Paper Perfect

seventy-one: the end

2009-12-01T22:30:00.002-05:00

I wondered for a while if I should preface this, and I decided I should. Yes, this is the end of Paper Perfect. I'm very much saddened that this will be the last post of the story. I've grown to love these two beyond any other characters I've ever written, and I've been writing and working on this for days now. It's taken me this long, I think, because I'm so reluctant to see it end. This entire story has meant so much to me. But I think this is fitting, and I couldn't do it any other way. I'm still working on A Sharp Contrast and there's a new one that will be up and running short, eventually, Immediate Danger (links in sidebar). So, as always, thanks for being on this ride with me. I appreciate your support and love you for it. You're all amazing, and I've never forgotten it. Please enjoy.

Soundtrack Song - Damone, When You Live

My flight doesn't take off until around noon, but I'm so desperate to get out of the house that I pack my bag and leave around seven in the morning. Mommie Dearest is already awake, and my plans to escape unnoticed are foiled.

"Leaving so soon?" she asks me, peering over her steaming cup of coffee.

"Yeah. I'm gonna catch the El out to the airport."

My mom rolls her eyes. "Someone will take you. It's a shame to ride with all those people. It's the day after Christmas—the trains will be packed like sardines."

"It's okay, Mom," I say with a smile. "I don't mind. I kind of miss the big city feel."

"Well, you don't have to go back to Pittsburgh. You can stay here. Max will understand."

I don't say anything right away, because my mind is blank. It's like I can't even compute what she just said. Caroline wordlessly joins us, dragging her feet in slippers toward the coffee pot. Why is she doing this? Why can't she let me be happy as I am? I'm sick of this! I'm sick of my mother, and I'm sick of her shit; I don't deserve it and I don't want to have to put up with anymore. "And do what, pray tell? Stay here with yinz guys?"

Caroline snorts. "Yinz? God, Charlotte, you've been in Pittsburgh too long. That word is like nails on a chalk board in this house. Dad used to say it all the time."

"And what's so wrong with that?" I ask them, raising my right eyebrow. "So what if it's a silly word? It's a Pittsburgh thing, and that's where I live now. And if you don't like it, if you don't like me using it—hell, if you don't like me—I don't ever have to come back."

"Don't be ridiculous," my mother says, thinking I'm overreacting. I shake my head and laugh a little. That settles it: I won't be back. I won't deal with this again. My mom is just like John: hopelessly never going to change. The sooner I realize that, the better.

I leave them in the kitchen, take the El downtown, and then catch the 146 bus all the way out to Adler Planetarium, and then I go sit on one of the cold, metal pedestals by the lake. This has always been my quiet spot to relax and reflect when things got frustrating and confusing. This is where I made my decision to leave Chicago and escape to Pittsburgh—which turned out to be the best decision I had ever made in my life.

It hadn't been an easy decision to make last spring. It probably seems like it should have been a piece of cake, but it really wasn't. I had made John my world, and leaving him was like building a rocket out of scrap metal and flying to the moon. My point is that it wasn't easy. But sometimes, you have to take risks and hope—no, believe—that the alternative is better. Things will get better. The grass is going to be greener, and there are more fruitful pastures waiting to be grazed.

I'm incredibly lucky. I know that; not only did I find my own personal paradise, but I found it so soon. I'm twenty-three and hopelessly in love with the best guy in the world today. Max is everything to me, and everything I needed him to be when I needed him to be it. Without Max, I don't know where I'd be right now or in what state—mentally and geographically. His steady, devoted love has carried me through so much. He'd hate to hear me say this, but he's perfect. Okay, maybe not perfect, because he still wears those horrendous sweaters and shirts. He's still loud and boisterous. But he's perfect for me.

Of course I can see the similarities between the way things were and the way things are now. The way I'm head-over-heels and completely devoted to Max, blind to his faults and willing to give up anything for him. It's a dangerous path I'm treading. Love is dangerous. But it's worth it to give love a shot and hope for forever. It's worth it to risk the pain for a glimpse of happiness. Because I can only imagine that things are just going to continue to get better and better. The best is yet to come.

My trip home for Christmas was less than delightful. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it wasn't sugar plums and gum drops either. However, I'm oddly glad that I came to Chicago. It's not that I don't understand how grateful I am for Max; now, I just appreciate him a lot more. Going home showed me everything I left behind. And going back to Pittsburgh is going to be that much sweeter.

I draw the comparisons beyond just the men, and also between both my trips to Pittsburgh. Last May, I was so scared to be leaving. I was so afraid of the unknown. Of having to find a job in a strange city, living in an apartment that Gina picked out for us, and trying to figure out where I should go next with my life. I knew that I had to move on, and I had been trying to; part of me just kept wishing that John would turn back into the man I met and come sweep me off my feet again and whisk me away back to Chicago.

Today, I can't believe I was that person back then. I shake my head as I think about it and stare out toward the water. If I were to meet that old version of myself now, I'd pity her. I'm kind of amazed at myself that I think that. Either I'm a cold-hearted, cynical bitch now, or I really was that pathetic back then. Or a little bit of both.

And I can't believe how drastically everything has changed. No doubt, my life has been turned upside-down, and so much has happened. It's amazing. It takes my breath away. I always wondered how happy any one person can be. I think I'll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop and I'll expect it, but I wonder if it ever will.

I sigh and take another look around me, at the skyline and the shore. This view always humbles me. Looking out on Lake Michigan, not really being able to tell where sky meets water, always makes me feel small and insignificant. I'd come out here when things were stressful and remind myself that I was just one tiny person on this large earth. On this small planet in a giant galaxy. So whether John called me or not was irrelevant, because there was a bigger picture. But now, today, I look out and feel like I have the strength to conquer this big world. I can't remember feeling this good, ever.

When my nose feels like it's about to fall off from the cold, I stand back at the bus stop and begin my trek to the airport. It takes a while on the blue line before I'm finally back at O'Hare, and then I get through security and wait at my gate on concourse B. Usually, journeys home seem to fly by much faster than the trips out. This one, however, is taking forever. It's not just returning home. Pittsburgh's where I want to be, and therefore I can't get there quickly enough. Isn't that the way it always goes?

I ignore the flight attendant as she asks me if I want anything to drink. Instead, I look out the window at the passing clouds beneath the plane and stare at my watch, willing the minutes and miles to go by more quickly. I've never been like this. Not jumpy, not anxious... just impatient. I want to be with Max again, just to be around him. Get a glimpse of that easy smile that lights up the room. His scruffy facial hair that subtly disguises the mole on the side of his face that I always kiss on his cheek. That pair of deep cerulean eyes that I can get lost in—and have on many occasions. I want to run to him in the airport, just like in the movies; I want to drop my bags and sprint toward him with all the speed I can muster. I'm not a runner, but I'd run to him in a heartbeat.

The other passengers get annoyed with me as I push past them in the first class cabin. I can't possibly wait any longer! Max told me that he was flying into Pittsburgh sometime in the morning and would wait around in the airport for me. I send out a text to him as I follow the flow of the crowd and the baggage claim signs, navigating down through the escalators and people mover to the turnstiles to wait for my suitcase.

Text after text and call after call go unanswered. I stare at the tiny screen, puzzled and confused. Where is he, and why isn't he answering? Doesn't he want to see me as badly as I want to see him? Maybe something happened with his flight. I'd better check the boards. Before I can, I bump straight into a gaggle of girls. I mumble my apologizes and look around for the screens with the arrival times, but not before I run headlong into another person.

"Sorry," I repeat, not bothering to look at that individual I crashed into. I'm too busy trying to figure out where Max is.

"No problem, baby."

I do a double-take. Here I was, concentrating on finding Max, and he found me instead. There goes my hopes to run into his arms, but I think this is better. "Maxime!" I cry, standing up on the very tip of my toes and wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face into his body. "Oh, I missed you."

He counters by holding my waist, nuzzling into my hair, and taking a deep breath. "Mmm. I missed you, too." For a minute, I stay in that position. I don't want to move; I can't stay on my toes like this for long, so I lean back and forth from foot to foot, and Max sways with me as he holds on. "Do you want to stay in the airport forever? Or do you want to go home?"

"Home," I say into his neck, and the sounds are muffled.
______________________________________________________

Soundtrack Song - Michael Bublé, Crazy Love

My flight lands at half past ten, so I have a couple of hours to kill until Charlotte's flight arrives. I grab a coffee and sit and wait. It probably seems useless to waste all this time; I really should just go home and come back out and pick her up, but I can't. The idea of driving back to an empty house, alone, and especially without Charlotte.... I can't do that. I'd rather wait here all day, if I had to.

A couple people walk by and recognize me. I gladly shake their hands, sign some napkins, and chat with them. It's a fun way to spend the time as I wait, especially so since my phone died because I forgot to charge it before I left. I love talking to the fans—Pittsburgh, hands down, has the best and most appreciative sports fans in the U.S. It's so easy to spend the time to talk to them about the game, about the season, and just about anything in general.

"You get back in town?" the one guy asks me, his son looking bored beside him. "We live up in Boston now, and we were down for the holidays."

"Oh, yeah. I went home for a few days. I'm just waiting for my girlfriend's flight." I chuckle and correct myself. "I mean, my fiancée."

"Congrats, man," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder and aiming his son for the security gate. "She's a lucky girl."

As he walks away, I wonder about his words. Is Charlotte the lucky one? Or am I? I was never adverse to the idea of settling down; I had plans to do that eventually. I wanted a family, and my family wanted that for me, too. It was going to happen. But I didn't imagine it would happen this soon. I figured I had years to go before I was even going to consider finding someone to start my family with. Looking back on it, though, I wouldn't change a thing. I wouldn't have it any other way. So maybe we're both lucky.

The timing was perfect. We both had things on our minds that we wanted to forget about. We were so good for each other back then. Hell, she's still good for me. She's my rock and my constant, always there for me when I need her. Through the wins and the losses, she never changes. When I come home from the long road trips, or even the short ones, she's always there waiting for me. I want that, forever. And I'm pretty sure that Charlotte wants me just as badly as I do her.

Flower said that it was probably because I needed the distraction away from the rink and my injury that I devoted so much time to Charlotte and figuring out the puzzle she presented me. Maybe that's true. Maybe it also had something to do with how she didn't want me at first, as anything other than friends. So I had to take the time to get to know her, as well as let her get to know me. Whatever the reason, it worked. I'm hooked.

After about a billion cups of coffee, I'm wired and have to piss. I run to the restroom and then check the boards for her flight and make sure that's it going to arrive on time. It is, so I check the baggage turnstiles to see which one will have her luggage. Too impatient to wait there, I walk back to the escalator from which she'll descend. A rush of people begin to come down, and I finally spot her as she slowly appears.

Her eyes are trained on her phone, not even searching for me. Charlotte doesn't even look up once. It makes me laugh and shake my head. Doesn't she know I was going to be waiting for her? I call her name out once, but she doesn't hear because she's so absorbed in whatever she's doing. Crazy girl. I yell again, a little louder this time, and it seems that I turn everyone's head except hers.

Since hollering for her isn't working, I just decide to meet up with her. She's not watching where she's going, and she collides with a group of girls. I move in front of her, thinking she'll see me, but she walks right into me, too. Charlotte doesn't bother to look up to see who she's just run into, instead just muttering her apology. "Sorry."

I smirk and answer in a way that I'm sure will get her attention. "No problem, baby."

Charlotte glances up once, turns away, and then focuses back on me. I watch as the recognition dawns on her face and her lips curl up in a smile. "Maxime! Oh, I missed you." She pushes up on her toes and flings her arms around me, pressing her entire body against mine.

I likewise wrap my arms around her waist and inhale the familiar scent of her shampoo. This feels so good that I can hardly fathom a time when she didn't fit in my arms. "Mmm. I missed you, too." We sway back and forth gently, side to side, as if making up for the two or three short days we went without having each other to hold onto. As much as I want to stay this way for a long time, I want to go home, with Charlotte. "Do you want to stay in the airport forever? Or do you want to go home?"

"Home," she answers, still not letting go or stepping away.

"Well, then let's go." I let go of her waist and wait for her to do the same. After a few more moments, she does. Our hands meet like magnets and our fingers lace together. As we walk over to the baggage area, I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her palm. "Did you have a good flight?"

"It was too long," she giggles. "It took too long to get home to you. You'd better be serious about marrying me, because I'm not leaving you again."

I smile at her. "Wow, was your trip home that bad? We'll have more fun when we go together."

She shakes her head and lowers her voice, checking our surroundings before broaching this serious topic. "I'm not going back. Never. Chicago isn't home anymore, and my family doesn't hold me there. I'm done trying to make my mom happy. I'm done with her. It's true what they say, that you can't please everyone. And I'd rather please myself than her."

"You don't mean that," I say. I can't imagine my life without my family; I know hers isn't the best, but to sever the ties so completely sounds wrong.

"I do, Max. Being with your family, seeing them interact.... That's what I want. And my family can't provide that."

