christ, stop me from talking, please. "

He laughs under his breath, and gives a small shake of his head. "I, uhm, I wasn't sure you'd want to talk to me."

"What?"

"When I didn't hear from you, I guess I thought that was it and you were cutting your losses."

"No, I was just trying to give you space," I tell him incredulously.

"That's what I was doing with you," he agrees, and I can't help but burst out into surprised laughter.

"Margot was right," I mutter, rubbing my eyes, "boys really are idiots."

"Listen, Luke," he starts, and I watch as his eyes leave mine and settle on his feet, "I shouldn't have yelled at you like I did. I was way out of line. It's just that I hadn't ever planned on telling you about what happened, and when I found out that you already knew, it felt like the relationship I thought we had was all some kind of charade."

"No," I interrupt, shaking my head even though he's still not looking at me. "No."

"I wasn't this crazy before last year," he says, and then gives a dry little chuckle that feels like a knife to the chest.

"You're not crazy, you've probably got…I don't know, PTSD or something. People aren't supposed to treat each other the way you've been treated, Max, and you shouldn't be apologizing for how you feel about it."

"Yeah," he says, looking up and at the wall, still avoiding my gaze. "There's something else we should talk about. I was thinking this week, and I realized that you were smart about not wanting to sleep with me, especially since you know about what happened at the party. It hadn't even occurred to me before now, that you were probably worried about your safety. "

I stare at him in bewilderment. I have no idea how I've lost the thread of the conversation so completely, but I really have no clue what he's on about. Inhaling deeply, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square of paper, unfolding it carefully before silently handing it over to me. It's lab results.

"That's from the hospital, after Marcos brought me in, and then the second page is more recent," he explains, even though this explains nothing at all.

"Why am I looking at this?"

"Because I doubt whoever raped me was thoughtful enough to use a condom," he says to the wall. "Those are the test results so that you know I'm not going to give you…HIV or hepatitis or something. If you wanted to… well, now you know you're safe, that's all."

Every cell in my body is recoiling from this, and if I thought my heart was pounding before it is nothing compared to now. "Max…I wasn't worried about this. The reason I kept saying we should take things slow was because I didn't want to scare you. This…do you really think I didn't want to have sex with you because of this?"

"It was a possibility that occurred to me this week," he admits.

"Well, you're wrong. I don't know what else to say except that you're wrong." He still hasn't looked over at me, and if I thought the gesture would be well received, I'd go over and turn his chin myself.

"Okay."

"Maxy," I plead, voice soft, and finally succeed in getting his eyes back on mine. The corners of his mouth barely move, but it's the barest hint of a smile and I take it as an invitation to slide my chair across the floor until I'm close enough to count his eyelashes. "I've become extremely attached to you at a ridiculously accelerated rate, and that has nothing to do with what happened to you at that party but who you are. I don't know how I could possibly convince you of that, but if you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them."

I hand the printed lab results back to him and watch as he carefully folds them back up and they disappear into his pocket. The implication behind that gesture still has me feeling queasy, and makes me want to pull Max into the kind of hug that would show all the things my tongue is too dumb to say.

"I don't need you to convince me," he says, and now he pulls out his real smile. "After you left, I went to Coach Mackenzie's house to freak out and he set me straight about you. Or, he gave me enough hints that I was able to figure it out on my own. Anthony Lawson was there—do you know him? Plays hockey in the NHL? I had a panic attack on their couch and then he made me dinner and gave me a hoodie. It was quite an experience."

"I'm going to have to kick his ass, aren't I?" I scoot the chair closer still, because I'm fucking dying to touch him and I want him within easy reach.

"You might," Max says gravely. "He rubbed my back."

"A back rub and he gave you his clothes? Forget kicking his ass, I'm going to bury the body in the woods."

He laughs, and I almost cry in relief when he reaches out and touches a finger to the corner of my eye. "Ah, Luke, you've been sad," he sighs. "I'm sorry."

Before I can second guess myself, I leave the chair and bend to pull him into a hug, lowering to my knees in between his spread legs. It's awkward and a little bit uncomfortable, but I can feel his shoulder blades through the fabric of his shirt and there is copper hair in my mouth, so fuck all the rest. He hugs me back, face buried in my neck as he takes the most dramatic inhale I've ever heard.

