Page 25 of In Your Wake

“So, what, you’re quitting? Retiring?”

“No, I can’t retire. I’m thirty-one, for fuck’s sake.” He pulls out a chair, flips it backward, and straddles it. I set the cleaning supplies on the table and sit across from him. “My agent, Phil, has been shopping around for a team. He means well, but no one wants me.”

“Someone wants you,” I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. Blood rushes to my cheeks. “I mean, there are some shitty teams out there. Like in Bratislava, or those distant places. I’m sure one of them would love a scrapper like you.”

He smirks, but then squints. “How do you know I’m a scrapper? I thought you didn’t watch my games.”

“I don’t. I’m just repeating what I’ve heard Bill say.”

His focus drops to the back of the chair where he drums his fingers against it. “You used to love watching me play,” he says as an afterthought.

“I used to love a lot of things.”

We grow quiet, but strangely, it’s not an uncomfortable silence.

Then, snapping out of his daze, he blinks and runs a hand down his face. “Listen, I’m planning on being here for a bit and if Dad wants us to do this together,” he says with a wince, like he hates the idea of us teaming up as much as I do. “Then I owe it to him to try.”

“You’d be wasting your time.” I lean back, taking in the old room. “This place had a good run, but all good things eventually end.” We lock eyes. He looks so sad, so hopeless; I force myself to ignore how it makes my heart ache. “The sooner you and your parents accept that, the better.”

“No! I refuse to accept that.” He slams his fist on the table with enough force to show me he’s serious. “I need to do this, Maxine.”

He relaxes his fisted hand, then slides it across the table, laying it palm up. His fingers open, as if waiting for mine. The easy connection between us tugs at me, and I consider taking his hand, but then quickly shove mine into my lap instead.

Mitchell’s jaw clenches as he pulls back. “I won’t deny there’s still a lot of hate between us, but if I can stow my shit, can’t you do the same?”

The air around me crackles with tension. I believed we were headed to a place of forgiveness and that there might be a chance we could move on, but I guess I was wrong.

This isn’t about making up. This is about hammering one final nail in the coffin of what used to be us.

“I would rather the inn go bankrupt than let you help me.” I don’t even recognize the resentment in my words, and when he recoils, I can see he doesn’t either.

“That’s extreme. Even for you, Max.”

“It’s Maxine. I told you to stop calling me Max.”

“But I’ve always called you Max.”

“And if you were still that guy, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

He exhales a quick breath, nodding. “You’re right.” He crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt stretching against his biceps. “Doesn’t mean you need to be so damn stubborn. I can help you. I have the money.”

“Yes, yes. We all know how rich you are,” I say with an eye roll.

“I’m not rich, but I have enough to help. Whatever this place needs.”

I stare at him, then shove my chair back. “This place doesn’t need a thing. This place will be just fine without you.”

7

Sticks and Stones

Max

The door creaks open and the little bell rings, but none of it fills me with the hopeful excitement it used to. I don’t even lift my head because it’s likely Zayne showing up for his shift thirty minutes early, as he always does. The guy’s so punctual, it’s as if he has a freaking alarm clock in his veins.

“Hey, you,” he says, joining me in the back office, carrying our dinner in a brown paper bag.

I grunt as a welcome, leaning back in the old wooden swivel office chair that squeaks. I don’t have the means to invest in much right now, but I should probably buy a new chair, especially since Celia, our new bookkeeper uses it, too. “What’s on the menu?”