A small resigned smile curved her pretty lips. She nodded and got back to poking at her stew. “A new batch of interns arrived this week. You should see them. So young. And the boys are such charmers…”
Max’s tension immediately eased. Some of it anyway. Then, for the next half hour, she filled the quiet, distracting Max’s anxious mind with various tales. Bedside manner catastrophes. Cafeteria nightmares. Even a story about an EMT who took down a battered victim’s assailant when the dumbass showed back up at the scene.
Unfortunately, though, the longer Max stayed, the heavier his soul started to feel. Like some dark, invisible blanket was settling atop him, making him feel edgy, and kind of sick. Compelling his ass to get the fuck gone.
Feeling bad like he always did when it was time to say goodbye, Max cleared his throat and pushed his untouched bowl to the side. “I gotta go, Mom. Thanks for the meal.”
She eyed his stew and smirked, then stood and moved to the stove. A minute later, the rest was packed up in a plastic Tupperware. “Here. Take this with you. Share some with Scott.”
Max nodded. “Will do.”
His mom smiled and cupped his face. “So handsome, my woodatsi. Even with bruises and scrapes. Or that thing in your lip… and that other one in your eyebrow… or those strange little circles in your—”
“Okay,” Max laughed. “You’ve made your point.”
She winked and walked him to the door. “I’ll see you at your art show.”
Max nodded again, still trying to ignore his heavy heart, then leaned down and hugged her. I love you, Mom. “See you soon.”
But as he headed to his truck, every emotion finally descended, triggered—and barely contained—by their earlier conversation. Anger, hurt, resentment, sorrow. Each one still so strong, so alive. He reached his ride and opened the door, but paused to look back at the house. His mom stood in the doorway, watching him leave. She knew these visits were hard on him. He could see it in her sad gaze. But unfortunately, there was nothing either of them could do about that. Even now, Kevin was still ruining their lives.
Max ground his teeth, climbed into his truck and shut the door—then exhaled with a frown and closed his eyes. Deep down, a big part of him was tired of hating Kevin, but hating him hurt a whole lot less than missing him.
TWENTY-ONE
“Ugh. No more. I can’t do it. I’m done.” Sean set aside his Visual Voices Colloquium textbook and rubbed his tired eyes. He’d been reading for what felt like a freaking century and was starting to get a headache. Just a few more weeks to go until he finally earned his Bachelors in Arts and Visual Technology. God, he couldn’t wait to graduate and hit the road. Or rather, hit the plane, to Australia. In the meantime, one more paper and a couple more projects, then on to hunkering down for final exams.
Sean dropped his hands and glanced across the living room to the limited-edition Star Wars wall clock above the TV. Jonah’s favorite contribution to their apartment’s décor, and in fairness, it was actually pretty cool. Made of nothing but two clock hands and a vinyl record, it looked like a silhouette of the Death Star. On its right side, some horizontal grooves were cut out, as was a circle in its upper left corner. Jonah loved that thing, and as long as it kept the right time, Sean didn’t really mind it much, either. So far so good. Hadn’t let them down yet.
Which meant—in Death Star time—it was almost nine-thirty.
Sean eyed the front door. Joe should be home any minute. His shifts on Sundays always ended early. His stomach rumbled. Shit. He’d forgotten to eat. Maybe if he caught Joe on his way home from work, he’d make a quick pit stop at a drive-through.
He swiped up his phone from the coffee table and started typing. Short and to the point.
Feed me.
Send.
Sean grinned—then frowned, spotting his text to Max, still unanswered. Make that his second text after trying to call Max earlier. At the time, he’d figured fuck it, what’d he have to lose? If Max hadn’t gotten back to his first text by then, he most likely never would. Because, again, Sean had messaged Max on his emergency line, so by definition that meant Max checked the thing regularly. Which, in turn, implied that, yet again, he was deliberately ignoring Sean’s message. And the voicemail he left this afternoon. And the text he sent a couple hours ago.
Max was probably cursing Sean’s name, wondering why he couldn’t take a hint. But, screw it, Sean didn’t care, because now he was pissed. Max wasn’t just being unprofessional, he was being rude. What if Sean truly had a question or concern? What if he’d needed to reschedule?