To Have It All(56)

His body froze, his blue gaze darting from me to Helen, then back to me again, his eyes riddled with confusion.

“Did anyone else just feel the shift in the space-time continuum?”

My smile fell. He was being a smart-ass. My friendly greeting was unlike me, at least where he was concerned it was, but he didn’t have to be a dick about it. “Ya know—”

“You want a plate?” Helen interrupted, her tone an octave higher. She was playing interference. Forced to let it go, I sipped my wine again.

“If you made it you know I do,” he told her.

“I’ll make you one.”

After Helen had scurried off to the kitchen, Max went to Pim and bent down, kissing her cheek, so it was no surprise when she got sauce all over his shirt.

“Your shirt, Max,” I pointed out. “She’s making a mess of you.”

When he stood again, he waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just a shirt.”

“If you say so,” I muttered.

“Maybe I’ll have you wash my shirt this time,” he jested.

My face heated as I remembered, once again, my bold move of removing my shirt the other night. Picking up one of the cloth napkins from the table, he wiped at his face. “How’s the ankle today?”

“Better,” I admitted. “Doesn’t hurt as bad.”

“Good. Glad to hear that.”

The room fell quiet as he shifted his gaze back to Pim. He didn’t know what to say. Neither did I. After our shower kiss, he barely spoke a word to me, and this morning he left early after Helen arrived, and was gone all day. Apparently, we were still struggling today. If he wanted to pretend the kiss didn’t happen and ignore me, what did I care?

Okay, I cared, but I refused to bring it up.

Helen entered and sat a plate of pasta on the table. “You two chat. I’ll go give this little mess pot a bath, if that’s okay with you, Waverly.” This was one of the things I liked most about her. She checked with me.

“Are you sure you don’t mind, Helen? She’s a mess,” I stated, glancing at my daughter unable to stop myself from giggling. Pim had two long noodles in her hair, and they were hanging down her face.

“I’d love to do it.” With that, she plucked Pim out of the high chair and carried her at arm’s length toward the living room on her way to the bathroom. When I looked back to Max, he was shoveling food in his mouth, staring off at nothing. He was so lost in thought he didn’t even seem to notice I was still sitting there with him.

“You okay, Max?” I asked, the wine preventing me from remembering I’m not supposed to care.

He continued to stare forward as if he hadn’t heard me.

“Max?” I boomed. Jerking his head toward me, he raised his brows in question as he chewed.

“What’s with you tonight? You look like you’re a million miles away.”

After he swallowed, he looked around before his gaze fixed on my wine glass. Pointing at it, he asked, “Can I have a sip?”

“It’s your wine,” I joked, finding myself extremely humorous.

After he had taken a long swig, he sat it down in front of me, wincing. “How do you drink that?”

I stared at him blankly. Was he serious? “You love wine,” I pointed out.

Shaking his head, he twirled some more pasta on his fork. “Not anymore,” he grumbled.

I rolled my eyes dramatically before I sipped again. Apparently now he liked nothing from when I knew him. His clothes, his drinks, his food. Max never ate pasta. Carbs were the enemy in his mind. “What’s up your butt tonight?” I sassed.

His lip curved up on one side as he cut a sideways glance at me. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” I was giving him an opening—an opening to address the elephant in the room—the kiss.

Letting his fork drop and clink against his plate he scooted his chair closer to mine and leaned toward me. “It wasn’t you,” he stated plainly, his stare intently fixed on mine.

I watched him, unsure of how to respond.

“Whatever happened in the past, just know . . . it wasn’t you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

My face went numb as I absorbed his proclamation. Was this . . . an apology? Is that what he was trying to do? I’d waited so long for an apology from Max, and I thought that if I ever got it, somehow it would heal me—at least a little. There was a part of me that wanted desperately for him to acknowledge what he’d done to me—to us, but his apology didn’t feel as comforting as I thought it would. Then again, it wasn’t really an apology, was it?

Darting my tongue out, I licked my dry lips. “Why are you saying this to me?”

Sitting back, he huffed. “I don’t fucking know. It needed to be said.”

Standing abruptly, he pushed his chair in and started grabbing dishes off the table. “I’m going to clean up the kitchen.” As I watched him stalk into the kitchen, I wanted to call after him; make him come back and explain what he was saying—or trying to say—but I stopped myself. Something told me what he’d already said was all I was going to get out of him. It was up to me to interpret his words and their meaning and take it as I wished. I also realized even though I had pined for remorse from Max for years, maybe I wasn’t ready for the apology. Not really. There’s a difference between needing something from someone to heal and actually being ready to heal.