"It's yours. My family is yours now." I mean it; whatever I have, I will share with Charlotte.

The carousel kicks on, and the bags begin to trickle down. Hers is one of the first, and I grab it for her and pull it behind me in my left hand and continue to hold her hand in my right. We make our way, just like that, to the parking lot. When we get to my beemer, I move to let go of her hand so I can reach into my pocket for my keys; however, she squeezes my hand tightly and turns to face me. Charlotte reaches her free hand in my pocket to fish my keys out for me, but her hand lingers a little too close to my package for it to be an accident.

"We're going back to your place, right? Our home?"

Everything about this moment feels so right. "Oui."

We both have ridiculously large grins on our faces as her bag gets tossed in the car and we both hop in and head for home. I drive through the tunnel and downtown comes into view. Charlotte sighs and tilts her head to the side. "You know, I never planned on making Pittsburgh my permanent home. I always thought I'd go back. I'm glad it worked out this way, though."

I swallow, a little uneasy about her words. "You know, Charlotte, I can't guarantee that I'll play in Pittsburgh forever. A lot of players—most players, in fact—get traded or don't get resigned and move to other teams and cities. It all depends on the needs of the team, and if I—"

"If, or when, that happens, then we'll move and make that place our new home. It doesn't matter where we are, Max. As long as I'm with you... that's where home is."

I look over at her in the passenger seat and watch her smiling at me. It's such a beautiful sight to behold. She reminds me to keep my eyes on the road before we crash or go careening into the river. It's a difficult thing to do, but I peel my eyes away from her face and try to concentrate on the road and the short journey home.

seventy: christmas day

2009-11-29T18:00:00.002-05:00

Everyone leaves around one in the morning on Christmas day, and my mother, Terry, Caroline, Derek, and I all barely make it up the stairs before we collapse into our respective beds and pass out. The Christmas Eve festivities may be over, but we have to do it all again on Christmas day. Except this time around, everyone is invited over. My grandparents, Uncle Tim, Aunt Georgia, and our cousins Brooklyn and Helena are coming back, but Terry's family is coming over, too. Derek's parents show up just for dinner but won't stay afterward.

The four of us in my immediately family exchange presents in the morning, and then we get started on the preparation for today's gathering. Caroline and I are in charge of washing all the dishes dirtied yesterday and then arranging the twenty place settings for dinner.

"Remind me again why we do this two nights in a row?" my sister asks with an attitude as she washes yet another plate.

"Because Mommie Dearest doesn't think that we get to spend enough time with her family on Christmas day when everyone's here. So they come over on Christmas Eve and then the day of."

"But why does she have to host it both days? Let someone else do the work and have the party at their place," she grunts. "Because we're the ones stuck with the clean up."

I shrug and sigh. "You're the one who said yesterday that we just have to put up with it on major holidays. You can't pick your family. You don't have a choice."

"Are you kidding? Of course you have a choice. You can not show up!"

For some reason, that never occurred to me before. "Well, if you hate it so much, why did you show up?"

"I dunno. It's tradition, I guess. Either that, or I'm worried more about what she'll do if I don't visit for the holidays."

I nod and pretend like I understand, but I don't. Not really. I'm more resigned in my distaste for my family, but Caroline is always vocal about how she hates these stupid family functions. If either one of us were to skip out on one, I'd firstly assume it would be her. After all, we all feel like our mother blames becoming pregnant with Caroline for why she never realized her own dreams. And Caroline feels resented for it. If I think I have it bad, well, my sister's got it worse.

So, no, you can't pick your families. But does that mean you have to subject yourself to them? I never really put much thought into it because I thought it didn't matter; however, now I feel like I have an alternative. Something better. A family to love me unconditionally, just like I always wanted. Just like I hoped to be able to provide for my kids someday, but I wasn't exactly sure if I could be able to.

Caroline and I finish our duties, shower, and change for the night's events before everyone starts to show up. While we wait, I slip away and make a quick phone call. He answers on the first ring, but I can barely hear him over the din in his background. Sounds like the holiday is being celebrated in full force up in Montréal.

"Hey, baby. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Max." Before I can even get all the words out, I hear a scuffle on the other end of the line and a chaotic, muffled exchange in French before another voice takes over.

"Joyeux Noël, Charlotte. Uh, merry Christmas." I instantly recognize the voice as Francis's.

"Frankie," I laugh. "Merry Christmas."

"Why aren't you here in Montréal? Max misses you. He's like a woman. But we all miss you. And everyone else in the family wants to meet you, too."

I hear Max say, "Donne-moi mon téléphone!" Frank doesn't give it up, though. I can hear Frank fight off his little brother and maintain control of the situation, and I can just picture it in my head how red-faced Max is as his brother slightly tortures him.

"I miss you guys, too," I sigh, thinking about how different my Christmas would be if I were up there instead. It would be loud and confusing and hectic, but it would also be fun and probably less nerve-wracking despite the language barrier and attempts to make a good first impression on the rest of his family.

"Your boyfriend is a pain," he says as the battle continues. "I'll let you talk to him now."

That makes me laugh. As if I called Max to talk to Frank anyway. "Thanks. Tell everyone I said Merry Christmas. But, you know, in French."

"Sure thing. Take care, Charlotte."

"You too, Frank." I continue to laugh; these two are hilarious together. It may irritate Max, but it amuses me.

"Va achaler quelqu'un d'autre." His voice becomes louder and clearer as he takes his phone back and presses it back against his face. "Je suis désolé. He just doesn't know when to stop."

"It's fine, Max-A-Million. I actually like knowing there's something that gets under your skin. It makes you normal. Human, just like the rest of us."

"Are you okay? Is there something bothering you?"

Letting out a breath, I internally debate a moment on whether I should say what's really on my mind. I do. "I know you want a family, Max. But I'm scared. What if, because I didn't have a good mother, I'll be a horrible mother?"

"Whoa whoa whoa. Why would you even think that? You're going to be a great mother to a bunch of rambunctious Talbot boys."

I smile at Max's immediate response and certainty. It's reassuring that he's got that confidence in me, but I'm still not sure. "How do you know? Because I don't."

"You're worried because you don't want to turn into your mother. I'm telling you that you won't. You know what it's like to have a mother that isn't supportive and loving, so you're going to be the type of mother you wish you had."

"Thanks," I whisper, pulling back the curtain and watching the snow fall. "You always know the just right things to say."

"I'm not just trying to flatter you or anything. I mean it. I can't wait for you to have my babies. Maman can't wait either. She's already asking me if we've set the date yet."

"We can figure that out after Christmas, when we're back in Pittsburgh. I just miss you. I wish you were here. Better yet, I wish I were there."

"Me, too, baby. Me, too."

I see the first car pull up in front of the house. "I've got to go. But I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Oui, I fly in first thing in the morning. I'll wait for you at the airport until you land, and then we'll go home."

"Okay, great. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."

"Love you, too. See ya."

Hanging up the phone, I plaster on that fake that smile and hope to get through the dinner like I did the night before—hiding in the background and hiding from sharing my good news. And it is good news; I should have been able to share it. I want to share it, but not if they aren't going to be honestly happy for me.

Too bad I don't get that option tonight. Things never go the way I plan them.

Terry's daughter, who's a few years younger than me, spots my ring before she's hardly through the door. I'm helping to gather coats, and I stretch my arm out to take hers when the diamond catches the light and she shrieks.

"Charlotte! Oh em gee!" she hollers.

At first, I think to myself, did she seriously just say "omg" out loud? Secondly, I realize what she's freaking out about. Why do women have to get so excited about stuff like this? "It's nice to see you, too, Sara," I say, trying to play it off.

"You're engaged! Congratulations! Where's John?"

Ugh. I just can't escape him. "Um, actually, John and I aren't together anymore. I'm engaged to someone else."

"Well, where is he? I want to meet him!" Sara squeals. Her reaction has attracted everyone else, and now the spotlight's on me. This is what I wanted to avoid. "Is he here?"

"No," I mumble. "He's visiting his own family for the holiday. We just got engaged three days ago, so it was too last minute to change plans." I leave out that if either of us were to be changing plans, it would have been me; I would have gone up to Montréal instead of bring him to Chicago.

The other present guests swarm around me, and all the questions come at once. "Where did you meet him?" "How long have you known him?" "Why didn't you tell us yesterday?" "How could you get engaged to someone your family hasn't met and approved of?" "Wait, I still don't understand—what happened to John?"

Oh, Jesus Christ. Why is my family so critical? "There's no more John. We aren't together anymore. I met Max in Pittsburgh, and he's an incredible guy. And he wants to share his life with me, so I consider myself very lucky."

They continue to lob questions at me. The ones from the adults are condescending, but my cousins and Terry's kids seem excited. When Brooklyn asks, "What does he do?", my mother jumps in and chirps, "He's a hockey player."

Brooklyn turns up her nose. "Like, missing teeth? Black eyes? Broken noses? Ick."

I laugh at her. "If that's your impression of hockey players, you're surely missing out. You live in Chicago—I know you've seen pictures of some of the Blackhawks."

"Oh yeah! Patrick Kane is soo hot," she giggles.

I roll my eyes at that. I find my purse and dig out the picture of Max that I brought with me for my trip home. I first show Brooklyn, and then the picture gets passed around the room. That's when I start get their approval. Max is handsome; there's no doubt about that. If he were here, he would win him over with his charm. My mother's the only one whose mouth is still drawn in a thin line.

For the next five minutes, I continuously field their questions. Then, they somehow start talking about something else. Just like that, I'm off the hook as they find something or someone to complain about. I take one more look down at the picture in my hand before I stuff it into my pocket.

Tomorrow, I'm flying home. To my real home in Pittsburgh, to the place where I'll be surrounded by the people that truly care. To my real family, even if none of us are related. I'm relieved and excited to return.

sixty-nine: going home

2009-11-27T19:00:00.005-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Jason Mraz, Plane

I'm nervous as hell. Getting through security doesn't bother me. I don't worry about whether my bag will end up in China rather than Chicago. Finding the gate and making it there on time isn't an issue. And the flying doesn't bother me either. There's some turbulence on the flight, but it's not enough to scare me and think about the possibility of crashing. I'm not even afraid of contracting swine flu.

Ugh, no; the process of traveling home is not what's got me anxious and concerned. It's going home that is under my skin. I wouldn't be looking forward to this for any reason, but especially now that I have this newly acquired precious stone on my finger, I'm worried about how this return trip is going to go. I absentmindedly play with the ring for the duration of the flight as I gnaw on my lip.

I get off the plane and wait patiently at the baggage claim counter for my suitcase. I wouldn't have even checked anything, except I had to bring presents home. Everyone knows it's not Christmas without presents, and I wanted to get them all something from Pittsburgh—even for my mother, who's going to see it as a little bit of a slap to the face or a bitter reminder of how I practically ran away from home.

As I wait, I send Max a quick text message just to let him know that I landed safely. Within a matter of seconds, he calls. "Hey, baby. Back on solid ground?"

Just the sound of his voice eases me. Hundreds of miles away, but it feels like he's right beside me. "Yup. Just waiting for my bag. Wait, aren't you supposed to be getting ready for your game?"

"We're about to go out for warm-ups. I had my phone on and in my stall in case you called."

I smile to myself. How did I ever get so lucky? "All right. Well, go have a good game, and then have a safe flight home. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Sure thing, Charlotte." When he says that, I hear echoes of noises in his background of the locker room: kissing sounds, fake sighs of bliss, and even a couple shouts of congratulations. I can barely hear him over the chaos when he adds, "I love you."

"Love you, too, Max-A-Million." I hang up the phone and feel a little reassured. No matter what happens over Christmas, I know I'm going home to him. That's all that matters.

Finding my suitcase quickly, I grab it and then walk toward the station to pick up the blue line of the El. I purchase a three-day pass and ride the train for forty-five minutes before I get off and haul my bag to my parents' house. Even though I haven't been home in seven or eight months, the city has that familiar feel. Unfortunately, no one else of my family is back home yet. My sister and her husband live in the suburbs, so they'll show up tomorrow, on Christmas Eve. For now, it's just me, Mommie Dearest, and my stepdad.

I knock on the front door and enter without waiting for her to answer. I'm unsure of what the proper etiquette is, because it's my mother's home and it used to be mine, but it isn't anymore. I hear my mother call, "Come in!"

I drag my bag behind me and set it by the stairs in the foyer. If I take it straight upstairs so as not to mar the holiday decor, I'll get a stern, disapproving look; if I don't immediately find her and say hello, I'll probably get worse. Slipping out of my coat and hanging it in the closet, I look around for my mother. She's in the kitchen and in fully glory: pristine, white apron and cooking up a storm.

"Hi, Mom." I perch myself on a stool by the island in the kitchen.

"Merry Christmas, Sweet Pea! What time did your flight come in? I would have sent Terry to come get you. Did you take the EL?" she asked, pursing her lips as if riding on public transportation is a fate worse than death.

