Picking Up the Pieces (Pieces, #2)(6)

Trish hesitated for a moment, clearly trying to process my words. “Thanks,” she said sincerely. “I guess it’s better to know that going in. Kinda takes some of the pressure off.”

“Yeah, no pressure. And don’t worry about all those initiatives. They’ll come and go. Just try to go with the flow around here. Don’t take anything too seriously, and don’t—and I can’t stress this enough—don’t go to any meetings that aren’t mandatory. You accidentally show up to one voluntary meeting and it’s all over. Next thing you know you’ll be the head of some new committee and your notebook will have so many acronyms scrawled across it, it’ll look like a bowl of Alphabet soup after a night of heavy drinking.”

“Okay, so no giving my phone number to students, no taking things too seriously, and no showing up to extra meetings. I think I got it. Anything else?” she asked with a shy smile.

I shrugged. “Just try to have fun. I mean, that’s why we became teachers to begin with, right? So we could be perpetual kids?” I turned to leave but stopped short of the door. “Oh, one more thing: no waiting ‘til the last minute to make copies. We always run out of paper.”

***

The first week back was interminable. But as I strolled through the parking lot toward my car at the end of the day Friday, I became acutely aware of the fact that I needed exercise more than usual. Sitting around all day didn’t agree with me. Well, I mean, the sitting around was fine. I had done that willingly for most of the summer. It was more that I was forced to sit through stuff I didn't feel like being bothered with that had me so restless.

Either way, I knew that a trip to CrossFit was in order. My roommate Amanda and I had been going for a few months now, and both of us had gotten noticeably toner. I was glad I left my traditional gym for CrossFit when Amanda had suggested it. The motivation that the CrossFit coaches provided was something that other gyms lacked unless you paid for a personal trainer. And I sure as hell couldn’t pay for that on a teacher’s salary.

Sixty-three kettlebell swings, forty-five push-ups, sixty box jumps, and 600 meters later, I was finally back at my apartment ready to wind down for the day. It was only 6:30, and I was friggin’ exhausted. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed toward the bathroom to take a much needed shower. As I passed the cordless phone in the living room, I noticed the light on the phone blinking to notify us that we had an unheard message. Probably just a courtesy call. Our families and friends knew to call our cells.

I pressed the phone to my ear and entered the code for our voicemail as I turned on the shower to let it warm up. I expected to be deleting whatever the message was immediately. But as I heard, “Lily, honey, this is Marjory Samson . . . Max’s mom.” I bolted out of the bathroom so I could hear better.

My heart skipped a beat or two at the mention of Max’s name. Did something happen to him? I hadn’t spoken to Max since he left for his new job back in the spring. “Sorry to call you at home,” she continued. “I hope you don’t mind me looking up your number. Anyway, I’m calling because Max has a job opportunity, but he’s not returning his agent’s calls. He’s really just . . . I don’t know.” I could tell Marjorie wanted to say more but was restraining herself because she probably knew Max wouldn't want me to know all the details. “He’s just not himself. I tried to talk some sense into him, but I couldn’t get through. I know how close the two of you were. You’re the only one I thought he might listen to.” She ended her message by thanking me and requesting that I call her back to talk when I had a few minutes.

Before hanging up, I’d jotted down her number, though I wasn’t sure whether I’d planned to call back. She’d said that she thought I’d be able to talk some sense into him? Me? There was no fixing Max Samson. But as much as I told myself that he was way beyond repair and much too broken, I couldn’t help but feel guilt over the fact that I had been the one to break him.

Well, shit.





Chapter 3: Lily


Marjorie’s call had ground my senses to a halt. I was utterly lost as to what I should do. On the one hand, I didn’t owe Max anything. He had f*cked up one of the best things I’d ever experienced because he was stupid, selfish, and vindictive. I needed all of that bullshit back in my life like I needed a scorching case of herpes. Okay, that settles it then. I simply won’t return Marjorie’s call. Except . . .

Max wasn’t all bullshit. He was funny and capable of such profound thoughtfulness that I had actually started to think of him as more like Adam than I had originally given Max credit for. If the past five months of relentless soul searching had resulted in nothing else, I had finally allowed myself to accept that I had felt very real things for Max—things that went beyond friendship. At the time, when all of my X-rated high school drama had gone down, I had tried to convince myself incessantly that we shared only a physical connection. Even when I hadn’t been able to deny that there was something there, I convinced myself that it paled in comparison to what I had with Adam. But now, I wasn’t so sure of that. And though my romantic feelings for Max had been extinguished by the supreme pain I felt after losing Adam, I couldn't deny how my skin prickled whenever I watched a hockey game or heard the word ‘doll.’ So where did that leave me?