An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(10)

Kai knocked her shoulder with his. His expression was one she hadn’t seen for a very long time. It was soft, satisfied, and, dare she say, impressed. She pulled her ponytail, poking out from under her woolly hat, over her shoulder and started playing with the ends, losing her fingers in the thick black curls.

Kai stilled her hand, recognizing the nervous gesture. “I’m proud of you, sis,” he murmured. His eyes hardened distantly. “After he”—Grace’s heart stuttered—“. . . all that happened, I never thought I’d see you excited or passionate about anything. Ever again.” He smiled, his teeth shining a beautiful white against his caramel skin, which matched her own. “Seeing you like this is . . . amazing.” He looked up at the house. “And, honestly, I think it’s really great.”

“So, almost two weeks since your episode. How are you feeling?”

Max knew he’d feel much better if everyone stopped referring to his panic attack as a f*cking episode. “Okay,” he answered with a lift of his shoulders. “I’ve checked my blood sugar more, trying to eat right. I paint nearly every day.”

Elliot beamed. “Yes, Dr. Moore tells me you’ve really taken to the art classes.” A smile pulled at Max’s mouth at his therapist’s praise. “Want to tell me about what you’ve painted?”

The chances were high that Elliot and Tate had already had a powwow about Max’s work, but he was prepared to humor him, in spite of the ache in his chest. He took a deep breath and held it. “I was thinking about . . . Chris—Christopher. My son.” He reached quickly for the glass of water at the side of his chair and took a huge gulp, praying for it to ease the burning acid creeping up from his stomach.

Elliot remained silent and still, though his eyes were soft and thoughtful.

Christopher had been Max and Lizzie’s baby boy, and had inspired the flashes of blue paint that burst from his canvas. A baby who wasn’t planned but was loved all the same, inspiring the red and subtle pink circles of tender brushstrokes. A baby who brought him and Lizzie closer than they’d ever been, another reason to stay clean and on the straight and narrow, as he had promised Lizzie he would be so she’d agree to be his alone. A baby who motivated Max to propose to Lizzie, pledging his eternal love to her and their unborn son, with a diamond as big as his heart, knowing that, with the arrival of his son, Max would finally become the man he always wanted to be. A man who would have made his father proud.

Christopher died at the beginning of Lizzie’s third trimester.

At almost seven months pregnant, after Lizzie hadn’t felt Christopher move or kick for three days, her labor was induced and Max sat at her side while she gave birth to their lifeless son. Lizzie howled. Literally, howled in agony, like an animal. Jesus, he’d never forget that sound for as long as he lived. The grief of Christopher’s loss damn near broke her in half. Max had tried to be strong, tried to hold her and tell her it would be okay, but he knew it wouldn’t, couldn’t. That day something between them, something monumental and vital to their relationship, died, too.

That was the second time Max had thought about taking his own life. The moment he held his minute baby son in his arms—the most exquisite thing he’d ever laid eyes on, eyes closed as though he were simply asleep—he knew that heaven must be the most perfect place, filled with creatures as beautiful as Christopher, a place he’d much rather be.

Lizzie hadn’t been able to face seeing the baby. She’d sobbed and screamed until the doctor gave her a sedative to sleep. Despite her eyes opening a day later, Max knew, deep in the cracks of his shattered heart, that she hadn’t truly awoken. She was lost to him, too. From that moment, she no longer lived but existed, and Max’s sorrow began to overwhelm him.

The funeral was excruciating, another headstone bearing the O’Hare name. The following weeks were worse. For the first time since the night he’d laid eyes on Lizzie, Max threw himself back into the warm and loving arms of his beloved white powder. With Carter in Arthur Kill prison and his friends keeping a distance from Max’s volatile, high, or drunk temper, he’d never felt more alone, more lost. Until one particular morning.

That brought Max to the third time he’d wanted to end it all: the morning he woke to find Lizzie gone.

“How did you feel when you realized she wasn’t coming back?” Elliot asked.

Max held the most obvious, curse-riddled remark back and pulled his hood closer around his head. “Confused. Angry. Alone . . . Relieved.”

Elliot’s face didn’t change. “Explain relieved to me.”

Max closed his eyes, remembering the vacant, grieving, deathly face of the woman he’d loved so fiercely. “I was relieved because I knew I wasn’t helping her,” he admitted, quietly surprised at the confession. “I was relieved because she took the initiative and left the ruins of us.”

“But she left you.”

Max scoffed. “With the drinking and coke I was doing again? I’d have left, too.”

Elliot wrote. “And looking back, thinking about your painting, do you think she made the right choice?”

“I’ll never forgive her for walking away without a word,” Max spat. “That’s what kills me. I earned more than her silence. I was worth more. Okay, leave, but we’d been through too much together for her to leave without a good-bye or a f*ck-you. We made a child together, for f*ck’s sake; we were engaged!” Fury rose through Max’s body, lighting his blood with disappointment and heartache. “She slunk away like a coward, like she was the only one who hurt, who cried, who missed our son. It was f*cking selfish.” He sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, tears scratching at the back of his throat. “But if she got better, moved on after we lost Christopher . . . She made the right choice for her.”