"Yeah. It was fine. I didn't want to inconvenience you guys and make you deal with the traffic." That's partially true; if there's anything worse than Pittsburgh drivers, it's Chicago drivers. Plus, driving with my stepfather would be incredibly awkward. He's a nice guy, of course, but he's an awkward stepfather.

"Oh. Well. Why don't you go wash up and help me with all the baking?"

I nod and head back toward the foyer, grabbing my bag and heading up for my old room. The pale pink walls of my old life. I feel like this was all so long ago, but it hasn't even been a year since I graduated and moved back home for a week before I bought that bus ticket to Pittsburgh. Before I turned my old world upside down and left behind everything I knew for a chance at starting over and figuring out what I wanted out of life.

I freshen up quickly and head back down into the kitchen. "Okay, what do you need help with?"

"I'm working on the cookies. I have everything out to make the bread. Can you handle that?"

"Yeah, sure," I tell her, knowing what's expected of me. I've been doing it every year since I was old enough to help out. Everything for Christmas is homemade, because my mother is an impeccable hostess. She always wants to outdo herself every year, so everyone can tell her what a delightful job she did. It's definitely how I learned the need to constantly please.

I pull back my hair and grab an apron. Even though I'm wearing bummy clothes, my mom would insist on it. I remove my watch and then go to take my ring off. As I tug on it, I hesitate. I don't really want to take it off, but I don't want to get it messy and doughy.

"Where'd you get that?"

Looking up at my mother, I see her eying me suspiciously. Do I explain, or do I let it go? "Max gave it to me."

"As a Christmas gift, I hope," she says.

"No, Mom. It's an engagement ring." Here we go. "I'm... engaged."

"To Max?"

I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Now she's just being ridiculous. "Yes, Mom. I'm engaged to Max. I'm going to marry him. I thought you liked him?"

"Well, as your little excuse to screw around before you finally settled down with John. I get it, Charlotte. You wanted to go out, see the world, and experience new things. You did that. You had your fun. And look where it got you—in Pittsburgh and in the bed of a professional athlete. But it's time you get this out of your system, whatever this is, because it's time to move on. You were always meant to be with John."

"No, Mom. I never should have been with him in the first place. Please, I don't want to do this now. It's the holiday, and I don't want to have this discussion."

"There's nothing to discuss. I'm telling you that you're making a mistake. You should listen to your mother. You always were so stubborn."

"This isn't about being stubborn or trying to be a rebel. Mommy, I love him."

"I remember you saying the same thing about John. And look at what you did to him: you left him devastated. He went after you, and it landed him in the hospital. That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't played games with him. So what are you going to do to Max?"

"Wait," I say, holding up my hand in the air. "Are you saying it's my fault that John got into a car accident? That's insane!" My chest feels so hollow, and I can't believe she's just implied that.

"He wouldn't've had to be in Pittsburgh if you would have stayed here and stayed with him, now would he? No Pittsburgh, no car accident."

"No, Mom. It's his fault. If he hadn't have turned out to be such a dick, I wouldn't have had to leave him. Then he wouldn't have needed to follow me. You're my mother. You're supposed to be on my side—"

"I am on your side, Charlotte—"

"No, you're not! Stop defending him. He didn't treat me right."

"And do you think your father and I always got along perfectly? Do you think Terry and I always get along perfectly? No. All relationships have their ups and downs."

"I'm not talking about typical ups and downs, Mother. I'm saying that my relationship with John was one deep depression. There were no ups, ever. It started well, and it was all downhill after that. He tricked us both, and he fooled his own sister. He's got some kind of personality disorder, and he's manipulative and controlling. He's fooled you, and now I feel like I'm being gaslighted. But I'm not going to let you make me feel bad. Now, you can either be my mother and we can agree to disagree but you can let me live my life the way I want to, or I can go grab my suitcase, turn around, and fly right back to Pittsburgh. Or better yet, catch a flight to Montréal and spend the holiday with Max's family instead. They like me."

Mommie Dearest clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She looks at me for a moment and says nothing. Eventually, she turns around and faces her plates of cookies and ignores the issue. "Can you hand me the green food coloring?"

It's rude, for sure, but it means I've won. When she pretends the argument never happened, it means that she wants to forget about it, but she of course refuses to apologize. It's only rarely happened in our confusing mother-daughter relationship. I let out the breath I had been holding, slip off my gorgeous engagement ring and stash it away in my pocket, and then begin mixing the bread dough for tomorrow's big Christmas Eve dinner.

The following day, on Christmas Eve, everyone comes over to spend the day. I wear my ring, but I pass on sharing the news with everyone. It's bad enough that my grandparents are both asking me where John is. I guess my mom hasn't told anyone about our break-up or Max. It's the first Christmas in three years that I've spent it alone, i.e. without a boyfriend by my side. I don't mind it, because I know I'm not truly alone. That fact makes their looks of pity a little easier to endure.

When I go into the kitchen to snag a few appetizers before dinner, Caroline steps beside me at the counter and looks down at my hand. "So, what's the deal with that rock? I'd assume it means you're engaged, but you haven't broken the news." She grabs a gingerbread cookie and watches me, waiting for my answer. When I don't speak up right away, she continues, "We all know John's history. And thank God, because you know I didn't like him."

I smirk. "Yeah, well, that was nothing against John. You just don't like anyone. You barely get along with Derek, your own husband. I think you only talk to me because I'm your sister, and no one else is capable of understanding our upbringing, so there's no one else to commiserate with."

She snorts and smiles. "You have a point, there. But you're avoiding the question. Are you, or aren't you? And if you are, then where's the lucky guy?"

"What? Bring him here and let our family run him off? Give Uncle Tim any more reason to poke fun at me?" I joke with her. Uncle Tim's already four drinks in, and it's not even time for dinner yet. Aunt Georgia, my mother's sister, can't do anything to cut him off, so he's loud and obnoxious at 5:30 in the evening. It's a joke because I know that it wouldn't even scare Max off. He's put up with much worse in our short relationship.

"Hey. Derek had to go through it, so what's his name should, too. But you still haven't said...."

"Yes. I'm engaged," I say, but I tell her nothing more. My sister and I aren't close and never have been. You'd think we'd be allies against our mother, but that's not the case. We talk sometimes, mostly on-line, but when I say we talk I mostly mean she finds something to complain about and I pretend to listen and/or care.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," I say, hoping she means it. "He's celebrating with his family, and Mom insisted that I come home. She met him, you know. Of course, she doesn't like him."

"Oh, fuck Mommie Dearest. You know she's never happy."

I nod. I know that very well, but it still doesn't mean that I don't want her to be happy with the choices I've made and my life. I'm still her daughter, and I want to make her proud. "When Mommie Dearest isn't happy, no one's happy," I laugh with a roll of my eyes.

"Yeah, but we only have to put up with it during major holidays. Derek's parents are both alcoholics, so actually, putting up with her and Terry isn't so bad. It could be worse."

I shrug and say, "I guess." That saying is supposed to offer me some sort of consolation, but it doesn't really.

"You know she tried to invite him for Christmas? John, I mean."

My eyes widen. "No, she didn't. Please tell me she didn't. Oh God, please tell me he's not coming."

Caroline laughs. "No, he's not. Apparently, he's still up in Toronto, but he's supposed to be coming back to Chicago after the new year. Something about having better mobility by then or whatever."

"I can't believe she'd invite him. After what happened over Thanksgiving...."

She gives me a sad look. "I can't believe that you can't believe she'd try something like that. She's our mother. Of course she would. Don't be a fool." Caroline finishes her cookie, grabs another, and leaves me in the kitchen with my thoughts.

As the rest of the night progresses, I try to stay in the background and keep the conversations on topics other than myself. Luckily, my family is full of the types of people that enjoy talking about themselves. As long as I ask questions about them, I never have to talk about what I'm doing in Pittsburgh or who I'm doing in Pittsburgh. And no one notices the ring, because I keep my hand shoved in my left pocket. A cop out? Maybe, but I don't care.

sixty-eight: morning after

2009-11-25T23:00:00.000-05:00

Dearest Readers: I pulled a Charlotte, and I'm in Chicago for the holiday (in this case, Thanksgiving), so please forgive any delay in/lack of chapters for a while. I still plan on writing, but I don't how much I'll get done. I love you all, and I know you'll be here when I return... just perhaps disgruntled. :P Have a lovely Thanksgiving to my Americans!

The rest of the night passes by with little other interference. Will and Frank wisely keep their distance and stay by their wives' sides. I guess it's payback, though, because I had interrupted them plenty of times growing up, when they were teenagers bringing their girlfriends home and sneaking them up to their bedrooms when they were supposed to be babysitting me.

When we walk back into the living room after having been so rudely interrupted by my brother, Frank bursts into laughter. Stupid brothers. I shoot him an angry glance. Charlotte squeezes my hand and bumps and nudges me with her shoulder. I look down at her to see her smiling up at me.

"They're just having some fun with you," she says.

"I don't think it's funny," I reply, but I'm not offended. That's my family for you. Crazy, but you can't be mad at them.

"Come on, not even a little?" she chuckles.

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her against me in a one-armed hug. "No, not even a little." I kiss the top of her head. Then I think about what she said, and I pull back and give her a puzzled look. "How is it that you're sticking up for my brothers, over me? That can't be."

Charlotte laughs again. "Hey, they're going to be my brothers now, too."

As the night progresses, a lot more wine and other types of alcohol are imbibed, and the traveling finally catches up with my family. Flower and Véro leave, congratulating us once more, and then my family begins quieting and retiring for the night. They yawn and head off for whichever room or sleeping arrangements. It's none too soon when I get Charlotte alone again, back up in my room with the door locked, and I have no intention to answer it no matter who may come a-knockin'.

Her mouth tastes of brownies and red wine, a delicious combination that has got me intoxicated. Besides how much I've already had to drink. As good as her mouth tastes, I want to taste the rest of her, too.

As soon as her mouth is free, her speech comes out slurred. "Max. Oh God, Max. I need you... I need you to take me home. Ugh, but don't stop."

"I'm a lil busy right now," I tell her, unzipping her dress again. This better be the last time I have to take this damn dress off her tonight. Drunk sex is better than no sex.

"I have to work in the morning," she says. Charlotte's giving me all the reasons I need to take her home, but her uncoordinated hands fumble with the button of my jeans. She doesn't want to stop, either.

"Then I'll take you home in the morning. Problem solved."

She slips out of one of her heels and then teeters, unbalanced, until she falls back on the bed and giggles. I take advantage of her new position and crawl on top of her. I pull the straps of her dress down, and she takes her arms out so I can push the top of her dress down to her waist and touch her naked tits. I pinch her nipples, and she closes her eyes and licks her lips. She moans, wiggles beneath me, and then admits, "I'm drunk."

"Yes, you are. And you're useless when you're drunk," I tell her as she continues to fumble with my pants.

"I am, aren't I?" she giggles again drunkenly, still making no progress on undressing me. It's killing me that we're going nowhere. My cock is pressing against the restrictive denim, begging to be freed.

Finally, I bat her hands away so I can do it myself—because that's the only way it's going to get done. "It’s okay. I love you anyway."

"I love you, too, Max-A-Million. Make love to me. L'amour... avec moi? Oh fuck. Just do me," she mumbles, hiking up her skirt to her waist and then pulling her panties down for me.

By the time I kick off my pants and rip off my shirt, popping off several buttons in the process, there's a soft rap on the door. Not again. I intend to ignore it when my mother calls out, "Bonne nuit, Maxime! Bonne nuit, Charlotte!"

I holler out an answer quickly as I untangle her panties from her ankles and spread her legs so I can fit between them. "Bonne nuit, Maman! À demain!"

"Bonne nuit, Madame Talbot!" Charlotte squeaks out. She covers her face in her hands in an attempt to hide her embarrassment. Her moods swing so quickly when she's tipsy. "Your mother knows we're having sex."

"So?" I ask, not getting her point. "Do you think she thinks I'm a virgin?"

"No, she knows we're having sex now," she groans, trying to roll away from me. "The mood is ruined."

I reach down with my left hand and pin down her hips against the bed, and with my right hand I roughly push two fingers inside of her, and then I rub her clit with my thumb. She makes an odd noise that sounds like a moan and a gasp at the same time. I nuzzle her neck as I move my hand and say, "Do you still think the mood's ruined?"

Charlotte moans loudly again and then replies with a low voice, "They're going to hear. Tu familia.... Shit, that's Spanish," she giggles, still finding humor in the situation because she's drunk. "Your family will hear us."

"They'd better hear you," I say, thrusting my hand a little harder to make her gasp again. Charlotte grabs the sheets and contorts her body. "My brothers won't let me live it down if I can't make you scream."

"You and your brothers." She laughs again, and I think that I don't want them to hear that. They should be expecting to hear moans and grunts and affirmations and my name repeated over and over again.

