An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(106)

As much as he wanted to understand and accept what she was saying, Max couldn’t help but feel cheated. “Yeah, you left,” he said toward his cup. “After everything that happened between us. You left me without a word, no letter, no note, no postcard when you got to wherever the f*ck you went. Nothing.” Although his temper had begun to rally, Max’s voice remained calm and level.

“I know.” Lizzie closed her eyes slowly, making Max’s teeth grind. If she began to cry, he didn’t know what he might do. Walking out seemed like the best response, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave, Max. I swear. I wanted to get in touch, but . . . I was so scared and then it seemed like it was too late.”

“And now?”

Lizzie sighed. “I knew I was going to be in New York. And I guess I got to the point where I had to see you again, to tell you why. It seemed like the perfect chance. I realized that, if I know you at all, you’d need that much.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I wanted the opportunity to tell you how sorry I am.”

And then she stared at him, blue eyes beautiful and blazing, as if she’d rehearsed what she was about to say a thousand times. “I’m so sorry, Max,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I lost him. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t help you, help us through it, and that I left you alone when I knew it would devastate you. I’m just so sorry for everything, and I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope you can find it in yourself to someday forgive me.”

Max opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, blocked by the sudden shock of emotion swelling in his throat. Lizzie became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He looked toward the windows of the diner, angry and willing them away, breathing through pursed lips. “You nearly killed me,” he uttered, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning back to her. “Do you understand that? You nearly killed me.” He shook his head. “To lose Christopher was one thing, but to then lose you— I . . . Jesus, Lizzie, it was like I died.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks then, but Max didn’t care. It was more emotion than he ever remembered seeing from her after they lost their son and, in a strange way, it was comforting. It meant that she was alive again inside, aware, and breathing.

“You said his name,” she croaked, smiling through her tears.

Max frowned. “Of course. He was my son.”

“You were never able to say it. It’s good to hear.”

Max sniffed. “I guess therapy and rehab has its uses.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened. She nodded slowly. “Therapy helped me.” She laughed humorlessly. “Although I still struggle with his name, I wouldn’t be sitting here without it.”

Max’s temper slowly cooled while he watched her wipe the tears from her face with a napkin. “Did you think of me at all?”

The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

Lizzie looked up, seemingly surprised by his question. “Every day,” she replied softly. Max nodded shortly. “And you?”

“Yes,” he said, looking down at the table. “I hated you for it.”

“I understand.” She sat back, not appearing hurt. “How are you, Max, really?”

He shrugged, wanting to be honest. “I’m . . . okay. Surviving. Living from one day to the next.”

“And you have someone, someone who makes you happy?”

Grace’s laughing face immediately flashed through Max’s mind, stealing his breath away. “I—I’m not . . .” He shook his head. “It’s not . . .”

Lizzie smiled. “It’s all right.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs. “I’ve been seeing someone for a couple of months. Nothing serious. But . . . it’s nice. I like that I want to date again.”

Max prepared himself for the devastating impact those words would bring, but, oddly, the pain never came. How could that be? He’d loved this woman, spent years with her, worshipped her body, breathed every inch of her in, and yet the indifference that settled over him, knowing that she was seeing someone else, was like a warm blanket, easing the pressure that had built in his chest since the day her letter had arrived.

They sat for the next hour, talking. It was stilted and awkward, like a couple on a first date. They shared their experiences of therapy, how their recoveries were going, and how old friends were. She asked about Carter and he asked about her family; she told him about moving into her new place and he told her about Preston County, leaving out certain details though they drifted through his mind like leaves on a breeze. She apologized repeatedly and, despite the sincerity with which she offered her remorse, Max felt neither comforted nor fulfilled by it, as though her repentance made no difference to the past or the present he now lived.

“So, I have something for you,” Lizzie said, pulling her bag closer and delving into it. She rummaged through it, frowning. “Dammit. I must have left them.”

“What?”

“They’re in my room at the hotel,” she grumbled. “I was so stressed about today, I . . . would you mind if I went to get them?”

“What is it?”

She suddenly looked embarrassed. “It’s just something that I need you to have.”

Max cocked an intrigued eyebrow. “Okay.”