Page 56 of In Your Wake

“You’re not broken,” she says, frowning.

“I am. More than I let on.”

“But you said the hip was fine.”

“It’s not. I try not to focus on it, but it’s always there. I’m not at walking-with-a-cane level yet, but it gets in the way of a lot of things.”

She stops, holding the razor mid-air and looks at me, puzzled.

“You know, things?” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

“Oh,” she replies, catching my meaning. She returns to the shave, but blushes.

“Yeah, it’s not ideal. Especially not for a man in his prime.” I grin when she rolls her eyes, but continue. “I don’t like people giving up on me, which is what’s happening now, with the league. Other than my agent, everyone’s shoved me aside. Whether it’s because of my attitude, or my age, or whatever, they don’t want me. And I guess I see myself in this house. It’s a great house. It has lots of potential, and is still full of life, but people walk by, ignoring it. Casting it aside.” I wait until she meets my eyes. “Sort of like what you’re doing.”

Her frown deepens. “I’m not casting it aside. I get that this house has a lot and that it could be great. I’m just not sure if I have the fight in me anymore.” She rinses the razor, then leans against the sink. “Maybe I’m not the right person to put in all the work it’ll take to bring it back to what it used to be.”

Something in her sad eyes says she’s not talking about the inn anymore. Not completely.

She drops her gaze to my lap and reaches down, tenderly rubbing the space between my thumb and index finger. I hadn’t noticed, but I’m pinching my thigh, a nervous habit I picked up when I was a kid and stressed.

A hot, tight knot forms in my chest as I stare at her hand. “You used to do that.”

“I remember.” She pulls her hand away, then moves to my side. A minute later, she says, “Don’t let the league determine your worth. You’re better than that.”

“It’s hard not to. Every day there’s some story saying I’m washed up. And who knows, they could be right. Maybe I’m useless. The league doesn’t need me. The brewery only needs my cash and my name.”

She gives my shoulder a gentle nudge. “Don’t say that. The brewery means more to the guys. And to you.”

As if she’s forgotten her resentment, she speaks to me as if she’s my best friend and still knows me inside and out. I have to admit, stuck in this tiny room, her soft touch reigniting that old familiarity between us, I can’t help but think that maybe she does.

“I need this, Maxine,” I eventually admit, my voice cracking with a low ache of emotion. “I need to work on this place. To fix it, because if I don’t…” I release a loaded sigh, but it doesn’t relieve the twinge of pain in my chest. “I need this.”

“Okay,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “If you think fixing this dying place up is worth it, then I’m in.”

“It’s not dying, it just needs some love. And the sooner you realize you’re the perfect person to give it, the better off we’ll all be.”

“What on earth makes me the perfect person?” She switches to my left side.

“Because you could have left, but you stayed,” I say, repeating my mom’s words. “The inn means more to you than you’re letting on. You don’t really want to see it go down.”

“Is that so?” she scoffs and pulls away, rinsing the razor.

“Us working together isn’t what’s bothering you. I think you’re pissed because life didn’t turn out the way you wanted and now you feel stuck. But you’re not. And there are people here that want to help. If you’d stop being so stubborn and let them.”

She doesn’t turn around, but pulls the sink-stopper and watches the water drain, her shoulders squared and stiff.

“I’m not saying this to piss you off, Maxine.”

“Call me Max,” she says, keeping her back turned.

“I thought that was forbidden,” I joke, a little surprised.

“Hearing you call me Maxine feels about as natural as plastic.” After running a facecloth under hot water, she turns to face me and steps closer, nudging her legs against my knees. I can’t help myself—I part them to let her in. She brings the cloth to my face, wiping the foam from my skin in soft, careful swipes, but her eyes never meet mine. “I was sixteen, Mitch.”

The mood shifts. As if the lights are turned on in a dark room, suddenly I’m shoved back into the past, into the memories and the anger. “Still, we were together every single day, and you never told me.”

“I couldn’t get involved. I couldn’t stop them,” she says, glaring down at me, her eyes brimming with tears.