Christina (Daughters #1) (26 page)

“And that’s how you ended up seeking help?”

“Yes. So you see, it’s all because of you leaving me in that locker room.”

“And Tanya? Where does she fit into this?”

His expression is contrite. He swallows as he reaches across us and gently touches my leg before withdrawing his hand. I stare at his hand, then up at him. Wow. That’s pretty big. A gentle brush on my leg for an apology? That’s Max trying really hard. I get it. I really do. I also see in that instant that Tanya isn’t any problem for me. He wouldn’t have touched me if she were.

“She was—”

“Nothing to you?” I supply, my tone hopeful. To my surprise, he shakes his head in the negative.

“No, actually, she wasn’t. She was the first woman I’ve been with more than once. She was the first that kind of showed me, in a really screwed-up way, I know, that I could be with someone more than once. I could adjust some things and maybe make them work. I think because of her, I started to believe I could be with you.”

“And when you were finally with me you completely did the opposite?’

“Yes. That’s pretty much what happened. I completely freaked out. It was so much more than being with Tanya. I—”

“I know,” I interrupt, turning my body to face him. “I know what you’re saying. You were
trying
. It just didn’t work out that time?”

He flashes me a smile. “No, it really didn’t work out that time. I didn’t know how to deal with what I was feeling. I’m not sure I ever will. Then the fight, and then… you disappeared down here. You can’t imagine the things I thought. I mean, you’re two days from leaving for the place you’ve been dying to go and talking about for years, and then you just up and disappear from town? There was no reasonable, or even decent explanation. I was frantic. I never felt so much fear in my life. We are—”

“We aren’t anything right now, Max. I can’t… I just can’t do this. I’m confused and alone here. I’m not ready for whatever you came to do here.”

It hurts to say it. But I can’t downshift from nothing to everything with him again. Not like last time on the beach. I tried it his way, and he threw me out the window. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

“All right. All right, Christina, what are you doing here? Let’s start there.”

I let a breath out and establish more space between us. I crisscross my legs and finally lean back against the headboard. “Her name is Natalie Ford. She’s twenty-six years old and married to Samuel Ford. They own, not rent, a lovely, Victorian house. They have no kids. She’s a cop. I don’t remember reading what he is. She’s my sister.”

He shakes his head. “How do you know all of this?”

“I asked Seth Gifford to hack the hospital records after figuring out where I thought she was born. My mom spent time in the care of a psychiatric ward of a hospital when she was pregnant. So I figure that is the hospital where she would have given birth.”

His eyebrows spike up into his forehead. “Seth. Of course. Okay, hats off to you; that was a pretty savvy move. No one could figure out where, or what you were doing. Damn.”

“I saw her husband. I found her house.”

“But you don’t know what to do now?”

I draw in a breath. “No, I have no idea what to do now.”

“Do you want to just go home?”

“No!” I answer instantly. I shrug, feeling a little sheepish. “I know it’s hurting my mom. Making my dad crazy, but I feel like I need to do it.”

“This sister was from when she was raped?”

“Yes. I know. It’s horrible. Terrible. No woman should suffer what she did. But this mistake has a name. It’s Natalie. And she’s my sister.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I think we go there and meet her. I think you need to do it before you can move on.”

“We?”

He smiles, holding my gaze and scooting up near me to lean against the headboard. “It’s always been us; of course, me too.”

I stare at him before I finally nod. “Okay.”

He smiles and leans over to click the lamp off. The room is still lit from city lights glowing through the shades. Shadows kind of skitter and twist on the ceiling after we both fall flatter and lie on the pillows, side-by-side. It’s very late. As the silence stretches, I finally relax. I can’t quite comprehend Max being here.

“Christina?” Max whispers my name in the dark room. I turn on my side to watch the shifting shadows on his face. He turns too and we stare at each other. His mouth lifts into a small, tiny grin. I smile too, and something releases in my chest. Like I was holding my breath for an entire year.

He slowly lifts his hand off the bed and brings it towards me. His fingertips touch my temple and gently trace the side of my jaw down to my neck. Goose bumps break out over my skin. It feels so good. I close my eyes at the gentle, soft touch from Max. Finally,
Max is touching me
. I feel almost dizzy with disbelief.

“How can you?”

“I’m not sure I can,” he says softly. “I’m working on managing it. The thought of touch causes my symptoms. I’m trying to get my automatic, programmed reaction to cease. I have to realize that if I instigate it, it won’t hurt me. I want to touch you, Christina. I want you to touch me. It’s more of a conditioned response I can’t control. And just three sessions of counseling can’t cure that.”

I reach up and he immediately whips his hand back. Then he freezes, stunned that he did that. He shuts his eyes and mutters, “Shit.”

“Warning.” His eyes pop open. “You need some warning before I touch you. I can’t surprise you. It can’t be spontaneous.”

“No. I guess not.” His chest rises and falls. “I don’t want to be that way. I want to be different. I want—”

“I can do that,” I interrupt him.

He shifts his gaze to mine. “You can do what?”

“I can warn you before I touch you. I can let you know what I need.”

His eyebrows kind of rise, then lower. “Like you have to ask me? Can you really imagine a life where every time you wanted to touch, or cuddle, or hold the hand of your…”

“My what?” I interrupt. This time, I lean towards him, hardening my gaze. “My what, Max? What are we talking about here? My friend? My cousin? My
what?
” I exclaim, feeling sick and tired of his waffling. He is always pushing or pulling me. Either we discuss this for real, or not at all.

“Your boyfriend.”

“Okay, so I have to ask permission each and every time before I touch my boyfriend?” He nods, his dark gaze kind of flat-lining as he does his usual close-out with emotions.