Instead of trying to reason with her—because you can't reason with a drunk person—I roll her over onto her stomach. Instinctively, she gets up on her knees and grabs the headboard, and then she casts a glance at me over her shoulder. She bites her bottom lip and sticks her ass out; I grab her hips and slam into her from behind. Charlotte pushes back against me and meets me thrust for thrust. The bed slams into the wall, but those thuds are drowned out by the sounds of her encouragement.
______________________________________________________

Max wakes me up early enough in the morning that I can minimize my embarrassment by not having to see his entire family first thing in the morning. I slip into a pair of his sweats and an old tee shirt as we tip-toe down the stairs. We try to suppress our laughter at having to sneak around like teenager lovers so as to not wake up his family. I don't think I'd be able to face them after last night.

I have a headache after consuming all that wine and sugar last night, and I need to hurry and get home so I can get ready for work. That's why on weekdays, Max usually would stay over at my place, and weekends were spent at his. However, last night threw a wrench into our usual routine. It's okay, though; I wouldn't change a single detail about last night.

Much to my dismay, Max and I sneak downstairs only to find that we aren't the only people awake in the house. Francis is feeding the baby, and Lucie is searching the kitchen cabinets to find coffee and filters. I blush feverishly, immediately trying to find a way to slip out of the house unnoticed, but Frank spots us and comments before I can execute the escape plan.

"Bon matin," he greets with a smirk. "Aren't you two tired after your performance last night?"

"Who was performing?" Max asks. "Everything you heard last night was authentic."

I groan and feel my face redden. At least they said all that in English, so the innocent Mrs. Talbot wouldn't be able to understand that. To help her, and also to take some of the fun out of their raunchy comments by ignoring them, I leave them to their conversation and open one of the cupboards, pulling down the filters and bag of Starbucks ground coffee for Max's mother. After all, I know his kitchen like the back of my hand because I'm here so often.

"Ah. Merci." Lucie reaches out and grabs my face, kissing both of my cheeks for the thousandth time since I met her. She doesn't let go as she looks at Francis for a moment. "Welcome to... our family." She smiles, so proud of herself.

I smile, too, and get a little teary-eyed. I can't help it; Mrs. Talbot and the rest of Max's family have been so wonderful. They're nothing at all like my own; although I know that my family is crazy and dysfunctional and most families aren't that way, I've never known anything else. It feels like an honor and a privilege to have them usher me into their clan and treat me so well.

Lucie hugs me as she cries a little herself. Max laughs and shakes his head at us. "Femmes. Ils ne font que pleurer."

When she releases me, I smack the back of Max's head. He rubs it and scowls at me, feigning anger. Francis and Lucie chuckle as I reprimand him. "I don't know what you said, but it's not funny to talk about your mother. Or me, for that matter."

"Yes, dear," he sighs jokingly, and I hold up a finger to warn him against such facetious comments. Max tells them that I have to leave, and I hug each of them again, kiss little Paul's forehead, and wish them all a happy Christmas before Max drives me back to my cold and quiet apartment.

"Have a wonderful time at home in Montréal," I say, kissing him once more. "I'll see you when we're all back in Pittsburgh."

"You, too. I mean, have a good time with your family in Chicago."

I nod and slide out of his car, standing on the sidewalk as I watch him drive away. The idea of returning to my childhood home in Illinois is less than thrilling. It's going to be a miserable seventy-two hours with my family after getting a glimpse into a real happy holiday gathering. I hope that once Max and I are married, I'll never have to go back to Chicago to see my family again. Certainly never have to go back alone.

In the apartment, I find that Gina's awake, although barely. "Where have you been?" she asks groggily, rubbing her eyes and yawning. "I thought you were going to be back after Max's party?"

"Oh, well, it wasn't a party for his teammates, like he said. He invited his family down for today's game, and they showed up last night. So, I got to meet his family."

She smiles. "How did it go? Better than him meeting Mommie Dearest, I guess?"

"Oh, infinitely better. They're so wonderful. They made me feel like I've been part of their family forever, even though we could barely communicate. They're just good people," I answer, reaching up to scratch my forehead with my left hand.

Gina freaks. "Oh my God. Oh my God!" She grabs my hand and yanks it toward her with such force that I jerk forward. "Is this what it looks like?"

I chuckle. "Oh yeah. I almost forgot about the part where he asked me to marry him."

Her eyes are as wide as saucers. "And what did you say?"

"Obviously I said 'yes,'" I laugh. "I wouldn't be wearing the ring otherwise."

She squeals and dances in place. "Oh my God! Congratulations! This is great news!"

Gina's reaction continues to amuse me as she clutches me and jumps a little. I think she's more excited than I was. Of course, it is great news. I'm ecstatic, too, but I'm also a little hesitant about having to share my great news with my family and especially my mother. I don't know how well she'll take it. She seemed to like Max after our excursion out for lunch when she visited, but she still has a soft spot in her heart for John. My Christmas trip home is about to get a whole lot more complicated.

sixty-seven: answer

2009-11-23T19:00:00.011-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Girls Aloud, Can't Speak French

All of his words seem to go in one ear and out the other. French, English... none of it registers in my spinning mind. Except, that is, his questions. "Charlotte Marie Bickley, will you marry me? Veux-tu être ma femme?"

Suddenly, it's like I have tunnel vision. The Talbots disappear and fade into the background, and then the background vanishes away. I can only see Max in front of me, down on one knee with a box in his hand. A ring in his hand. A perfect, three-stone ring set in silver or white gold or something. A diamond in the center, flanked by two emeralds, sparkles and entices me to answer him.

Max wants to marry me. He's talked about forever and the rest of our lives; he's talked about it like he wanted it to happen.... And now it is happening. This is the beginning of the rest of our lives. Together.

It takes me forever to find my voice. I know what I want to say; my answer's a resounding yes!, but my brain is fried from having so much sprung on me today. Surprises are nice and all, but there's only so much surprise I can take in one day before it affects my mental processes. Especially when I want to give him the perfect answer in French. I want it to be in his language, and I want his family to understand.

"Maxime. Je t'aime...." That part was easy. But the rest of it is a little harder for me. I close my eyes and try to search quickly for the words. I'm cursing myself for just trying to memorize canned phrases and sentences instead of actually learning the language. I rack my brain and hope this will suffice. "Oui, je vais."

I open my eyes in time to see his head snap up, and his eyes meet mine. "Oui?" All I can do is nod, because I'm deliriously happy and I've completely lost all ability to speak at this point, so I nod and nod and nod until I think my head will snap off my neck. Max's eyes light up and his smile returns. He fumbles with the box as he picks up the ring and takes my left hand in his. His hands are shaking as he slides the band of precious metal onto my finger, and it touches me how overcome with emotion he is. That's when I start crying. Max stands up straight and I fall into his arms and kiss him like no one's watching. It's a beautiful moment we're in, just him and me and the love we're going to share until the day our hearts stop beating.

So many questions start whirling around in my head. I'm so happy, and I want to know all the details. Did he plan this? Did he invite his family down because he was going to ask me? And the ring—how long has Max had this ring? It feels right, but it's only been months. When did he buy it?

I don't get the chance to ask him for answers because his family pours in around us and begins to offer their congratulations. Max and I are pulled apart as everyone takes turns hugging us and kissing our cheeks and passing us around the room. It's pure insanity and utter chaos. The men all clap Max on the back as the women admire my new piece of jewelry. Someone, I think it's Will, hands me a celebratory flute of champagne. I don't even know where the champagne came from, only that there's some in my hand.

Max and I lock eyes, and he tilts his head to the side and shrugs subtly as if apologizing for his family. I smile at him to let him know that I don't mind his family. After all, they're happy for us, and I wouldn't want it any other way; I just wish he was by my side instead of across the room. There's so much going on: toasts that I don't understand, questions that I don't know the words to answer, and delightful stories of Max as a kid, which would be funnier and more endearing if they didn't have to translated for me.

After the initial celebrations, the party breaks off into several groups, and I somehow manage to find myself between Francis and Will. I can't help but think that this isn't going to be good as Will says something to Frank, and then Frank turns to tell me something.

Thank goodness their wives and Véro walk over and interrupt. Juliette pulls Francis away, and Sylvie does the same with Will, both giving me a knowing smile as they leave. They knew they were just up to trouble. Véro gives me a light squeeze. "Don't worry, we saved you. They were going to take advantage of your poor French by teaching you some rotten things to say to Max. Consider yourself warned about those two, because they love to pick on their little brother." She pauses. "You doing all right?"

"Never better," I tell her with a smile. "Today has been great, I'm just...."

"Overwhelmed? Excited? Tired?"

"Yes," I laugh, thinking that I'm all of those things. "So much is going on, I feel like I need just a little quiet time to myself to kind of soak it all in. I'm not used to all this," I tell her, gesturing at the loud atmosphere.

"Why don't you go upstairs for a minute, then? If anyone asks, I'll tell them you had to powder your nose or something."

"V, you are amazing," I sigh, pulling her into a hug. "I just need two minutes, I promise." I step behind her and cut into the kitchen, polishing off the champagne left in my glass before setting it on the counter and taking the back staircase up to the second floor. The voices echo up from the room below, and I step into Max's bedroom and plop onto his bed for a moment in the dark. I close my eyes and take in one deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before I let it out, long and slow.

"Welcome to the family," I hear as the room lights up around me.

I look to my left and see the figure in the doorway. It takes me a split second to realize that it's not Max, and it's one of the brothers. It takes another split second to realize it's Frank. I kick myself, because Will doesn't speak English, so of course it's Frank. I wonder how much wine I've had. "Merci," I giggle, finding a touch of humor in how the Frenchie is speaking English to me, and I'm speaking French back to him.

"You're not regretting your answer, are you?" he asks, sitting down beside me.

"What? No!" I squeal out quickly and loudly, sitting up. "Not at all, Francis. I love Max, and I love your family. I just needed a breather. I needed to recharge for a second."

Frank smiles back at me, being very sincere. "Good. He's obviously crazy about you. When I saw your escape.... He kind of put you on the spot when he asked. I was worried you said yes to prevent his embarrassment."

I laugh. "Put me on the spot... yes, he did. But that's Max. I couldn't imagine it happening any other way. I meant my answer with all my heart."

"You two are good together. We can all see it. You just let me know if my baby brother does anything I need to, uh, how you say, kick his ass for."

I chuckle again. "Thank you, Frankie. I hope to never need to take you up on that." I look down at the ring, sigh, and look back at up Francis. "I can't even begin to tell you what a good man your baby brother is."

"Please, begin," Max says, leaning in the doorway. "Frank won't believe it otherwise."

"He's always been a trouble-maker," Francis laughs, deserting our serious talk for a chance to poke fun at Max.

"Don't put bad thoughts in her head about me. Va te faire voir!" he orders as he smiles, nodding toward the doorway as he steps farther into the room.

"C'est bien, à plus tard," he returns, getting up from beside me and heading for the door. On his way out, Frank squeezes Max's shoulder and nods at him. It seems like such a sweet moment between two brothers who normally concentrate on ribbing each other.

Francis closes the door behind him, and Max takes that fact to his advantage. He reaches for my hand and pulls me up off the bed. He removes my sweater, and my skin almost instantly starts to get goosebumps—and not just from the cool air. He kisses my bare shoulder. "Finally, some alone time."

As if on cue, loud laughter reverberates through the floor. "We're not exactly alone."

"Close enough." One hand presses against the small of my back, pushing our bodies together, as the other hand unzips my dress. "Take your hair down."

"If you wanted alone time, you shouldn't have invited your family into your home," I giggle. That fact doesn't stop me either, because I do as he commands and remove the clips and let my hair fall down around my shoulders. Then I reach up under his shirt and lightly drag my nails down the flesh of his sides. Next, I go to work on the buttons of his shirt.

"They won't care if we celebrate our engagement properly," he mumbles, kissing across my collarbone to my neck. His scruffy chin electrifies my nerve endings. "I thought you were going to say no."

My hands quit their progress of undressing him. As badly as I want him, those desires are temporarily put on hold. "What? Why would I say no?"

"You took forever to answer. It's not supposed to take that long to say 'yes.'"

"Max, my answer to you will always be 'yes.' From here on in, it's always yes." He kisses me hungrily, igniting all my pent-up passion. "I just wanted my answer to be perfect."

"What did I tell you about perfect? As long as you agreed to wear that ring, any answer would have been perfect. In English or in French. I don't care what you speak."

"Really?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. "I guess all those special lessons from V have gone to waste then." Max looks at me and waits for me to explain. "Embrasse-moi." I end the conversation here, not wanting to distract myself from the task at hand. He grabs my waist and guides me down on the bed. His right knee's between my legs, the left is on the other side of my body, and he's peeling the straps of my dress down my arms slowly.

That doesn't mean we don't get distracted, however. There's a loud knock at the door as one of the brothers says, "Maxime!"

"Will, va-t'en!" he growls, bending over and kissing right above the neckline of my dress.

"C'est important," Will calls.

"Je suis occupé."