"How do you always smell like sunshine," he mumbles, "it can't be normal."

"What does sunshine smell like, anyway?"

"You," he says, and I laugh because that makes no damn sense at all.

"Luke."

"Max."

"Do you have plans for tonight?" He asks.

"Well, I'd been planning on wallowing in self-pity, maybe taking a shower and crying a little bit. If I was feeling adventurous, I was going to go upstairs and yell at my roommates for no reason. But now, since you're here, I suppose I'll have to rethink all of that."

He huffs a laugh and tightens his arms. "Is it rude of me to ask if I can stay over?"

"Have I not made it clear how distraught I'll be if you leave?"

He pulls out of the hug and I sit back on my heels, resting my hands on his knees and looking up at his pale, tired face. I wonder if he managed a single night of sleep this week, and whether it was the nightmares or me keeping him awake. Using his legs to push myself to standing, I hold both hands out to pull him to his feet.

"Have you eaten today?"

"Yeah, Marcos and I grabbed food before he dropped me off here."

I raise an eyebrow at him, surprised that The Grouch was on board with this particular plan. Although, perhaps he'd be on board with any plan that made Max happy. "Did you bring anything with you?"

"No," he says, shrugging. "I didn't want to assume that you'd forgive me and packing an overnight bag felt like tempting fate."

"You should have packed the bag," I tell him firmly. "That's all right though, you can wear my clothes and I got you a toothbrush. I know how serious you are about dental hygiene."

"Thanks," he laughs, and I let go of him in favor of stripping out of my jeans and t-shirt. I don't miss the way he watches me, or the way heat climbs into his face.

"I need to shower quick," I tell him. "You'll be all right?"

It takes him so long to answer, I wonder if he's going to request to join me. But it's still my Maxy, even if I haven't seen him for a week—he's not quite bold enough to strip down in a brightly lit room and shower with me, no matter what he wants to do.

"Yeah, I'll be all right," he says to my stomach, where his eyes are trained on my happy trail.

"If you want to change, help yourself. I'll be quick," I promise, before walking into the bathroom and closing the door until only a crack remains so that I can hear him if he tries to talk to me.

I wouldn't say I shower at the speed of light, but I definitely come close. I'm pulling on a pair of boxers in record time, opening the bathroom door and marveling at the fact that the mirror didn't even get a little steamy. Apparently, the way to save money on the water bill is to have Max Kuemper waiting for you on the clean side of a shower. Rubbing the towel over my hair, I peek into the bedroom to see Max sitting in the exact same place I left him on my bed .

"Hey, Maxy." I eye him from under the towel, still rubbing vigorously at my scalp. He's changed into a pair of my grey sweatpants and an old baseball shirt of mine, which is the sexiest outfit I've ever seen him wear. "You want to brush your teeth?"

"Sure," he replies, but makes no move to get up. "I can wait for you to finish, though."

"No need. Room enough for both of us." I grin at him, slinging the towel over my shoulder and brushing the damp strands of hair off of my forehead. He follows me into the bathroom and I fish out a new toothbrush for him. Smiling around my own toothbrush, I watch him in the mirror, enjoying the way he's blatantly checking me out. Nudging him with my hip, his eyes find mine and he blushes.

"Sorry," he mumbles, pulling the toothbrush out of his mouth and spitting into the sick. "It's just really fucking distracting when you walk around in your underwear."

"Noted." I lean over and spit, feeling ridiculously pleased at the sight of our toothbrushes sitting next to each other inside the glass on the vanity. Cupping a hand gently around the side of his face, I skate the pad of my thumb over his cheekbone tenderly. "Quality check," I warn, before leaning in and kissing him.

It's quick, and not at all the way I really want to kiss him, but he looks absurdly pleased and still a little bit nervous so I don't push it. I can't tell if he's worried about the fight we had, or if he's still tripped up about me knowing he's been assaulted. Either way, probably best I don't jump him the second we make up.

I wish we could stay up and talk for a bit; I'm starved for him—the sound of his voice and the way he banters with me. But he looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over, and I'm not selfish enough to keep him awake when he so obviously needs rest. Grabbing his hand, I turn off the light and pull him back to the bedroom, crawling into my usual spot in the bed. He doesn't hesitate to follow, or appear to have any reservations about tucking himself against my side.