“Would that mean I get to sometimes touch you?”

“Yes,” he says, but the word sounds kind of wobbly and shaky from his lips, like he’s saying yes, but is only half sure he can do it.

“Yes, because you think I want to hear that? Or yes, because you feel able to do it?”

“Yes. Because I intend to do it. But think about it. We’re talking limited. Sometimes. Scheduled. It’s like scheduled fucking, how can anyone stand that for long term?”

“So give me an example?”

He shrugs his shoulders and his gaze skitters over my head. His discomfort is nearly tangible. “My therapist and I talked about how I might be able to hug and kiss if I know, for example, you might like it before we go to bed, or before you leave in the morning. I’ll expect it and that way, I can plan for it and—”

“So I was one of the reasons you went to a therapist?”

His head kind of jerks back when I interrupt him, since my voice sounds hot with anger. “Well… yeah. There’s no one else I would ever bother learning how to show and accept affection from.”

“Do you think maybe asking
my opinion
on the matter might have been important? You haven’t even called me! And now you tell me you were seeking therapy because it involves me?”

He swallows and I see his eyes widening at my tirade before he shrugs and nods. “I wasn’t sure if it were possible to ever learn how to touch. I had to know it was possible for me to learn before I exposed you to it again. What I did to you this summer—”

“What you did this summer was break my heart! You never even asked me what I thought about it. I was fine, really freaking fine, being with you
exactly
as you were. I just wanted
you
. And all you could do was turn away from me, taking your friendship from me too.”

“I loved you, but I couldn’t handle being
in love
with you, or being with you. I couldn’t handle not touching you. I just needed… to be honest? I think I needed to lose you! That’s what forced me to face this stuff, which I still don’t want to face. Do you see what I mean?”

My heart feels like it’s expanding in my chest and blocking out my lung’s capacity to draw in air. I am flabbergasted. I don’t expect anything I hear from Max’s mouth.

“You think you want this to last?”

“Yes. But being with me won’t be easy.”

“You say that, but then, it’s like you think I don’t know you. I know you, Max. I know what being with you is like. I’ve been doing it for years! And the only thing you continue to keep missing, is: it is NOT hard for me. Me, Christina Hendricks. You have got to quit assuming what I should think or feel.”

His breath hitches. “You’re willing to settle for having to ask my permission to do simple things like hug me? Or asking me to hold your hand? You’re willing, long-term, to have to freaking ask me for normal, everyday gestures? We’re not talking about sex, we’re talking—”

“Damn it! Quit doing that. I know what we’re talking about. Why do you act like it’s such a shocking concept to me? It’s not, okay? It’s normal. It’s your status quo. And it’s you! I know all about you, Max. I got over the shock of it years ago. I mean, you just need to get over the shock that I can live with it. You’re the one who can’t seem to live with it.”

He closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. “I’m trying to, Tina. I really am trying.”

Silence overtakes the room. I think about letting it all die for the night, but we’ve come this far. Literally. I’m in a strange city and state and somehow, Max is here with me. And I just need something… I need for something to end or begin. I need answers. I need to move on… either with, or away from Max.

“Max?” I whisper. His eyes pop open. I stare into them. “I’m going to put my hand on you.”

He draws in a breath, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest.  “Where?”

Specifics. He needs specifics. Okay, open and honest communication. Growing up and being real. I can do this. I hope he can too. “Right over your heart. Okay?”

“On my shirt?”

“No. Under it.” I bite my lip. It kind of sounds like we’re preparing for a doctor’s examination. Have I pushed him too far? I don’t know. His gaze wavers and his eyeballs glance down when he notices my hand’s slight movement. “Okay?”

He sucks in a breath and finally nods. “Okay.”

It’s really hard for me to fathom fearing someone you know and trust. How can someone’s hand cause so much confusion and fear? He literally has to prepare himself for my hand to touch him. Until I met Max, I could never have comprehended how innocent, everyday touching can be such a terrible experience for some people. It is though; and for Max, it’s traumatic. However, this is the first time I’ve seen him willing to try and change that.

If, and I mean only
if
Max is for real willing to try, then so am I. But only if he seriously means it.

I set my hand directly over his heart. I don’t slide or move it. I don’t want to chance pushing him too far. I want him to learn to trust me. Maybe if he can trust me to do what I say, then he can someday trust me without telling him first. I can feel his chest physically fall and then rise as he exhales and inhales. I realize it is that big of deal to him. He has to prepare for me to touch his chest. His skin is warm and smooth under my fingers. His heart taps against the palm of my hand.

I do nothing more. I don’t move my hand, or even try to touch him anywhere else. I just let my hand rest there until finally, his breathing regulates and the fast rhythm of his heart slows. He starts to accept it, and I can feel when his muscles slowly begin to relax. Honestly? That feels like I just graduated college with a four-point-oh! Or earned an award for something. It feels like I accomplished something momentous here tonight. It feels really good too. I think, and truly believe, I really helped Max just now. I think I can see a way, a small, miniscule way, that maybe we could employ tonight. If it works, perhaps we can make it a model for handling the very thing that keeps us so separated.

“Are you okay?” I finally ask.

I try to clamp off a shocked gasp when his hand comes up and rests right on top of my hand, over his heart. He squeezes my fingers in his. “I am now. I am okay with you. I’m sorry. For what I did to you this summer.” His mouth comes forward and he touches his lips to mine. So gently. Like a soft whisper. “I couldn’t handle it. It was overwhelming. It was way too much for me to deal with. But I should have found a way to.”

“Do you think you can find a better way?”

“I think so; maybe I can.”