"Allez, Maxime." He knocks on the door again. "Ouvre la porte."

Max sits up and shakes his head. "Stupid Frank."

"I thought it was Will?" I ask, feeling confused.

"It's Will at the door, but I bet Frank sent him up here. He knew...." Max throws open the door as I pull the straps of my dress back onto my shoulders and make sure the hem is pulled down so I'm at least covered. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

I can see that Will is grinning much like the Cheshire Cat. The brothers are definitely messing with Max, and Will knows what we were up to as he spies a half-naked Max and my disheveled appearance. "Hé, Charlotte. Comment allez-vous?"

Max groans and steps in the line of sight so Will is forced to look at him and not me. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux?"

"Papa et Maman ont pris la chambre d'amis. Et nous? Où sommes-nous supposés dormir?"

Max scowls. "Il y a le divan-lit dans le séjour et le matelas gonflable. Organisez-vous." Then he shuts the door and engages the lock.

Will hollers through the door, "Quelle impolitesse! Et penser qu'on est venu jusqu'à Pittsburgh pour te voir!" He laughs and hollers down the stairs as his shadow disappears from the crack below the door. "Oui, Francis!"

He shakes his head and groans. "Be glad you don't have brothers. Now, where were we?"

"Later," I sigh.He pouts and I laugh, "I promise. Later." I stand up and turn my back to him, pulling my hair across to one shoulder so he can zip me up. "We shouldn't be rude and ignore your family."

"Our family," he whispers, zipping my dress and kissing the nape of my neck. Then he goes to work on putting his shirt back on. "Maybe it's not official yet, but you're a Talbot now."

That's not a comment meant to make my cry, but it does make me get weepy. I love his family. I can barely even speak to them, but they made me feel so at ease and so at home with them that it's like I really am a part of their family, and I had been a Talbot for my entire life. It's a happy feeling, but I'm sad, too, because I have to leave them and go home tomorrow to my real family that isn't nearly as sweet.

"Don't cry, baby."

"I'm sorry. Your family is so accepting. I love them to death, Max-A-Million. I think I love them more than my own family."

He smiles broadly. "It's great seeing you fit in with them. I knew that they would like you, but I didn't know they'd like you this much so soon. And my mom.... She will love you enough for a billion mothers. She's probably already planning our wedding. Let's go back downstairs, Charlotte." He laughs at his thought. "You're going to be Charlotte Talbot. That kinda rhymes."

I groan. "I don't want to have a rhyming name."

"I think it sounds perfect. It's got a nice ring to it," he says with a smile.

I look down at the brand new ring on my left hand. Charlotte Talbot. Yeah, that definitely has a nice ring to it.

sixty-six: sign

2009-11-22T19:00:00.010-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Natasha Bedingfield, I Wanna Have Your Babies

We walk back into the living room, and everyone looks up at us expectantly. I'm not sure what they're waiting for; maybe they think that we were going to fight or something. The old me would have flipped out on him because I would have wanted this meeting to be perfect, but the new me is less of a perfectionist and doesn't see the point in getting worked up over something that I can't control. Needless to say, their expressions ease when they see us return and we're hand-in-hand and smiling.

"Venez vous asseoir!" his mother invites, sliding down the couch some so there will be room enough for the two of us together. We do as she bids, and Mrs. Talbot, Max, myself, and Véro all sit together in a line. "C'est à ton tour, Maxime."

Max hands the glass of wine to me so his mother can hand him Paul. I expect him to put up some kind of fuss or act frightened to hold him, but that isn't the case. On the contrary, Max is a natural. I suppose I shouldn't be as surprised as I am, because Max is very much a family-oriented guy. Sure, he's loud and fun and a bit of a clown (okay, more than a bit), but he's this man, too, who's comfortable holding babies and cooing at them in French baby-talk.

My heart melts in a puddle of goo in my chest cavity. Max is no doubt going to be a great father someday. To my children. We had never really talked about the future, our future, but he's said things like "for the rest of our lives" and "forever." Forever includes babies of our own, and I try to picture in my head what it'll be like during Christmas a few years down the road, when Paul's old enough to run around in excitement over Santa's imminent arrival and maybe there are a few other of Will and Frank's kids to add to the clan. And maybe Max and I will have one of our own, too.

I lean my head against his shoulder and look up at him looking down at Paul. He tilts his head to the other side to watch me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm great," I sigh, looking up at him. "You're so good with him."

"I can't wait 'til he's older and I can teach him to do all the things that are going to annoy Frank," he laughs.

Frank cuts in and says, "All you have to do, then, is teach Paul how to be just like you." He then quickly says what I'm guessing is the same thing in French, so the rest of the family can laugh along.

Véro chuckles and says, "No offense, Max, but I don't think the world can withstand another person like you."

"Just wait until I have my own sons," he laughs loudly. "Mes fils vont être comme moi."

"I hate to break it to you," I interrupt, "but we'll be having daughters."

Max shoots me a stunned look. He's shocked and confused. "What?"

"My family is full of girls. My mother only had daughters, and her mother only had daughters. Our children will be girls."

He laughs quietly, so as not to disturb Paul as he slumbers away in his arms. "I hate to break it to you, but Talbots produce loud, hairy men."

I look around the room at Will and Frank, and I can't imagine having children that grow up to be like them. Not that this would be such a bad thing, but my sister and I always joked that if we ever had kids, they would be girls. "Nope. Sorry. My eggs will only accept sperm with X chromosomes. That's just how it goes," I laugh. "You're going to have to get used to that."

"No way. It's the man that decides the sex of the child, and I'm telling you, it's all about the boys. Me, Frank, Will, and now it's starting with the new generation in Paul. My manly sperm overrules your eggs. You're just going to have to get used to that."

Véro covers her mouth as she laughs. "You two are ridiculous. Why are you arguing about the sex of children you haven't had yet? Ils discutent à savoir si leurs enfants seront des garçons ou des filles."

Everyone around us smiles, and Lucie speaks up, "Je suppose qu'on verra bien." I look up at Max and wait for him to translate for me, because I don't understand. He smiles at me and presses his lips to mine very briefly as Will and Frank make obnoxious and loud kissing sounds.

"I'll be right back," Max says to me, standing up and passing Paul back to his mother, Juliette. "Une minute," he announces to everyone else, taking the stairs two at a time.

They all look at me, wondering what's going on, and I don't have an answer for them. I shrug and shake my head, just as confused as they are for his sudden departure. I guess the wine has finally gotten to him, and he needs to break the seal. I say to Véro, "Let's get this party underway. There's so much food. Can you ask them if they're hungry?"

"Sure thing. Est-ce que quelqu'un a faim?"

The boys all nod, and our party transitions from the living room into the kitchen. The bottle of wine gets passed around as everyone starts to pick at the plates upon plates of food. I hope that all the Talbots have as big of an appetite as Max does. Everyone's chatting and laughing and having a good time. Even Marc-André, who always seems reserved and quiet, is laughing loudly and clearly enjoying himself. The Talbot disposition is contagious, obviously.

Even though they are loud and probably won't notice the difference, I can't help but think we need a little Christmas music playing in the background. I slip out of the kitchen and head over to his stereo in the living room and turn it on. Music accidentally starts blasting through the speakers, and I yelp and quickly turn the volume down.

"What are you doing?" Max asks me, coming back downstairs.

"Trying to turn on some Christmas music. Trying to set the mood," I laugh, noticing that everyone in the kitchen has poked their heads into the living room because of the loud noise. Max steps beside me and turns it off completely. "Je suis désolé," I say to his family, apologizing for disturbing them. They all open their mouths in shock, and I wonder what I did that garnered that type of reaction. I meant to say that I was sorry, but maybe I said something offensive instead? I turn back to Max and the stereo, only to find he's gone down on one knee. It's my turn to ask, "What are you doing?"
______________________________________________________

"I hate to break it to you, but we'll be having daughters," Charlotte says matter-of-factly.

I'm taken aback by what she's just said. Charlotte never talks about the future; I'm always the one who brings it up. I'm afraid I didn't hear her correctly or I misunderstood. "What?"

"My family is full of girls. My mother only had daughters, and her mother only had daughters. Our children will be girls."

I laugh. I did hear her correctly, but I need to correct her line of thinking. "I hate to break it to you, but Talbots produce loud, hairy men."

"Nope. Sorry. My eggs will only accept sperm with X chromosomes. That's just how it goes. You're going to have to get used to that." She's laughing and her green eyes are glistening.

I banter back, "No way. It's the man that decides the sex of the child, and I'm telling you, it's all about the boys. Me, Frank, Will, and now it's starting with the new generation in Paul. My manly sperm overrules your eggs. You're just going to have to get used to that."

Véro giggles at our interactions. "You two are ridiculous. Why are you arguing about the sex of children you haven't had yet? Ils discutent à savoir si leurs enfants seront des garçons ou des filles."

My family is all looking at us and smiling. My mother is beaming and I'm afraid she's going to explode with happiness when she says, "Je suppose qu'on verra bien."

When she says that, it hits me like a tidal wave or crushing tsunami. I told myself that I would know when Charlotte was ready, when it was time to ask her the big question. I had no idea how I was supposed to know, but... I know now. I know. She's talking about kids, our kids, my family likes her, my mother loves her apparently, and I don't need any other indication to be sure that if I ask Charlotte to marry me, she'll say yes.

I also told myself that I was going to make the proposal special and romantic. Once I knew she was going to be receptive to the idea, I was going to plan it out and make sure it was going to be memorable and perfect. But now that I know, I can't wait. I have to do it now.

Giving her a quick kiss, setting Paul back in his mother's arms, and telling everyone that I'll be back in a minute, I rush up into my bedroom and look in the closet for that little blue box that's been collecting dust ever since I stashed it there. I have to take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I'm not nervous; I'm incredibly, unbelievably excited. My heart's pounding, and it almost feels like my first game back with the team this season. Almost, because this is way more thrilling and overwhelming.

I place the box in my pocket and take a few more deep breaths. Why am I so worked up over this? Mon Dieu, what am I going to say!? How am I going to ask her? Merde, I can't believe I haven't thought about this more. Maybe I should wait until I've thought more about it. No, I can't wait. I'm too excited. I have to do this now. The words will come to me.

Walking down the stairs, I see the living room's empty except for Charlotte looking at my sound system. My heart aches with love just at the sight of her. She presses a button and something wails out before she turns it down. "What are you doing?" I ask as I walk over to her.

"Trying to turn on some Christmas music. Trying to set the mood. Je suis désolé," she giggles, turning to apologize to my nosy family. I've got my girl, she's speaking in French, and my family's here. This moment couldn't be better. One last exhale, and I go for it and go down on one knee. My family reacts, but Charlotte's looking at them and not paying attention to me. She scrunches up her face, confused by them, and she turns to look at me, only to find I've suddenly gotten shorter. She peers down at me. Her mouth falls open in shock for the second time today. She whispers, "What are you doing?"

Just like I hoped, the words spew forth out of their own volition. "Charlotte, I knew from the moment I first saw you that you were someone special. I didn't know how special you were until you didn't want anything to do with me. Je ne peux pas croire combien tu m'as changé. Tu m'as transformé en un homme dont mes parents peuvent être fiers." I quickly glance over at my parents, and my mother's hands are over her mouth. They're all watching. I turn back to Charlotte and continue, letting all the words spill out. "I hope to be a man you'll be proud of, someone who you can love with all your heart until the end of time. Je ne suis rien sans toi parce que tu es tout pour moi. Je t'aime encore plus que ce que je croyais possible, tellement que ça fait mal. Je veux partager mes victoires et mes défaites avec toi. I don't just want you to be a part of my life. I need you in my life. I feel like our souls will always be connected, and I want to make it permanent, so everyone else will know how much I love you." I reach into my pocket and produce that trademarked blue box, opening it and presenting the ring. "Charlotte Marie Bickley, will you marry me? Veux-tu être ma femme?"

She stands as still as a statue, her mouth hanging open. Seconds begin to tick by, and I wait for her answer. With each moment that passes by in silence, I begin to get worried. I was so sure that she would say yes, but if her answer was yes, it wouldn't be taking her this long to say it. My heart begins to sink.

"Maxime," she whispers, finally reacting. Her eyes flicker down to the ring and then back to my face. "Je t'aime...." Her eyelids flutter shut, and I can see her eyes moving rapidly as if searching for the right thing to say. The polite words to tell me no. In English or French, the rejection is going to sound exactly the same.

I drag my eyes away from her face and wait for it. For the "but..." that's inevitably coming. Waiting for her to say "I love you, but I can't marry you." Or "I love you, but it's too soon." I was so sure that she was going to say yes. I can't believe she's about to turn me down.

sixty-five: very surprised

2009-11-21T19:00:00.012-05:00

Max is acting funny. He has been for the past few days, but I chalk it up to his excitement of going home and seeing his family for Christmas. It's like he's ready to burst out of his own skin and he can't keep still. More than usual. It's driving me crazy and making me antsy, too.