"I missed you, too," he says, in case I hadn't figured that out on my own yet. "I missed everything about you. I was mad at you for treating me carefully, and then I missed it—how fucking stupid and hypocritical is that?"

"Anybody ever told you that you're too hard on yourself?" I ask, not bothering to gentle my hold on him as I pull him across my chest. I want him to be so close to me tonight, we might as well be fused together.

"No," he lies.

"Well, you are." I rub his shoulder to take the sting out of the words. "And, uhm, just to put this out there…if you ever do need to talk about what happened, you can talk to me. If you want, obviously. No pressure, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything."

I don't expect him to respond, and that's all right. I want him to know I'm here for him if he needs me, and as long as he believes it, I'm good. He shifts closer, eyelashes tickling my chest where his face is resting against me.

"I know. Thank you," he mumbles. "I…I had a meeting with Coach Mackenzie this week. About finding a doctor."

"What?" I ask, alarmed. "What happened? Did you get hurt at practice?"

"No, like a therapist. A psychiatrist, or whatever. He—Coach, that is—thinks talking to a professional will help."

"Oh, I see." I happen to agree with Coach Mackenzie, and the constant anxiety I have concerning Max lifts a little bit. He's obviously been suffering, and is reluctant to ask for help from his friends; perhaps a stranger is the perfect solution. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Yeah. Kind of embarrassed about it, to be honest. I mean…I'm fine. I don't even remember what happened."

"No," I say, trying to tread carefully now that he's finally opening up to me, "but maybe it will help with the panic attacks and the insomnia. And…well, I've noticed you don't eat a lot, and that's not good for anybody, but certainly not for an athlete."

I stop there, not wanting to overwhelm him. The truth is, there are a lot of things I've noticed about Max that make me worry for his wellbeing; his penchant for wearing the most shapeless clothing he could possibly find, like he's trying to dissuade people from finding him attractive. Hell, he once told me he wanted to be invisible, and if that isn't concerning, I don't know what is. Abandoning all pretense, I hook a hand over his hip and pull him over me until he's practically laying on top of me.

"Oof," he grunts, adjusting his legs so that he's straddling one of mine, hips aligned perfectly with my own. "Is this how you want to sleep? Can you breathe?"

"Who needs oxygen when you can have Max?" I counter, and he laughs. "I'm not sure if you've picked up on this or not, but I'm a bit of a cuddler."

"Are you?"

"I dabble," I say primly, and he huffs another delighted laugh against my chest.

"It's nice," Max says decisively. "Most guys I've been with were too, I don't know, macho to snuggle. But I like that you want to do it; it makes me feel like you want me here. "

Well goddamn, Max, go ahead and stab me in the heart while you're at it. I dive a hand into his hair, running my fingers through the mess and kneading his scalp. He hums, turning his nose up and brushing against the underside of my jaw.

"I want you here," I answer, disappointed in the inadequacy of the words. There is simply no way to verbally describe how much I truly want him.

"So…we're good right? We're not mad at each other or fighting anymore?"

"Which is better, baseball or hockey?"

"What's baseball?"

"Definitely still fighting," I say, and earn myself another snort of laughter. "No, Maxy, we're not mad and we're definitely not fighting anymore."

"Okay, good," he sighs, nestling his face down into the soft space between my neck and shoulder. His voice takes on a sleepy, mumbled quality as his lips move directly against my skin. "I'm so fucking tired."

"I know, baby," I murmur, smoothing a hand up his spine and back down again. Slipping that hand beneath the shirt he's wearing, I continue the motion against his skin. He relaxes by degrees, body becoming heavier as his breathing slows. I'm not the least bit interested in sleeping at this point; I want to stay awake to make sure that he's still here in the morning and this entire evening hasn't been a fragment of my imagination.

Every now and then Max's breathing stutters—a sharp little inhale with a pause before he exhales. I don't stop rubbing his back, hoping it soothes him enough that he's able to hold on to sleep for a little bit longer. It's Saturday tomorrow, which means neither of us have any obligations in the morning and Max can have a good long rest before his game.

Resting my cheek down against his hair, I close my eyes and continue my ministrations on his back. If I fall asleep, great, if not, at least I'll have an entire night of memories of Max sleeping to add to my stash.