An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(11)
Elliot was quiet for so long, Max lifted his head to check whether his therapist was still breathing. He was. “Monday,” he murmured. “I’m booking you in with the facility trainer for your first gym session.”
Max blinked in surprise. “Okay.”
Tate stood behind Max, chewing on the licorice whip Max had shared. “Man,” he exclaimed with a satisfied groan. “These things are like f*cking crack.” He clapped Max’s shoulder. “No disrespect.”
Max laughed and chewed his own licorice.
“I mean, I haven’t had any since I was a kid. And even then Riley would steal them and hide them away.” He sighed heavily. “Truthfully, I don’t even know why I still speak to him.”
Max looked up at his art therapist and grinned at his choice of T-shirt, which stated, “No pants are the best pants,” and wondered what seeing the two Moore brothers together would actually be like. In fact, if he remembered correctly, he was pretty sure there were four brothers; he’d met the youngest, Seb, a couple of times. Regardless, Max was certain chaos would ensue.
“I got Dr Pepper, too,” he said, waving his red whip. “Carter’s a legend.”
“Not too shabby,” Tate agreed. “He just sent you a care package?”
“And he’s coming to visit in the new year.” Of course, Max was excited about Carter’s visit, but admittedly nervous as hell.
The unexpected but awesome box of sugary delights had arrived the day before, wrapped in Christmas paper with a card from Carter and Kat and signed by all the boys at the body shop—including Riley—wishing him well and a merry Christmas. For a couple of moments it had made Max feel terrific, feel wanted and cared for, but then he’d remembered he was miles away from them all and how much he missed being at home with his friends. The mood swings and claws of anxiety were never far away, no matter how much better he felt. Nevertheless, he’d certainly made a few new friends with the red licorice. And the M&M’s.
“So,” Tate sang nonchalantly. “Word on the corridor is that you’ll be hitting the gym on Monday. Nice.”
Max agreed. He couldn’t wait to take some latent anger out on some unsuspecting piece of gym equipment.
“I like what you’re doing here,” Tate added, gesturing to the swirl of soft brown against the black background of Max’s second painting. His first was complete and sat in his room in all its terrifying, angry glory. Finishing it didn’t curb the underlying anger inside him but, instead, awoke a dormant urge to paint more. It was still early days, but Max was starting to express himself, just as Elliot had asked. And it felt good. Satisfying. Almost as though each brushstroke was quelling some silent hunger inside of him. He was under no illusions; he knew he was purging, all but vomiting his vitriol, addiction, and sorrow onto the canvas—the raw emotion of his first picture was testament to that—but that was okay. If it kept the doctors and staff off his back and the panic attacks at bay, he was more than willing to keep painting.
Tate chewed noisily on his licorice. “The contrast between the colors is nice. What does it mean?”
Max cocked his head, regarding his work. All he knew was that, after his talk with Elliot about Lizzie leaving, he had to get back into the art room and paint . . . something. “Not a clue, dude,” he answered, following the diagonal streaks of orange and red with his eyes. He smirked. “You know you shouldn’t ask stupid questions.”
Tate grinned. “I know. I was just messing with you.” He turned with his licorice still hanging from his mouth and approached another painter. Max smiled after him. If nothing else, at least Tate kept him entertained.
Max should have known that the easy, lighter sensation that had burrowed within him somewhere along the line of group meetings, talking to Elliot, and painting wouldn’t last. The Christmas decorations and luscious food, cheerful music, and presents of socks and chocolate the facility provided caused Max to enjoy the festive period for the first time in years, despite being away from home and familiar faces.
Too bad the warm, let’s-love-baby-Jesus fuzzies hadn’t stuck around.
Oh, Max O’Hare was, and always had been, a pessimistic bastard on an almost unhealthy scale. And yet, as the days had turned into weeks of his stay in rehab, he’d allowed himself to consider the possibility that he was getting better, that his thoughts were no longer dictated by rage or anguish, and that what had been the regular tap-tapping of addiction in his mind every hour of every day had slowly become a light caress.
Yeah, he’d been a f*cking fool.
And the way Elliot was looking at him, that patronizing concerned way of his, was not what he needed in his current mood. But that was what was really pissing him off. He couldn’t understand what had him so out of shape, so antsy. He’d battered seven shades of shit out of the gym equipment—earning apprehensive glances from his trainer—and had run on the treadmill until he’d almost collapsed, but the agitation still prickled his skin like nettles.
“You made a phone call this afternoon,” Elliot started, gazing at him over the rim of his Phillies mug as he took a sip. “Who did you speak to?”
Max slumped in his seat and drew a large breath. “Carter.”
Elliot smiled. “Great. How is he?”
Max’s molars ground together. “Engaged.” The word shot from him like a bullet from a gun, smothered in hurt, jealousy, and anger. “He’s . . . he’s f*cking engaged.” He rubbed his hands down his face? hating the word and hating himself for being such a selfish prick.