For the fiftieth time tonight, I survey the kitchen, making sure that everything is set out and is aesthetically pleasing. When Max had told me about the party on Sunday, I couldn't believe he wasn't going to decorate or anything. And everyone knows that you can't just call up a caterer two days before a party and expect them to be able to handle the job. Especially when the party is three days before Christmas, and not even if you're Max Talbot! Then again, I should have known better. Max never thinks things through; he always flies by the seat of his pants, so to speak.

Since Max was very informally throwing this party, he didn't even care about putting up a tree or stringing up lights or doing anything remotely festive. I chastised him and forced him out shopping so we could pick up at least a small tree and some decorations. Maybe a little garland or something. All the stores were packed and the shelves were practically bare, but we found enough to go with the "informal" theme of the party.

I'm not dressed informally. Not like Max, in his untucked dress shirt and loosened tie. It's part of my upbringing, I think, to need to make sure the party's planned out and, well, perfect. It's not even my house, nor is it my party, but since I know Max has put in minimal effort, I feel the need to compensate for his lack of preparation. I glance up at the clock again. "What time is everyone supposed to start showing up?"

"In fifteen minutes. Why are you so anxious?" he asks, and I can tell he's a little frustrated with me.

"I'm not anxious. I just want this little shindig to get underway," I try to explain to him. Once I can see that people are here and enjoying themselves, I'll be able to calm down. I reach out and adjust the plate of brownies I baked. "Do you think there's enough food?"

He groans. "There's a reason I wanted to just get this catered. Don't worry about it."

"But you guys are like human vacuum cleaners. It's not too late for me to run to the store or something." Twenty-plus hockey players, not to mention significant others or dates, and that's not counting if anyone else shows up. They're all going to demolish this spread, and we're going to run out of food. I can feel it. Max surely knows how much they can eat, so he should know this will hardly last.

He opens up his mouth, no doubt to tell me to relax again, but his phone rings, so he gives me a short command instead of the long lecture I'm expecting. "Charlotte, stop worrying. And don't you dare go anywhere." He puts his phone up to his ear and starts speaking in French. "Où êtes-vous? ...D'accord, c'est bien. Parfait. Je vous vois dans dix minutes." He hangs up and begins to explain, "Flower and Véro—"

I cut him off. We've continued our French lessons, and while I'm still a novice, I recognize dix minutes. "Will be here in ten minutes."

He smiles at me. "Oui. Ton français s'améliore."

It takes me a second to translate what he said in my head, how my French is getting better. "Not bad, considering my teacher is horrible," I tease him and stick my tongue out. Truth is, he's been most helpful and patient.

He smirks at me and hooks his arm around my waist, pulling me against him. "Keep that up, and I'll lock the doors and turn everyone away." Then he kisses my neck.

While I'm very tempted by this, I smack his arm and say very sternly between my laughs, "Don't you dare. Not after I spent two days helping you prepare for your party, decorating and baking."

Max rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "I didn't want you to think you need to play hostess. I want you to relax and have fun with everyone."

Distracting myself by reaching out and playing with his tie, I tell myself that once the party starts, I'll be fine. To offset my anticipation, I tease him again. "I will relax and have fun. I may even get drunk and let you take advantage of me once the guys leave." That seems to appease him, so I focus back on the party. Something's missing. "Should we put some Christmas music on?"

A glimmer resembling unease flashes across his face so briefly that for a second, I wonder if I really saw that. "Uh, I'll do that. Why don't you go pick something out from the wine cellar?"

This is Max, being weird again. I'm clueless when it comes to wine, and he loves to show off how much he knows. He likes to make a big production of opening the bottles, making me smell the corks, and then talking about the bouquet or whatever. So why is he telling me to go pick something out? "You know I don't know a thing about wine, Max. I know there's white, which I hate, and there's red, which I like."

"Then go get a bottle of red," he tells me, grabbing my shoulders and gently pushing me toward his pantry. He's acting so oddly. For good measure, as if I need more encouragement, he slaps my butt and yells, "After all, I need to get you drunk!"

That makes me laugh, thinking that he doesn't need to ply me with alcohol to take advantage of me; I would—and do—give myself to him willingly at every opportunity. I turn on the light and look around me, in what he lovingly calls his wine cellar but is no more than a small room adjacent his kitchen. I don't want to grab something too expensive, but I want something that's going to be good. I grab a red Meritage and hope he won't mind.

I turn off the light and walk back into the kitchen, and Max rejoins me even though there's no Christmas music playing. So strange. I hold out the bottle of wine and say, "I hope this is okay. Will you open it?"

He laughs at me and references the first night we hung together and my ingenious method to open the bottle I thought was a twist-off. "I thought you were the master at opening bottles of wine."

Narrowing my eyes, I tell him, "I cannot spill a drop of red wine on Gina's dress. Although, I don't even know why she doesn't just give it to me, because I wear it more than she does."

A car pulls up in front of the house, and it must be Marc-André and Véro. Max drops the bottle and corkscrew on the counter and rushes off before I get the chance to head into the living room. "Here, can you finish? I'll go get the door."

I let out a snort and roll my eyes. Here I go, back to work. As if I didn't already do enough work for his party. Why not do a little more? Max is the face of party, and I'm the one working in the shadows to make sure it's successful. I try to push the corkscrew down farther into the cork, but I struggle with it as unidentifiable French voices echo in from the other room. I assume that all the Frenchies drove together and think nothing of it. Except that maybe we're going to need more wine.

The bottle of wine is still unopened when Max comes back into the kitchen. My curiosity gets the best of me, so I ask, "So was that, like, Pascal's wife? I don't recognize the voice."

Max steps beside me, and his hand covers mine as I continue using the opener. I wonder what he's doing, so I look at his hand on mine and then up at his face. "Why don't you come see?"

Still puzzled, I question him further. "Don't you want something to drink?"

He clears his throat. "Come on. It's a surprise." A surprise? Is that what this is all about, and why he's been acting so weird lately? I let him guide me toward the living room as my heart begins to pound. He already gave me my gift, my plane ticket home, so I wonder what he has up his sleeve. I feel his breath against my ear as he says, "Pardonne-moi."

My head immediately snaps up so I can look at him. He's asking for forgiveness. I wonder why he would feel the need to ask forgiveness for this surprise or why he would surprise me with something that I would need to forgive him for. This can't be good. "Why?"

Panic begins to set in as I hear the next two words out of his mouth. "Maman, Papa, je veux vous présenter l'amour de ma vie. Voici Charlotte." His parents. Oh shit. I'm meeting his parents. I'm completely unprepared, and any French I've learned over the past month flies out the window. I don't think I'm ready for this. "Charlotte, I'd like you to meet my parents, Lucie and Serge."

My mind is blank, and I can't find the words I had practiced and practiced for this very moment. I'm definitely not ready. My heart is palpitating, and I think I need a paper bag. Max is going to die because I'm going to murder him; I can't believe he just sprung this on me like this! I'm breaking out into a sweat. But all that nervousness instantly disappears as Lucie, Max's mother, steps toward me. Looking at her, I think that Max is just like her—not merely in looks but in demeanor and spirit and presence. This is where Max gets his effervescence and easy smile and sparkling eyes. She's easy going and happy-go-lucky; I can just tell that about her as she wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a long and tight hug. Mrs. Talbot is obviously everything my mother is not, and I find that extremely comforting.

I barely manage to find the sentence I'm looking for, and I hope I say it correctly as I tell them how glad I am to make their acquaintance. "Ça me fait plaisir de vous rencontrer." Lucie then prattles on in French, and even if I had a slight chance of understanding her, there's no way I can now that my brain has left my body.

Max butts in and introduces me again to his father, and I shake his hand. Looking at him, I think that Max is like him—when I look at Lucie, Max looks just like his mother, and when I look at Serge, he looks just like his father. But I can see that this is where Max gets his determination and groundedness and calming effect. As Mr. Talbot silently shakes my hand, his soft eyes and generous smile are reassuring and soothing. I repeat the same line to him, "Ça me fait plaisir de vous rencontrer."

As if that wasn't overwhelming enough, next I'm introduced to his older brother William and his wife Sylvie, continuing to shake hands, smile, and make use of that particular French sentence again. Before things can calm down, the front door opens again and more people enter; this time, his oldest brother and his wife walk in with a car seat. My first thought it: holy shit, there are three of them! Max, Will, and Frank look like the same person, just at different ages. I silently pray that their personalities aren't as identical as their appearances. Three Maxes in the same room may cause a black hole in the universe or rip in the time-space continuum or something. My mind is still racing and I don't think I've caught my breath yet as Max says, "Charlotte, this is my oldest brother—"

"Francis, but Max calls me Frank," he interrupts. For a second, it doesn't register that he's speaking my language. "I speak some English."

"Thank God," I sigh with a laugh. I'm ridiculously excited that he at least knows enough English to introduce himself. It makes my feel a bit more at ease. "My French sucks!"

Frank scrunches up his face in confusion. I guess sucks is too much slang for him. He continues, "This is my wife, Juliette," he says as she and I shake hands. "She does not speak English. And this is our new baby, Paul. He doesn't speak English either. Then again, he can't speak at all." Francis is beaming like the proud papa he is as he holds him and shows him off.

I chuckle at that, and Max adds, "It's only a matter of time before he's talking like his namesake. He's named after our grandfather."

Somehow, I manage to pick out a couple of words and string them together, hoping that they make sense. "C'est beau." I take it that they do, because everyone's grins seem to widen.

Francis takes a step in my direction. "You wanna hold him?"

The question is just a formality; he's already handing him over. "I'm not sure that's a good—" I have no choice but to hold my arms out, otherwise the baby's going to fall to the floor. I'm pretty sure that letting that happen would mean a definite bad impression. "Or not," I laugh. I'm surprised at how easily Francis hands Paul over to a stranger. It's like this is my invitation and initiation into the Talbot family, and now I'm a part of it. The maternal instinct takes over and I begin to sway back and forth, peering down at baby Paul. "How old is he?"

Max says at the same as Frank, "Three weeks." As much as Francis is the proud father, Max seems just as excited. It almost makes me wonder how Max will be as a father and just how much more happy he would be over his own child.

I inhale the inherent baby smell that all infants have. "So tiny. He looks like an honest-to-goodness Cabbage Patch doll." Max is confused by my expression, so I try to clarify. "He looks like a doll."

Juliette kisses the top of Paul's head, but not in a way that makes me feel like she needs to be protective or wants him back. Suddenly, Lucie, Sylvie, and Véro surround me, and we move like a swarm to the couch. I'm just swept away in the current, trying to go with the flow. I sit and cross my legs, continuing to rock the baby, and Lucie sits on my right and Véro on my left. Juliette and Sylvie pull up chairs so we're sitting in a small circle.

Lucie starts talking in French, and it all goes right after my head. She stops and looks at me expectantly, and I search for my staple comment, "Je désolée. Je parle petit peu français."

I smile gratefully at Véro, who steps in and explains that I'm American and trying to learn French. She answers their questions and translates for me. I don't know what I would do if she weren't here. I don't even miss Max due to all the buzzing activity around me. Even though these ladies don't understand me, the Talbot women all look at me when I speak English, like they're hanging off my every word as if I'm preaching the Gospel. I try to pepper as much French into my answers as possible, because I want them to see that I'm trying. I want to fit into their family. Now I kind of know how Max felt when he met my mother, wanting to make a good impression and have them accept me.

They want to know more about me, they want to know how I met Max, and they want to know how I feel about him. I'm so overwhelmed and anxious, but I'm also caught up in their excitement. They talk over each other even as they talk to each other, and I have no idea how they're paying attention to what the others are saying. All of them are so warm and friendly and inviting, welcoming me into their little group.

The men are in the kitchen, their occasional laughter and shouts echoing in, but it doesn't disturb us. The whole floor of the house is raucous and loud, but I'm having a blast despite the insanity. At some point in our confusing bilingual conversation, Mrs. Talbot takes Paul and the men join us. Max hands me a glass of wine. I gladly accept it and down it.

"Slow down, baby. It can't be that bad," he laughs.

I stand with my empty glass and head for the kitchen and say, "Excuse-moi," while promptly grabbing Max's necktie and pulling him with me. I need a break from the noise for just a moment, and Max and I need to talk.

Everyone chuckles, but Frank gives a voice to their collective thought. "Looks like Maxime is in trouble!"

Once we're alone, he's the first to speak. "Listen, baby, before you get mad and yell at me," he starts, waiting for my reaction, "I knew that by the Olympic break, you would have been a mess of nerves. You would have been worried about meeting my family, self-conscious about your French, and I just thought that this would kind of solve that problem."

I bite my lip to prevent my smile. I want to make him squirm a bit, so I avoid looking at him and instead refill my glass. "So you thought orchestrating this meeting in December was going to be a good idea? When I can barely form a complete sentence to talk to them? When did you get this bright idea?"

