I catch how he’s offering support to me, not to Max, and if we weren’t in the middle of an emergency, I’d like to have a nice, long talk with Max’s dad.
“Thank you, Mr. Weber.”
“Great,” Max says. “Thanks.”
“Your mother and I are gone this week. Working in Beverly Hills. But Ava’s home.”
We hang up, but Max’s mood remains as stormy as the clouds rolling in the distance.
“You didn’t tell them about the museum, did you?” I ask.
“They wouldn’t have cared.” He turns toward the barn. “Need help with the truck cap?”
“Ava’s probably already told them,” I call after him, but he keeps walking.
“If they want to come, they’ll come. But they won’t, and I don’t care.”
By the way he’s hunched over, his body in a defensive position, I know he cares very much. My heart aches, and I wonder if it’s too late for them to make up for all the shows they missed, all the offhanded comments, and all the times they let him down.
“Let’s just…” He shrugs, then rakes his hand through his hair again, mussing it up in a way that makes me want to run my own fingers through it. “Let’s pack the truck before I change my mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gives me a sad smile before turning to get back to business.
We take a couple of trips to transport the pieces there, with Stacey’s help. Max asks if it’s okay for Ava to stay with us—he’d rather have an eye on her, and she’s excited by the prospect of a sleepover. Of course I say yes, although I also yearn to have a moment alone with him, to talk one-on-one and really understand what’s going through his brain. He’s looked at me all day like we’re a missed opportunity in the making, but all we can do now is settle into the casita with mugs of hot drinks in our hands, staring out the window into the darkness as heavy raindrops fall.
When the rain stops at three in the morning, I want desperately to sneak out and survey the damage, but I can’t. Never mind the danger of walking on the property after the rainfall has tracked brush and debris—and who knows what else—onto the land. But I am literally trapped between Ava on one side of my king-size bed and Max on the other, with his arm snug around my waist. “No funny business,” his sister had joked as she dozed off lastnight. Max waited until she was passed out and snoring gently to nuzzle close. His fingertips traced the soft parts of me—my hips, my stomach, my thighs—until he fell asleep too.
I don’t rest, though. Under the dim glow of my computer charger, I examine Max’s dozing profile. Even with so much at stake and so much going on, life feels right with him here, resting next to me. I can’t remember what I was doing for the last eight years. It’s as if the time without Max never happened, and he’s been here all along.
These dangerous thoughts lull me to sleep, and the next thing I register is sunshine stabbing through the blinds and assaulting my eyes. Freddie has found a home between my legs, stretched out on his back like he’s a hot dog in a bun. Max and Ava are gone, the sheets cold. I check my phone. 8:49 a.m.
“Shit.” I slink out of bed, careful not to disturb the cat, and toss on my boots. When I emerge from the house, my property looks like the inside of a shaken-up snow globe, except instead of snow, we’ve got dust and dirt. I suck a breath down and walk toward the turmoil, and I trip over a sandbag.
“Watch out,” Max calls from the barn. He waves, his mouth curved in a gentle smile, and I head in his direction.
“I wanted to wake up hours ago.” I don’t mean to snap at him, but I can’t believe he let me lie in bed so late. “I should have been up with the sun.”
“Freddie’s a pretty cozy blanket.”
“You should’ve woken me up.”
“Daze,” Max says, resting his hands on my upper arms. “You needed rest.”
“No, I needed to know what the damage is. Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s safe.” He squeezes my shoulders and turns so I can look at the property in its entirety. “Stacey and I have already checked in with all the guests.”
My body relaxes with the good news, but with the landscape in disarray, I know not to get too comfortable. “The barn?”
“One major leak, focused in a single area. That little alcove. We can close that off tomorrow. Move some pieces around.”
“You spent days setting everything up.”
“The gallery assistants are already on it.” He tilts his head beyond the barn, the corners of his mouth turned downward. “The lot is our big focus. Needs serious clearing.”
I needed this pop-up to go off without a hitch, and the universe couldn’t cut me a break. One storm made this an impossible task. Max held up his end of the bargain: get the art, organize, promote. He sucked down his pride and asked his parents for help, whereas I let him down. Maybe it’s the bad night’s sleep, or maybe it’s because I haven’t had my morning caffeine, but hot, thick tears blur my vision and my face crumples.
