“I like that I can make you laugh even when I’m disfigured.”
“Must be that Max Weber Charm.” My thumb strays from the bag of peas and presses into the corner of his mouth. I kiss him there, and he groans.
“I wish I could kiss you more,” he says.
I place my lips at his temple, then his jaw and his neck. “Be right back.”
I call Sal’s from the lobby to make sure he and everyone else are okay, and then speed through my evening errands—dishwasher loaded, blinds closed, lights off. When I return to the casita, Max is sprawled out on the bed, staring wistfully at the shrunken joint in his hand.
“That’s enough for now, I think.” I pluck the tiny white nub from his grip and stub it out on my ashtray.
“I haven’t weed smoked in forever.”
“Here. One more pillow so we elevate your head.”
“Did I say weed smoked?”
“Yeah,” I say with a chuckle.
“Your laugh. Ugh, it’s perfect.” He looks at me, his eyelids at half-mast. “Daisy, can I tell you? I was so scared at Sal’s. Scared for you.”
“You’re stoned.”
“Stoned cold sober.”
“Shut up.”
I laugh anyway, which causes him to laugh back. Once our giggles die down, I realize we’re holding hands. His is warm, firm, and safe.
“Will you kiss me again?” he asks, pleading.
“Only because you’re pathetic.” As carefully as I can, I kiss him on the lips.
“I love that. Your kisses.” He’s so out of it. If he weren’t in pain, I’d find his nonsense kind of cute. “What did you wanna talk about, Daisy Daze? Because what I wanna talk about is you. And how I love you.”
My stomach flips hearing the L-word. He might not even realize what he’s saying, though, he’s so high. But if he does, then what will change when I tell him about Dublin?
“You should sleep, Max.”
“I mean it.” He props himself up on both elbows. “As a friend, but also likethat.”
“I’m turning off the light.”
“You don’t have to say it back. But I’d have to be dead to stop loving you, and even then, I could probably figure something out.”
“Max.” I search his eyes, so earnest and innocent under the guise of a few too many tokes. My heartbeat skips as I ask myself the question,Do I love him?
I always have, in my own way. Always as friends. But when I arrived in Dublin, prepared to bare my heart to him—even that didn’t compare to now. This is a hundred times bigger. I want to chase the feeling as much as I want to run away from it.
But with him half asleep, now is not the time for this conversation.
“Let’s talk about this later. If you even remember.”
“I’ll remember,” he says, resting his head back on the pillow. “It’s only been nineteen years, so I won’t forget. Tomorrow.”
I pause and collect myself. Nineteen years—how long I’ve been in Harlow. He passes out before I even tuck him in properly, but my pulse thrums in my ears. I don’t know what scares me more—that he’ll wake up tomorrow and forget this conversation ever happened, or that he’ll wake up tomorrow and tell me he meant every word.
Chapter Thirty-Four
