An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(20)
Catching up with the guys at the shop was a strange experience. They all looked happy to see him, especially Paul, who, like Carter, had begged Max to get help for months, if not years, before he finally went to rehab. But Max couldn’t shake the feeling of detachment that had continually skulked within him over the past seven days.
He’d been eagerly filling his time at Carter’s beach house with the treadmill—when the weather wasn’t agreeable enough for him to run on the beach—weights, playing guitar, reading, and even painting a little, but the ball of restiveness still weighed heavy in his spine. He’d continued to take his meds regularly, exactly when he should; attended his first NA meeting outside of rehab; spoken to Tate about it and arranged his first appointment with Dr. Moir; but still Max couldn’t settle.
Carter had done more than bend over backward to accommodate Max’s needs, making sure that he had everything he could want to make his transition back into the real world as easy as possible. Kat, too, had been supersweet, cooking for the three of them and appearing genuinely interested in Max’s recovery. She didn’t cling to Carter, as Max had assumed she might now that Max was back. She was, as always, attractive, ballsy, and independent. Even in the short time Max had spent with her and Carter in their home, it was still abundantly clear why they worked well together, even if the diamond on her left hand still caused Max’s stomach to twist in residual grief.
It was all very bizarre and difficult to digest.
“You’ll get there,” Tate assured him on the phone when they spoke later that evening, as Max lazed on the bed in Carter’s guest room.
“Maybe I should go home,” he mused, although the sound of the ocean certainly kept him calmer than the noise of Brooklyn. “Maybe being in my own apartment might help?”
“If you think it will, do it,” Tate encouraged. “But don’t isolate yourself.”
Max sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand. “Yeah. Christ, I just didn’t think it would be so . . .”
“Different.”
“Yeah,” Max agreed enthusiastically. “Everyone is being so f*cking nice, so happy for me to be home, despite the shit I put them all through, but I just can’t . . . connect or relax.”
“Ants in your pants?”
“I guess. And I’m trying to keep busy and do things that keep my mind occupied. I want everything to go back to . . . before. Truth is, I’ve not stopped since I got back.” And he was tired, emotionally and physically. As nice as it was seeing all the familiar faces of his friends, it unnerved a deep-rooted part of Max. A part he hadn’t realized existed. These people, despite their smiles, were people he’d hurt, f*cked over, disappointed, and even partied with.
Tate sighed. “A common mistake people can make once they get home is that they try to take on too much right away. You can’t fix all the problems in your life in one week, Max. The first couple of years of recovery are a time of recuperation. You’re still fragile, man.”
The word made Max’s molars grind, but he understood Tate wasn’t trying to patronize him. Parts of him would continue to be very fragile. He’d come a long way in Pennsylvania, but he would always be a tiny tap away from shattering again. That was the life of an addict. All he could do was stay away from anything and anyone that could cause the damage.
“Take it day at a time,” Tate repeated softly. “That’s all you can do.”
“This place looks incredible!”
Grace couldn’t hold back the squee of excitement that burst from her mouth as Kai walked through the downstairs of her no-longer-dilapidated house. It was still a long way from habitable, but with a freak week of dry weather, the builders had—once the termite problem was handled—built a brand-new roof, installed new floors and walls downstairs, and begun constructing the wide stairway up to the first level.
“Can you see it now?” she asked knowingly.
Kai laughed and tapped a palm against one of the new walls. “I can. I doubted I would, but I can.”
Grace fist-bumped the air.
“The work is really good, too,” Kai commented. “I’m impressed.”
“Of course it’s good,” Grace retorted with an eye roll. “I wouldn’t hire just anybody. I’m not entirely helpless, you know. I can make good decisions.”
Kai cocked an eyebrow and Grace immediately knew what was coming.
“Don’t start,” she warned.
The words exploded out of her brother in an incredulous blast. “Working behind a bar, Grace? With your anxiety the way it is. Really? Did you even give it a minute’s thought? Working in a place filled with strangers. Drunken strangers! The same environment where you met that piece of f*ck—”
“Kai.” Grace grumbled something offensive under her breath, turned heel, and stormed out of the house into the cool early spring air. “Why can’t you just . . .”
Kai’s heavy footsteps followed her quickly.
“This has nothing to do with him,” she hissed, still marching away from him. “I wanted to see if I could step out of my comfort zone, and I’m pretty sure in the few months I’ve worked at Whiskey’s I’ve done that. I’ve not had any attacks or flashbacks—”
“Yes,” Kai agreed, still exasperated, almost falling over her when Grace came to an abrupt halt. “But you were told you needed to take things slowly”—he threw an arm back toward the house—“one crazy decision at a time.”