To Have It All(61)

Just as I ended the call, the dining room light flicked on. Jerking around, I found Max, water dripping from his hair and droplets beaded on his skin. In one hand he held a towel loosely around his waist.

My eyes were wide as I blinked rapidly, staring at him. His features were slack, his expression unreadable as he watched me. That changed quickly. It seemed like it happened in slow motion as I watched realization dawn on him. His eyes darted from my face to my feet which were both firmly planted on the ground, no crutches in sight. Bobbing his head up and down, I knew what he was thinking, how he was putting two and two together.

The one thing that concerned me most was: had he heard the message I’d left for Matt?

“Looks like your ankle is better,” he noted as he tightened the towel around his waist.

Lifting my foot slightly, I tilted my head. “It’s a little better,” I fibbed, feigning slight discomfort. “Think I need to go easy, though.”

He let out a laugh through his nose, an annoyed smile curving his lips. He saw right through me. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” he agreed before running a hand through his wet locks. “You need some help getting back to bed?”

“Well—”

“Here, let me help you,” he interrupted before I could reply. In the span of a few brief seconds, he’d scooped me up in his arms causing me to shriek in surprise.

“Max,” I gasped as I held tightly to his shoulders. “I don’t need you to carry me.”

“Oh, sorry,” he feigned remorse as he hastily dropped me to my feet. I landed hard, and it took me a few seconds to realize I didn’t react like a person that had just landed on a bad ankle. “I was only trying to help,” he continued.

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. He’d busted me, but I’d busted him, too. He just didn’t know it yet. A part of me wanted to confront him about what I’d overheard, another part of me was scared to. What choice did I have?

“I heard you,” I choked out, even though I felt strangled with uncertainty.

His expression remained stoic. “Heard what?”

“You and Helen . . . in the kitchen earlier. That was crazy talk, Max. And who . . . who is Liam?”

When he took a step toward me, I took one back. He stopped in his tracks, a deep furrow forming between his brows as he realized I was afraid of him. His mouth curved down and his eyes were riddled with hurt. With a nod I took as him saying he understood, he stepped back.

My breathing became slightly labored as my blood pumped hard through my veins. “You’re not well Max. And Helen . . . she’s either unwell, too, or she’s encouraging you.”

He snorted a laugh through his nose again, apparently humored by my assessment.

“It’s not funny, Max,” I boomed. “If you aren’t right up here,” I pointed to my head, “you have no business being around Pimberly.”

This time his face contorted with my words, his eyes narrowing at me in anger. “You think I’d hurt her? Are you fucking serious?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I snapped back at him, my face warming in frustration. “You apparently tried to kill yourself.”

Rolling his eyes, he let out a long frustrated growl as he fisted his hair. “God damn it, Max,” he muttered.

Slowing my breathing, attempting to calm myself, I realized if Max was sick, if he indeed was having some kind of mental breakdown or episode, no matter how I felt about him or our past, I had to try and help him. I was a social worker—or I was trying to be one anyway. I had an obligation. If I didn’t, who else would? Helen? Clearly, that lady knew Max was riding the crazy train, and she was steadily chucking coal into the engine. She definitely wouldn’t be any help to him.

So that left me.

“I can help you, Max,” I began, softening my tone, hoping it would make him feel less threatened. “You need professional help.”

Dropping his head, he closed his eyes and grinned as he placed his hands on his hips. “You don’t understand, Waverly,” he murmured. “And I don’t . . .” he paused, raising his chin and meeting my gaze, “I don’t know how to make you understand.”

He was talking. This was good. If he opened up, maybe I could figure out where his head was and what we were dealing with. Was he manic, bi-polar? The more I could find out now, the better aid I’d be able to get him when we got him to a professional. I just had to keep him talking. “What don’t I understand, Max?”

“I’m not Max,” he said firmly. “I’m not Max Porter.”

I blinked a few times, unmoving and remained silent, racking my brain for what might be wrong with him. Could he have some kind of multiple personality disorder?

Shaking his head, he snickered in frustration. “There’s no point in this.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “You’ll never believe it.”

“Why won’t I believe it?” I asked, desperate to keep him speaking to me.

“Because you fucking hate Max,” he snapped.

“You?” I questioned. “You’re Max, Max,” I pointed out. “And . . . I-I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve been busting my balls since we met at The Mill that night, and I know Max has been a real piece of shit to you, and I’ve tried to be understanding, but damn woman,” he huffed. “You know how to wear a man down.”