"Um, Saturday. And then I told you about the 'party' on Sunday."

"The party which isn't happening? Meaning I wasted all that time and energy for no reason."

He pauses, and I know it's killing him. "So?"

I raise the glass to my lips to hide the grin. "So what?"

"Are you mad at me?"

There's no hiding it anymore. A loud laugh escapes from my mouth. "Oh, Max. I wish you would have told me, but no, I'm not mad. Surprised, yes, but not mad. Your family is great. All the French lessons in the world couldn't have prepared me for this, because I don't have a chance to understand them when they're all talking at once." He chuckles and nods, understanding completely. "But they already have made me feel like I belong."

Max lets out a deep breath and kisses my cheek. "Well, they love you already. And I'm glad you're not mad. I was worried about how you were going to react."

That makes me laugh. "And yet you did it anyway."

He shrugs, takes my glass from me, and takes a sip. "Of course. My plan was brilliant. Except that you had to meddle and pull a Martha Stewart on me."

I laugh. "If you would have told me—"

"I know, I know. What do you say, are you ready to go back in there?"

"Oui," I tell him, lacing my fingers through his as we walk back into the living room.

sixty-four: surprise!

2009-11-20T22:15:00.002-05:00

Can a lie ever not be a lie?

If you ask me if I'm lying, then technically yes, I am. I'm not being truthful and honest. But I don't have any malicious intent. Au contraire, I think I have great motives for a festive Christmas surprise for Charlotte. However, that means I have to be purposely misleading about what's going on in the days before the big holiday.

So does that still count as lying?

I'd be a little less concerned about the blurring of lines if I knew she'd like it. I know she will, but at first she'll either be feverishly mad or incredibly surprised. Or a deadly combination of both. And when I say deadly, I mean that she may kill me. If I'm acutely aware of this, then maybe I should just call the whole thing off, but it's already December 22—making it impossible to pull the plug. Everything's already underway.

Besides, it's been planned to a T, perfectly and strategically orchestrated. Charlotte very well knows that I'm not known for my subtlety and discretion.

The "lie" I told her was that I was going to host a team get-together at my house before everyone left for the short break we got for the holiday. There isn't a game on this particular Tuesday, and it's the day before her flight back to Chicago. I bought the plane ticket for her as her Christmas gift; I told her that if she had to go back to spend the holiday with her atrocious family, that she should at least go in first class. Initially, she refused it, but I can be persuasive. The flight departs from the Pittsburgh airport around six tomorrow, so Gina is driving her to the airport when she's finished with work. I have a game tomorrow, so I couldn't be the one to see her off. Which is why this is happening today, and why I got her here under false pretenses.

Charlotte's dressed in that little black dress I like so much, with the addition of a red cardigan for the spirit of the holiday as well as to combat the slight chill in the air. Her hair is swept up away from her face, except for a few deliberately curled tresses which frame her face. She looks gorgeous in the way that only she can.

"What time is everyone supposed to start showing up?" she asks me as she arranges the plates of food in the kitchen. She eyes the clock, which reads quarter after five.

"In fifteen minutes. Why are you so anxious?"

"I'm not anxious. I just want this little shindig to get underway. Do you think there's enough food?"

I look at all the food we have: the kitchen counter lined with trays, as well as two additional tables' worth. There's no way all this is going to get eaten tonight, and most of it will end up going to waste. I sigh, "There's a reason I wanted to just get this catered. Don't worry about it."

"But you guys are like human vacuum cleaners. It's not too late for me to run to the store or something."

I open my mouth to tell her, yet again, that everything is going to be fine, but my phone rings before I can reassure her. It's Flower, and I need to take this call. "Charlotte, stop worrying. And don't you dare go anywhere," I tell her as I put a few more feet of distance between us and answer my cell. "Où êtes-vous?"

"Presqu'arrivés. Nous sommes à peu près à dix minutes de chez toi," he responds.

"D'accord, c'est bien. Parfait. Je vous vois dans dix minutes." I hang up and look back at Charlotte. "Flower and Véro—"

"Will be here in ten minutes," she gladly informs me with a smile.

I grin back at her. "Oui. Ton français s'améliore."

"Not bad, considering my teacher is horrible," she teases, her eyes sparkling. I feign offense, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

I grab her and pull her toward me. "Keep that up, and I'll lock the doors and turn everyone away."

"Don't you dare," she laughs as I kiss her neck, gently slapping my arm. "Not after I spent two days helping you prepare for your party, decorating and baking."

I roll my eyes, thinking about how that was the one fluke with my plan. Charlotte insisted on helping with the planning and preparation for this huge party, which wasn't even going to happen. She won't be happy when she figures out how much of her effort is going to waste. I told her repeatedly that I was just going to get it catered, and that it was pointless to decorate since I was going home to Montréal for Christmas, but she very stubbornly wouldn't listen. But if I wanted to keep up the charade, I had to play along.

"I didn't want you to think you need to play hostess. I want you to relax and have fun with everyone."

Charlotte shrugs and purses her lips. She reaches out and straightens my tie, which I left loose around my neck. The top button of my shirt is undone, and I'm wearing jeans. She fusses over my appearance for a moment more before she goes back to teasing me. "I will relax and have fun. I may even get drunk and let you take advantage of me once the guys leave." She switches out of her playful mode and turns serious again. "Should we put some Christmas music on?" she asks, pulling away from my grasp and heading for the living room.

"Uh, I'll do that," I say, cutting her off. I don't want her to look outside yet—not until they get here. "Why don't you go pick something out from the wine cellar?"

"You know I don't know a thing about wine, Max. I know there's white, which I hate, and there's red, which I like."

"Then go get a bottle of red," I suggest, pointing her in the right direction and giving her a tap on the ass. She jumps a little and gives me a pointed look, but she heads into the makeshift wine cellar, my pantry. "After all, I need to get you drunk!" I rush into the living room to close the curtains. I don't want the surprise to be ruined. I don't want to see what will happen if Charlotte figures out what's going on beforehand. Perhaps a little alcohol will make this easier.

I walk back in the kitchen as she reenters, too, a bottle of something in her hand. "I hope this is okay. Will you open it?" She holds it out in front of her.

"I thought you were the master at opening bottles of wine," I laugh at her, thinking about the time she used screws and the claw of a hammer in lieu of a corkscrew one night way back when.

Charlotte squints at me. "I cannot spill a drop of red wine on Gina's dress. Although, I don't even know why she doesn't just give it to me, because I wear it more than she does."

I grab the bottle from her and find the corkscrew. As I work at the cork, I hear Flower's SUV pull into the driveway. I see that Charlotte notices too, so I jump into action before she can. "Here, can you finish? I'll go get the door." Before she responds, I leave the bottle on the counter and leave the kitchen.

Flower knocks on the door but opens it without waiting for me to greet him. He lugs a suitcase in behind him into the living room, and my parents are right on his tail. "Allo!" he calls out, not noticing that I'm approaching.

"Maxime! On est là!" My mother announces into the house, then rushes up to hug and kiss me.

I keep my voice low but still greet them warmly. "Maman! Papa! C'est tellement bon de vous revoir. Comment était votre vol? Je suis désolé de ne pas être allé vous chercher."

My dad steps up next and we embrace. "On sait que tu es occupé, mon gars."

I respond, "Je ne suis jamais trop occupé pour ma famille." Véro, Will, and Will's wife Sylvie file in right behind them with their bags, adding to our little group, but a few people are still missing until the Talbot family is complete. "Où est Frank?"

My mother answers, "Juliette et lui ont décidé de louer une auto puisqu'ils ont le bébé avec eux."

I was hoping they would all show up at once, so I could do this in one fell swoop. Oh well. "Mais j'ai une surprise pour vous!" I gesture to them to make themselves at home, which they are already doing. They've visited me often enough to be comfortable here, and even if they hadn't, it's not like they're shy.

Quickly, I run back into the kitchen, where Charlotte's still struggling with the corkscrew. Apparently, she's better at opening bottles with a hammer than doing it the proper way. "So was that, like, Pascal's wife? I don't recognize the voice."

I wrap my hand around hers, stopping her progress on uncorking the bottle. "Why don't you come see?"

"Don't you want something to drink?"

Clearing my throat, I say, "Come on. It's a surprise." She looks interested yet suspicious. Taking her hand in mine, I nudge and pull her toward the other room. I lean down and whisper in her ear, begging forgiveness for what I'm about to do. "Pardonne-moi."

"Why?" she asks, looking up at me inquisitively and not noticing our guests until she hears me address them.

"Maman, Papa, je veux vous présenter l'amour de ma vie. Voici Charlotte. Charlotte, I'd like you to meet my parents, Lucie and Serge."

Charlotte's pretty mouth falls open in wordless shock, but my mother doesn't notice because she's too busy enveloping her in a hug. I can see as Charlotte searches for her tiny French vocabulary, lost somewhere in her brain due to her surprise. I know that if we had waited until February to do this, she would have made herself so nervous and worked up about it that she would have psyched herself out of it. So I decided to take matters into my own hands and invite my family down for Wednesday's game against the Senators, and introduce everyone to each other. It's a flawless plan, except for the fact that she still doesn't know a whole lot of French.

"Ça me fait plaisir de vous rencontrer," she finally ekes out. I smile, knowing how hard and how often we practiced that particular line, because Charlotte was so concerned about the initial impression she was going to be making in my parents.

Before my mother smothers my girlfriend, I gently pry them apart. My mother's chatting away, gushing about how it's so nice that I'm finally introducing a girl to the family, and I'm glad that Charlotte doesn't understand. I continue with the introductions, and Charlotte shakes my father's hand and repeats the same sentence to him, too. Next, I move to introduce her to William and Sylvie.

Francis and Juliette bust through the door and join our happy little group, and with their bags they bring in their brand new bundle of joy. The Talbot Clan is back together, and things are about to get loud and confusing. I begin that set of introductions, "Charlotte, this is my oldest brother—"

"Francis, but Max calls me Frank," he cuts me off. He notices Charlotte's relieved expression. "I speak some English."

"Thank God," she chuckles with a smile. "My French sucks!"

Frank looks up at me, slightly confused, and I just laugh and shake my head. "This is my wife, Juliette," he continues, gesturing to his wife. They shake hands, both smiling politely. "She does not speak English. And this is our new baby, Paul," he adds, scooping him up from his seat and holding him up so we can see him better. "He doesn't speak English either. Then again, he can't speak at all."

"It's only a matter of time before he's talking like his namesake. He's named after our grandfather," I laugh and explain to Charlotte. It's the first time I've seen my nephew other than in a picture.

"C'est beau," Charlotte whispers, smiling broadly. I think her big grin is partly from seeing the my nephew as well as coming up with a French expression on her own.

"You wanna hold him?" Frank asks her, not waiting for her response.

She shakes her head quickly. "I'm not sure that's a good—" Frank doesn't give her a say in the matter. He steps in front of her and holds Paul out to her so she's forced to raise her arms and accept the baby. "Or not," she adds with a giggle, looking down at Paul. "How old is he?"

"Three weeks," Frank and I reply at the same time.

"So tiny," Charlotte mumbles, bringing one hand up to his face and lightly brushing her index finger against his cheek. "He looks like an honest-to-goodness Cabbage Patch doll." She looks up at me and smiles, and then laughs at my expression. "He looks like a doll."

Juliette steps beside Charlotte and leans down to plant a kiss on Paul's forehead, and my mother swarms around those two and begins chatting away. Véro steps in and translates as needed as Charlotte sits down on the couch, still holding Paul, with the rest of the Talbot women and Véro surrounding her. Even though she barely speaks the language and can't follow along with the conversation, she somehow looks like she fits right in. She does look overwhelmed—which my family is very good at doing—but she's smiling.

As the women chatter and talk over each other, my dad, Will, Frank, and Flower gather around me. Frank smiles at me and claps his hand against my back, and I know what's coming. The oldest brother has to have his fun, and I think that maybe that dress was a bad idea after all. It shows off all her fleshy curves, which I love. Which all Talbot men love. "C'est une nana. Une fille chaude!"

I groan and wait for it, for him to ask what she sees in me. He's going to razz me about her, all in good-natured fun. My dad stops him, also aware of where this conversation's about to head. "Arrête!"

That stops Frank, for now, but I know that he'll only come at me later and rib me even more, especially since Dad butted in and stuck up for me, the baby brother. Sure, Frank's going to do it playfully and not mean-spirited, but I'm still not looking forward to it. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I walk into the kitchen and reach for the bottle of wine still on the counter. I have a feeling that both Charlotte and I are going to need this.

sixty-three: enough

2009-11-19T18:30:00.000-05:00

I didn't post this last night, because I'm less than pleased with it. I still am, but tonight's a very special night: Mr. Maxime Talbot is returning to the line-up in Ottawa. AND, as if that wasn't enough to make you giddy with anticipation, Sergei Gonchar is returning as well. Maybe my fantasy team will finally break 500.... But *most importantly,* LET'S GO PENS!!

