To Have It All(63)
“Max,” she breathed. “You don’t find this odd?”
I stared at her like she was crazy. Hell yes, I found it odd. “Do you think I asked to switch bodies with Max?” I snapped.
Her eyes teared up as she peered at me. “Max . . . you’re not well. This woman, Helen, has clearly taken advantage of you when you’re in this state making you believe you’re her brother, so you’ll pony up and pay for her brother’s medical bills.”
I raised a hand, stopping her. “That’s not the case,” I informed her, adamantly. I realized better than anyone how crazy this all sounded and how if spun the wrong way could make it look like Helen preyed on a mentally ill man, but Helen was a saint. Even though Waverly had genuine concern, I couldn’t bear for her to assume or have such harsh accusations directed toward my sister. “You said you’d hear me out. If you don’t believe me when I’m finished, I’ll help you get Pim and your stuff packed up, and get you back home.”
“You need help,” she reiterated.
“I don’t need help, damn it!” I boomed throwing my hands up. “I’m not . . .” shaking my head I let out a long frustrated breath, reminding myself to keep my voice down. I didn’t want to disturb Pimberly. “I’m not crazy,” I gritted through clenched teeth.
“No?” she questioned like I was ridiculous. “It sounds completely sane and rational when you tell me you’ve switched bodies with this man.”
“You think I don’t know it sounds crazy?”
“Okay, Max. Or should I call you Liam?” she quipped. Damn, she could be a smartass. Up until this point, she’d been pretty calm; she’d seemed like she was listening. I guess her patience was wearing thin. “I’ll humor you. Tell me. How, pray tell, did you end up switching bodies?”
“I was on the street,” I began, my voice edged with panic.
“The street?” she questioned.
“I was homeless,” I explained, my gaze dropping for a moment as shame riddled me. “I’d been out there a while. I’d lost my job a few months before and then my apartment and . . . anyway, I ended up on the street.”
I spoke softly and slowly, working hard to keep my voice steady. I told her about how I fell down the stairs which led to me losing my job, which led to me ending up on the streets. I told her about my love for motorcycles, about Helen and our childhood, and finally, I told her about the only encounter Max Porter and I ever had.
Staring down at my body I said, “He looked at me like I was trash. In his defense, I probably looked like I’d just walked straight out of a dumpster. Of course, he . . . he looked like he had everything.”
“You’re a very wealthy man, Max,” she agreed.
“I’m. Not. Max.” I stated firmly, my patience wavering. “And his money isn’t shit,” I seethed. “He has no one. I’m stuck in this man’s body, hated by everyone, including you.”
“I don’t hate you,” she insisted.
“No,” I agreed. “You hate Max. Not a lot of good you liking me, Liam, if I’m trapped in the body of the man you hate.”
She rolled her eyes and looked away from me, staring down at my body in the hospital bed.
Maybe she was tired of hearing my story. Maybe she would never believe me, but damn it, I was going to finish. “Max was at the corner about to cross the street,” I continued. “When I came up behind him, intending to cross the street as well, he seemed so disgusted by me that he stepped out onto the street. There was a bus coming and I . . . I pushed him out of the way.”
“And that’s how this guy,” she pointed at my body in the bed, “ended up here.”
“How my body ended up here. Yes. I woke up days later in Max’s apartment and in his body. That was the day you called him about meeting at The Mill.”
“Max,” she rasped, emotion thick in her tone. “What you’re saying . . . it’s impossible.”
I fisted my hair. I was beyond frustrated. I had never been a man of many words, and I seldom ever knew the right thing to say which only frustrated me more. Rounding the bed, I approached her. She backed away until she couldn’t anymore, stopped by the medical equipment standing by the bed. With only a few inches between us, I took her hand and placed it on my chest over my heart, that same shiver rushing through me when we touched. When she tried to pull her arm back, I gripped her wrist and held it there, refusing to let it go. Peering deeply into her eyes, I pressed my other hand over hers where it sat on my chest. In the space that hung between us, without words, I begged her to trust me. To relax. To shut down her brain and search for the truth with her heart. After a few brief moments she relaxed, the tension melting away, her gaze drifting away with it.
“Look at me, Waverly,” I begged, quietly. “Please.
Hesitantly, she moved her tear-filled stare to mine. “I’m not Max. You know it’s true. Deep down, you know it. It’s not a mental illness or multiple personalities. Ever since we met at The Mill that night, you’ve said it over and over, that I’m different. It’s true. I’m Max’s polar opposite.”
Using her free hand, she wiped at her nose, but said nothing.
The machines beeped, the ventilator whooshed, our breaths huffed, but she still said nothing. I realized at that moment I had no more words. I had no voice. All I had was this diminishing moment to show her, to prove to her what I was saying was the truth. Moving my hands to her head, I gently grasped her face and wholeheartedly and unapologetically kissed her.