An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(34)
They met the following day in the corridor between their rooms.
Awkwardly, they set off from the boardinghouse, Max leading the way through the back paths, through the forest, and down toward the stream that ran the length of the entire town. His earbuds remained dangling from where they sprouted out of the neck of his T-shirt, bouncing against his chest as he ran. He didn’t want to be rude and listen to music, in case Grace wanted to talk, but, to his surprise, she remained at his side or behind him when the path became too narrow, quiet, and focused.
She kept up with him, too. She met him stride for stride and didn’t look as ready as Max when they stopped for a water break.
“This place is beautiful,” she whispered, taking in the high canopy of green above them. “I’ve been here for months and never knew all this was so close.”
“I love it out here,” Max confessed, before chugging his water. It was true. It was so quiet, fresh, and green, especially now that it was the middle of spring.
“I could take some amazing photographs.” She let her hand whisper across the moss of a nearby tree.
Before Max could comprehend what she was doing, or ask her more about her photography, she reached into her vest top and pulled out her phone. He stood mesmerized, openmouthed. “You just pull that out of your bra?”
“And it’s a sport’s bra, lemme tell you, it’s far from comfortable. I’ll no doubt have the Apple logo creased into the skin of my boob for days.” Grace snorted at Max’s dumbfounded expression and set about taking pictures of the trees, spiderwebs, and flowers.
“You can take good pictures on that thing?” he asked, scratching his head, trying to rid himself of the image of Grace rustling around in her bra, around her Apple-marked boobs for her phone. Christ, she was something else. It was bad enough watching her run in all that skintight Lycra. And, of course, bad meant good, because, seriously, the woman was wearing that shit like it was her job, all curvy, soft shapes, lean legs, and—
“They’re not bad,” she answered, leaning over to get a shot of . . . something. “But it’s more to give me an idea of color and light. I’ll come back with my real camera.”
They set off again five minutes later. Their pace was good and they were on their way back to town within the hour. Max slowed to a stop when Grace called out. He turned to see her grabbing her right side and then her hip, flinching.
“You okay?” He jogged back.
She waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I just . . . I have an old injury that flares up sometimes. It’ll pass. Go on, keep going, I know my way back from here.”
“It’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ve hit my miles. I don’t mind walking.”
They walked the rest of the way back to the boardinghouse. Max listened to Grace wax lyrical about her job at Whiskey’s, how having a job was so important to her, and how excited she was about the house and the progress the workers were making. Max listened, wondering exactly how she found such joy and delight in everything. He’d never met anyone who saw such positivity in everyday things; even his * behavior seemed to have been forgiven and forgotten.
Her outlook was refreshing and, Max had to admit, infectious. He found himself smiling as she talked, watching her hands move frantically as she described how she wanted to decorate and furnish her house. He didn’t doubt that, without her hands, she’d be rendered mute.
“Maybe I could buy one of your paintings,” she commented. “A Max special. I could give it pride of place in my living room.”
Max rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Maybe.”
“What do you paint about?” she asked, her tone interested as opposed to nosy. She kept her eyes on the path ahead.
“Stuff,” he replied petulantly. He noticed the exasperated look she threw him. “I vent,” he added. “About things that I went through. When I was . . . in rehab, I attended art therapy sessions. It helped me express what I couldn’t in group or with my shrink.”
Max surprised himself with the outpouring of information and the fact that he didn’t feel vulnerable sharing with Grace. He didn’t know her all that well, and to share so freely was new for him. She didn’t respond but she didn’t look anything other than attentive, which she always did when he spoke.
“It’s great that you have that,” she said eventually.
They reached the boardinghouse, climbed the stairs to the first level, and stood at their respective doors, once again awkward and fidgety.
“I enjoyed today,” Grace said, tapping her finger on her door handle. “Thanks.”
“Me, too,” Max replied, and, weirdly, it was the truth.
“We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
“Sure.”
“Maybe tomorrow?”
“Why not? Tomorrow.”
In fact, tomorrow’s run turned into a run the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every afternoon of the following two weeks, once Max was finished at the site, or in the morning before Grace went to work at the bar, they ran the same route, through the forest and down by the stream. They ran, Grace photographed some more, and they talked, but never about anything too deep or serious. It was banter and it was fun.
Over the days that followed, Grace learned that Max had lived in New York for most of his life. His best friend was getting married at the end of the summer, and Max was going to be the best man. He loved cars and owned a body shop, played acoustic guitar, loved rock music, and, despite his modesty when it came to his artistic talents, he knew about colors and techniques, better than he let on. She knew he was an orphan, but didn’t push on the details and steered clear of anything to do with his rehab, although she knew his therapist’s name, and he talked about his sponsor, Tate, frequently.