An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(7)
Despite the truth in Elliot’s words, Max blanched. “Jeez, Doc, say it how it is, why dontcha?”
“Like a broken levee, your emotions came out too quickly for your mind to cope. It overwhelmed you and your body panicked. Max, you were barely coherent.” Elliot exhaled, never taking his stern stare from his patient. “You can’t continue to do this, Max. You must start opening up, talking, expressing yourself in some way.”
Max huffed and dropped his head back against the wall, wishing he could have another shot of whatever funky juice Elliot had given him, just so he could lose himself once more to oblivion. He’d rather that, he’d rather anything than having to talk about . . . well, everything.
“What if I’m not built that way?” Max was surprised at how quiet his voice was, as he asked the question that had been plaguing him since his first therapy session. He looked up at Elliot. “What if I can’t?”
Elliot shook his head slowly. “You can. Together we can. I’ll help you every step of the way, Max, we all will, but you have to start meeting us halfway. Lyle is concerned about your insistence to pass on speaking in group—”
“And what if I just don’t want to, huh, Doc? What if I just don’t want to f*cking speak to any of you?”
Elliot stayed silent for an immeasurable amount of time, causing Max to twitch. “But you do want to, Max,” he murmured finally. “You’re here. You’re here because you want to get better. You haven’t left because Carter would be devastated and you don’t want to disappoint anyone, least of all him. You’re here because deep down you know that this is your last chance, your last hope to be clean, happy, and free of all that weighs you down every damn day.”
Well, shit. Max’s chin hit his chest and a long, slow breath shuddered from him. He rubbed his face, hiding the tears that suddenly welled in his eyes. “Don’t pretend like you know me,” he muttered, making Elliot chuckle and sigh.
“Tomorrow you have an appointment with Tate Moore.”
Max lifted his head, the name ringing some far-off bell of familiarity. “Tate Moore?”
Elliot nodded. “He’s one of our part-time resident physicians; he’s excellent. He also runs the art classes three days a week.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Art classes.”
Great. So Elliot was handing him over to some Renoir-loving asshat who no doubt balked at the mere mention of the word “abstract.” Not that he had anything against Renoir, but still.
“If you don’t like it, you can try something else,” Elliot said, all but reading Max’s thoughts. “But I want you to engage, express yourself, and communicate. Besides, I remember reading on your admittance form that you liked painting.”
Max shrugged. “Carter wrote that. I haven’t done it for a long time. I used to paint the cars that came into the shop when I was younger. Then I took my work onto the buildings of New York. Dad used to brag about how his kid could paint the entire island of Manhattan single-handedly . . .” His words caught in his throat.
Elliot placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Paint what you can’t say, Max.”
Max cocked an eyebrow, dismissing the kind gesture. “And if I don’t?”
Elliot stood up straight. “Then I withhold your gym pass.” He turned on his heel, leaving Max gaping at the back of him.
“But . . . you said that— Hold the f*ck on, Doc!”
“Two weeks,” Elliot said calmly from the door. “Two weeks with Tate, improvement in group, and I’ll allow you to start working out with a trainer. Deal?”
Max slumped against the pillows. He may have pouted like a child, but he knew he had little choice. “Deal.”
The art room was nothing like Max expected. It was huge, light, airy, and reeked of paint and soap, punctuated by the underlying but instantly recognizable aroma of paint stripper. It was a heady smell that knocked Max headlong into a nostalgic memory of working in his father’s shop, spraying the Mustangs and Buicks while rock music shook the entire building. His father loved rocking out to Pink Floyd and the Who. The louder the better, he’d say—
“And you must be Max.”
Max turned. The man in the doorway, although older than Max, was young. Younger than he’d anticipated. He was tall and broad, had dark blond hair that was trimmed closely to his head, large hazel eyes, and an even bigger smile. He held out his left hand, while his right gripped the top of a dark wood cane.
“I’m Tate Moore.” They shook hands. “Elliot set up our meeting today.” He noticed Max’s gaze on the cane. “Eh, the chicks dig a guy with a cane and a limp, what can I say?”
Max pushed his hands into his pockets, his eyes wary. “You’re the art guy?”
Tate grinned. “Not what you were expecting, huh?”
The guy was wearing black jeans, Converse, and a T-shirt that, underneath the outline of a Tardis, read “Trust Me I’m The Doctor.”
Max shook his head. “Not really.”
Tate waved a hand dismissively. “I get that a lot.” He walked into the room, past Max. In fairness, the man’s limp wasn’t so bad. “We have the place to ourselves for a little while before my next sitting. Tell me about art.”
Max frowned. “Huh?”