An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(105)

He shifted in his seat. He needed to get a serious grip. Maybe he should have agreed when Carter offered to wait with him until Lizzie arrived. At this rate, he was going to fidget and vibrate his way into an early grave. He simply couldn’t sit still. Grace the Waitress placed his coffee in front of him at the same time the bell above the diner door rang.

Without even looking up, Max knew it was Lizzie. His skin suddenly felt too tight, pressing on him, making him breathless.

He looked up slowly, catching her eye.

Jesus.

She was the woman he remembered, but somehow different.

She began to approach, steady but timid. Her blonde hair, which she’d always worn long, was now shaped into a sophisticated bob that hung just under her chin. Her face was the same, small and thin, but now bore lines that Max couldn’t seem to recall her having before, while her blue eyes, which he’d adored, were less sparkly and more calm, more mature. He was more than a little comforted that the dead look he’d seen in them the last few months they were together was nowhere in sight.

Her gaze stayed on him until she stood at the side of the table. Max hadn’t even had the wherewithal to stand. He sat back in his seat, looking up at her, not knowing what to do or say.

“Hi,” she said softly, tucking her hair behind her ears.

That’d be a good start, he supposed.

Max cleared his throat. “Hi.”

Her lips pulled into a tremulous smile. “May I sit?”

Max nodded. “Sure.”

She dropped her red bag onto the seat opposite and slid in. Max took the time to watch her, trying to see the woman he’d cherished for so long. He wasn’t sure whether he succeeded. She was still devastatingly striking; her white vest top showed off her unblemished skin and delicate collarbone, while her stone-washed, knee-ripped jeans he’d noticed as she came near highlighted how petite she still was.

It was a strange paradox being confronted with this part of his past. A part that had been, at one stage, all he knew, all he cared about, wanted, and loved, and yet, sitting there with Lizzie in front of him, the surreal unfamiliarity of it all settled on him like a lead weight.

Grace the Waitress appeared at their table again before either of them could speak. Lizzie looked at Max’s cup.

“Coffee,” he offered.

Lizzie dipped her chin, then addressed their server: “Same, please.”

They sat as the other people in the diner milled around them, and stared at each other in a way that was neither affectionate nor uncomfortable. Lizzie fiddled with a ring on her index finger. Max noted that there wasn’t one on her wedding-ring finger. He wondered fleetingly what had happened to the engagement ring he’d bought her.

“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly toward her coffee once it arrived. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure, either,” Max admitted, his voice gruff with nerves.

She tilted her head toward her shoulder and poured milk into her cup. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t.” She settled the milk down and looked back at him, her gaze meandering over his face and chest. “You look well. Different, but well.”

Max glanced down at himself, pondering what changes she saw. “You, too,” he offered instead, hating how his voice caught on every word.

She blushed a little. He’d never seen her do that when they were together. She’d always been so confident, so strong and formidable. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he had to accept, considering what she’d been through, what they’d both been through, there were bound to be differences. They weren’t the same people, and that filled Max with a profound sense of sadness.

“I’m glad you got my letter. I wasn’t sure you’d still live in the city. Do you still have the shop?” Lizzie asked.

Max nodded. “Same shop, same apartment.” He sipped his coffee, the awkwardness of small talk almost intolerable. “You?”

She shook her head. “I moved back to Florida for a while, stayed with my family. I’m working now and have a small place.” She smiled. “I like it. I’m happy.”

Max swallowed, not returning her smile. If nothing else, in spite of their history, all he’d ever wished for her were good things. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

Even though it was the absolute truth, annoyance slithered across his back. “So is that why I’m here, for you to gloat and tell me how happy you are?”

Despite his best efforts to stop it, his voice was clipped and bitter, but, to her credit, Lizzie didn’t react other than to shake her head.

“No,” she replied softly. “That’s not why I wrote.” She took a deep breath and paused. “I . . . wrote because, after everything that happened between us, after losing . . . him, I wanted the opportunity to explain.”

“So explain,” Max said unsympathetically.

Lizzie licked her lips. “After he died, I wasn’t the person you met, the person you loved. I didn’t like who I became.” Her gaze drifted to Max’s hands. “I was so lost. I was . . . broken.”

Max inhaled through his nose, sitting back. “And I wasn’t?”

“I know you were,” she answered quietly. “That’s why we couldn’t help each other. That’s why I had to leave.”