Maxwell
“You’remakingahuge mistake,” Sean said with a sigh. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Why do you think that?” Maxwell asked, taking another book from the shelf and trying to wrap it in tissue paper. He wasn’t doing a very neat job of it, his fingers clumsy.
“Because you’re drunk,” Sean said. It was a statement of fact “You were drunk when I got here, and the sun had barely set. That’s not the actions of a happy man.”
“I didn’t say I was happy,” Maxwell shot back, placing the book in one of the leather trunks. “But I’m doing the right thing.”
“Really?” Sean sighed again. “The right thing is leaving town without ever telling her how you feel? Because you don’t think there’s even the slightest possibility that she might feel the same?”
“She doesn’t!” Maxwell insisted, taking another swig from his tumbler. It was, however, empty. He frowned and topped it up from the crystal decanter. He wouldn’t pack that, he decided. He could always get another. “She’s made it very clear that she doesn’t.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s clear,” Sean said. “I think the two of you are dancing around how you really feel instead of just saying it.”
“You know how she reacted when I told her about that witch wanting to be turned,” Maxwell said, sitting down heavily. “Why would anyone want to be a vampire?” he mimicked Chloe’s voice. “She’s not going to turn. Not for me, not for anyone.”
“And you think that means she doesn’t want a future with you,” Sean said. “That doesn’t necessarily follow.”
“Okay, let’s go with this then,” Maxwell said, taking another sip of whiskey. “We get together. She doesn’t turn. She gets older. I don’t. She resents me for not aging. I resent her for not doing the thing that would keep us together forever. Either we break up, or she dies. I don’t like either of those plans. Especially not the one where I have to watch her die.”
Sean was silent for a moment. “You’ve watched someone die before, haven’t you?”
Maxwell closed his eyes. “My brother,” he admitted finally. “When I was turned, I was sure he’d want to. There was this fever going around, I had it, he had it, and his wife… His wife had died from it.” He paused. “I was so sure he’d want to turn. But he didn’t. He told me he didn’t want to live without her. Certainly not forever. I didn’t understand why. I guess love makes you do crazy things.”
“But you understand now, don’t you?” Sean pressed. “Because you’re in love with Chloe.”
He knew it was true. He had fought against even thinking the word, but it didn’t make it any less true.
“Of course I am,” he said finally. “And she’s not. I…” He paused. “I wish she was. More than anything. Or that I thought she one day could be. But she isn’t, and she won’t. I don’t fit into her plan of what she wants in life. And she deserves better than—”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Sean sounded surprisingly menacing. “None of that self-deprecating crap about how she deserves better. You’re a good man. At first, I thought you were just some loud, brash American. Amusing, but ultimately shallow. But you’re not. You’re absolutely good enough for her.”
Maxwell was silent once more. Sean’s words were kind; none of his friends had ever said anything like that to him before. He’d miss Sean too, when he left Crowley Lake. And Charles, and the wolf shifters, and even Tamara. If life was very different, he could have been happy here.
“I should finish packing these books,” Maxwell said, rising from his seat.
“Fuck the books,” Sean said, picking up the decanter. “You’re miserable, and I’m your friend. And if you’re going to piss off to Miami, this might be our last chance to get very drunk together. That’s what you want, isn’t it? A bit of whiskey fuelled oblivion?”
“That,” Maxwell said. “Is exactly what I want.”
Whiskey fuelled oblivion might have been what Maxwell wanted the night before, but now? Now he was paying for it. Sean had gone home just before dawn, swaying his way down the front steps towards the grumpy retired farmer who acted as Crowley Lake’s taxi service. Sean had been singing a song in what he claimed was Scots. Maxwell had thought it sounded like gibberish but had joined him in the chorus just the same.
Then, Maxwell had plodded up the stairs, which were jumping and doubling up beneath him, and fallen asleep face down in his bed. In sheets that still smelled, however faintly, of Chloe.
A packet of blood had made him feel very slightly better, but there was an endless drum loop pounding inside Maxwell’s skull as he wrapped up his books, his cards, and the poker set that he had bought here in Crowley Lake. He wouldn’t leave that behind.
“To hell with this,” Maxwell said out loud and collapsed into the armchair by the fire. He didn’t need the warmth, but it was comforting, nonetheless. He thought again about Chloe, about how much she hated the cold. That was why he had always kept a fire going. He supposed he didn’t need to now. He considered dousing the cheerful fire with water, but maybe it was better to let it simply burn out.
“That’s probably a metaphor,” he muttered, prodding the fire with a poker. Was that what he was doing, by leaving without telling her how he felt? It was less painful, he thought, to simply let things fizzle out than to tell her how he felt and see the rejection, however kind and considerate, in her eyes.