“Thanks, Amy,” Max smiles and whimpers. Even smiling hurts him.
Smiling. Hurts. Him.
Mom and Dad go back to the kitchen. I rise, grabbing Max’s bag in one hand, the peas still in the other, and leading him the way to my room.
As soon as we get into my room, he makes a beeline for the bed and drops onto it. Shoes still on and everything. Walking over, I take his shoes off his feet and move to his waist and take off his belt to make him more comfortable.
“Your parents reached out at one point for my address to send out graduation cards on your behalf. It had your address,” he says, explaining how he got here, but that was the least of my worries.
“Great,” I mutter. “Why did you instigate him?”
“It’s what I always do,” he mutters into the comforter. I pull the covers from beneath him, putting the blanket over him.
“Move over,” I say and he shimmies to the side. Sliding into the bed next to him, I pull him into me. It’s as if he was waiting for the moment, because when his head lays on my chest, I feel the wetness from his tears.
I run my hand over his hair, caressing him and saying nothing. Just being here for him and I’ll let him be the one to tell me what he needs. Right now, that’s a shoulder to cry on, and if need be, I’d be that every day for the rest of my life.
Sunlight shines in through the curtains that are opened a crack. Max and I still tangled limbs. He’s still sleeping, his arm wrapped tight around me. A soft knock is at the door. “Come in,” I say.
Mom comes in, a tray in her hands. When she comes closer I see that it’s breakfast. Two cups of orange juice, two plates. One with a stack of bacon and the other a stack of pancakes.
“I figured you two might be hungry, but I’ll just leave it,” she says, setting the tray on the desk by the door. “How is he doing?”
“Cried himself to sleep last night. Hasn’t moved since.”
“Is it because of you?” She asks, her tone gentle, trying not to make me feel bad about the situation. I slide out Max’s hold, he stirs a little, but falls deeper into the pillows.
“Not quite. He has never had a good relationship with his father,” I say, keeping my voice low so as to not wake him. “His father was always too hard on him. Never seeing the good he did. Never wanting him. It’s just a lot of anger that being with me cracked open between them.”
“Well, he is welcome to stay here. As long as he needs it.”
“Thanks, mom.”
She leaves and when I turn around to go back to the bed, Max is lying there. Eyes open and looking right at me.
“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t tell her, but she cares about you, Max.”
“I’m not mad. I don’t think I have any anger left.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Max runs off anger and if it’s not there, that means there’s nothing, and I don’t know what that means for him.
“I’m fine. Really,” he tries to convince me but I don’t believe him.
“Are you sure?”
“I promise,” he confirms. “What’s that?” he nods his head toward the tray behind me.
“Pancakes and bacon and orange juice.” As I say the words, I hear his stomach rumble. “When did you last eat?”
“Before the fight with my dad.”
“Max!” I shout, rushing the tray over to him. “Eat up, then.”
He does and by the time his stomach is full, whatever happened the other night seems to be long gone. The only recollection that it ever happened is the marks on his face.
Sleep and a meal revived him. That sadness which was weighing down on him is gone. I’m not sure how he does it, but if he says that he is okay, I believe him. When it comes to how he is feeling, he doesn’t lie to me, and I’m going to choose to believe that.
Because I trust him.