P.S. Thank you all for the amazing comments. I appreciate each of you.

Soundtrack Song - Evanescence, Good Enough

I know I need to get off of Max and call Jordan, but I don't want to move. It's not that this position is really very comfortable, because it isn't; I'm kind of afraid to have to face Max. After all that, after everything he said.... What am I supposed to do?

"Are you okay?" he asks me, since I haven't moved.

"Yeah," I respond, my voice deep and rough-sounding from all that emotion. I can feel a headache building up behind my eyes from all this tension. When I pull back away from him, I rub my eyes and grab for my phone in my pocket.

As I scroll through my contacts, Max places his hand over mine, and I look up at him. Concern is written on his face. "You do believe me, right?"

The urge to cry threatens to take over, but I suppress it and inadvertently make my headache worse. Emotions suck. "I do. I believe everything you say, it's just... hard to believe it's true."

"Believe it, baby," he says, pressing his lips against my temple.

I sit back on the couch and call Jordan while Max cleans up our dinner, glad for the distraction so I can't retreat into my head. Jordan answers the phone and skips the formalities. "Tell it to me straight, Charlotte."

"He's gonna be fine. He has all his mental faculties. After rehab for his leg, he'll be back to his old self." His old, rotten self.

"Do you think I can go see him? I mean, would that make him mad? I need to apologize or something, and I don't think a get-well card is gonna do the trick."

"Um, well, I don't know, Jord. I can see where you're coming from, that you want to make sure he's okay and everything, but I don't know that seeing him is a good idea. If someone hit you with a car, would you want to see him?"

He's silent on the line. "But it was an accident."

"I know. I know you didn't mean anyone any harm when you got into your car that day. But I'm not sure that's how John or Libby is going to see it. If you really want to, if you feel like it's what you need to do, go ahead and go see him. But just know that you're probably not going to get a warm reception."

"Okay, I'll think about it."

"Not to put pressure on you or anything, but they're going to take him up to Toronto as soon as the paperwork clears, so he can be around what family he has left. So I don't know how much longer he'll be in Pittsburgh."

"All right. Thanks for calling, Charlotte."

"No prob, Jordy. I know you feel bad, but... he's going to be okay. Don't be too hard on yourself about it."

I hang up and rub my eyes again, applying pressure to try and ease the headache. It doesn't help, so I head for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for some Tylenol. I pop a couple pills, bending over to take a gulp from the faucet of the sink. When I stand up straight and glance in the mirror, I'm surprised but not startled to see Max in the reflection.

"Hey," I say, giving him a weak smile in the mirror as he steps behind me.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, just a bit of a headache."

"Why don't you let me help you relax?" he asks ever so sweetly while running his hands up my back and giving me goosebumps. His hands gently squeeze my shoulders and knead my neck. It feels so good, and the tension just starts to melt away. Isn't this just so symbolic. I instinctively tilt my head back and rest it on his shoulder, which makes it difficult for him to continue his massage. Max wraps his arms around my middle and pulls me back against him, softly kissing my neck.

"Do you want to go to bed, Max?"

"I always want to go to bed with you."

I spin around, still in his arms, until I'm facing him properly. I place my arms on his shoulders and lock my fingers behind his neck. "Let's go to bed."

I push away from the sink in the bathroom and start heading for my bedroom, but Max and I never change our body positions, so he walks backward the entire way. My hands never leave his neck, and his hands never leave my sides. Once we cross the threshold into my bedroom, I'm driven into action and I start kissing him and taking off his shirt.

Max lets me assume control of the situation, and he doesn't try to take over like he usually would. Even though I'm pretty sure it's killing him that I'm oh so slowly taking my time as I kiss down his chest and past his stomach before I unfasten his pants to continue my southward trek. Max pitches in at the right moments, pulling my shirt over my head and fondling my breasts, tracing the curves of my body with lingering hands, and then nipping and sucking on my bottom lip as I move back up his body, fumble with the rest of my clothing, straddle him and guide his hard erection inside of me.

There's a dynamic change taking place, and I can't describe it. It's not necessarily that Max is relinquishing control or that I'm taking over. It's not about control or one-upping him or paying him back; I just feel like everything's evening out. He doesn't have to prove his love, and I don't feel like I need constant reassurance of it. Because I know it within my core. I finally feel like I'm allowed to be doing this, like I belong or deserve to be here, doing this with this man. Validated. Permitted.

Afterward, Max falls asleep and I just kind of stare at him while he rests. He found out my one last secret, the one I always tried so hard to keep from everyone: my deeply seated sense of insecurity, self-doubt, unworthiness. Never being good enough, always seeking attention and approval.... I still don't feel good enough. But I want to be good enough for him. I want to be the woman he needs, and I'm going to try to be that. He's going to inspire me to be better. He is inspiring me.
______________________________________________________

Calm. There's a feeling of calmness when we wake up in the morning. Like the gray clouds overhead have blown over or dissipated. The storm has passed. It's like during a thunderstorm, when the air is charged with electricity, but now that's gone. Better yet, I compare it to the feeling you get after a really sound, deep sleep. Totally relaxed, not yet fully awake, knowing that it's going to be a good day. Of course it is; every day is the best day of my life.

I'm not the type of guy to sit back and let things happen to me. My life is not subjected to other people's whims or fancies, so last night was a change of pace. Not that I'm complaining. Different isn't always a bad thing. In fact, in this case, I'd say it was a very good thing. Last night, or maybe just yesterday, effected a shift to a more comfortable state. I don't have any evidence to back that up, just that I can feel it somehow.

I drop Charlotte off at work and then drive home, which is our usual routine when I spend the night during the week. Before I crawl into my own bed to catch another hour or so of sleep, I take the ring out of my pocket and stash it in my closet. I still want to give it to her, and someday I will. But now is not the right time, so there's no sense in carrying it around with me.

Charlotte needs to understand that I'm going to be there for her forever. I'm not going anywhere, and I want her to be fully cognizant of that before she accepts that ring. Before I offer it. I don't want her to think that I'm proposing in order to convince her that I'm going to hang around for a long while to come.

When I pop the question, I want her to appreciate the declaration of love for what it is, and not because I'm trying to be persuasive. Otherwise, it won't carry the same meaning.

The atmosphere around us settles as the next few days progress. Her mother flies back to Chicago, all her attempts to get Charlotte to visit a conscious John unsuccessful. I can see how it wears on her, that she can't please her mother, but it's about doing what's right for herself before anyone else. She confesses to me that it makes her feel like a disappointment that she's not the daughter her mother wants or expects, even if she knows the demands on her are unfulfillable. Instead of telling Charlotte that her mother is unreasonable, because my two cents add nothing to help the situation, I just listen when she needs to vent.

At some point, John is transported to Toronto. There's no marked difference in our lives with his departure, though, because he doesn't matter. He's no influence on us anymore. There are no more ghosts and no more skeletons; everything's out in the open and there's nowhere or nothing to hide. It's a good feeling.

Over the course of the next several weeks, I do my best to reinforce everything I promised her. We talk everyday, and each time I'm sure to tell her how much I love her. At first, she's uneasy about it. "If you say it everyday, Max, then it loses its meaning. It becomes common and repetitive, and it doesn't carry the same weight. You should only say you love me when you really mean it."

"Then I'd be saying it every second of my life," I tell her, and she rolls her eyes but kisses me anyway.

"You're too much. You know that?"

"Eh. I prefer to think I'm just enough."

As December flies by, the ring box continues to collect dust in my closet. I haven't forgotten about it; I'm just waiting for a sign to know the timing's right. After all, I know that it's soon. I don't think it's too soon, though. After all, I don't want to freak her out. It's been months since that first kiss, but I can't forget the expression on her face when she pulled away. I go after what I want, and although I'm pretty sure Charlotte wants it, too, I need to make sure she's ready.

All I have to do is wait until I know she's ready; I'm not sure how I'm supposed to know that. I think I've proven that I can be patient... I just wish that I knew how to know the time's right.

sixty-two: logistics of love

2009-11-17T16:30:00.002-05:00

Soundtrack Song - John Mayer Trio, Another Kind of Green

"I don't know, man. I honestly don't know."

"Well, come on, is he, like, okay in that he's just going to live, or is he okay in that he's going to be completely functional and self-sufficient in society?"

"I don't know, Staalsy. I'm just telling you what Charlotte told me. She's still talking to whoever called her with the news, so maybe she can call you back? When she's off the phone?"

He lets out a deep breath, trying to hide his vulnerability. After all, he's a big strong hockey player; he's not supposed to be scared about anything. "Yeah, Talbo. Can you have her call me as soon as possible? This is important. If he's going to be a vegetable, I.... I just need to hear he's going to be okay."

"Let me see if she's off the phone yet," I say, opening the window in the living room and sticking my head out. I look straight down, and she's sitting on the ground, talking. "Not yet. She's gonna have to call you back."

I hang up and start to move back inside, but when what she's saying registers, I stop and listen. "It took a lot of strength and courage to walk away from him, and quite frankly, I'd appreciate it if everyone would get off my fucking back and let me live my own goddamn life the way I want to.... I'm not going to chill out. Your brother really pulled one over on me and fucked me up. It was hard to get to this place, and it took a lot of help. Max has been beyond wonderful to me, for me, and even if I wanted to see John—which I don't, mind you—I wouldn't put Max through this. Not again. I won't let John ruin the best thing I have going for me right now."

That brings a smile to my face. Yeah, sure, I like to hear her stick up for herself. She needs to learn to be more assertive, and I'm glad to see her do that. But, I'm not gonna lie: I like hearing her talk about me, too. Especially when she says stuff like this. The best thing? Yeah....

It's one thing when someone tells you how they feel to your face. It's another thing to hear it when they tell someone else. Then you know it's how they truly feel. Plus, she doesn't want to deal with John anymore, meaning no more debacles like what happened in the hospital. What a relief.

"That's how it always starts out. You know, I gave him all summer to come to his senses. I've learned a lot about real love since then.... Yes, it does! This has everything to do with him. Max has been loving, kind, generous, magnanimous, constant in his affection, unwavering... nothing short of amazing and way more than I deserve. I don't know what he sees in me, but until he wises up and leaves, I'm going to hold onto him...."

I stop listening at this point. I bring my head back into the room and close the window, refusing to listen and unable to. It feels like my head's underwater, and all the sounds are muffled. How could she say that? "Until he wises up and leaves." She might as well have punched me in the gut. It completely negates all the good things she just said about me.

Does she think I would do that? I mean, why would I bother spending this much time with her if I was just going to leave her? I'm not cruel. I wouldn't do that to her. And doesn't she see how crazy I am about her? Here I am, ready to give her my name, my world, that ring... and she expects me to leave? Something isn't right. We're not on the same page. How can she think I'm just going to leave? Doesn't she know I'm all in? Doesn't she know she has my heart?

I'm sad, and frustrated, and angry. I'm disappointed. Incredibly hurt. It's like she ripped my heart out of my chest. Now I'm hollow and empty. Charlotte sees this as temporary; I see it as permanent. Forever. Worst of all, if she loves me the way she said, she wants this just as badly as I do. It's not like she doesn't want me anymore. But she just won't trust me to stay around. Is that what this boils down to?

But I just don't understand why she would doubt me. I've never given her any reason to think I'd up and walk out on her. I don't know how she can even think that. Well, yes, there was Thanksgiving, when I left her so she could deal with John—but that's just because she needed to deal with that on her own. And then there was the hospital incident. I left then, too. But I came back. I was just so angry, though; can you blame me for that?

When I hear the door click into place, signaling her return to the apartment, I decide to be calm and rational and conduct a civilized conversation with her about what she meant. However, it doesn't come out that way. "What the fuck was that about?"

"What are you talking about?" she asks, looking at me like a deer in headlights.

"I heard your conversation," I tell her, shaking my head.

"You heard that? And why in the world were you listening to me?"

"Don't change the subject here. What did you mean by, 'when he wises up and leaves'?"

"Is that what you're mad about? Out of everything I said, that's what you choose to hear?"

"I expect you to say all good things about me. I don't expect to hear you say I'm going to leave you."

"That's not what I said."

"Shall I repeat it? 'When he wises up and leaves.'"

"If you want to argue semantics, technically I said 'until he wises up,' and 'until' does not imply that it will happen like 'when' does," she spits out at me. "I am not in the mood to do this right now. I just had that horrible conversation with Libby, and my mom's already tried calling, no doubt trying to guilt me into going to the goddamn hospital now that he's awake, so I could deal with a little less animosity, if you don't mind."

"Charlotte," I say, taking a deep breath. "I want an answer. Why did you say that at all? Is that what you honestly think? That someday, I might leave?"

Some of her anger fades. I watch as the tense muscles in her face relax, and she looks down at her hands, picking at her fingernails. "I don't know. Kind of."

I groan. I'm too steeped in disbelief to realize that I should be a little more reassuring at a time like this. "How can you possibly think that?"

"You're too good to be true! You're amazing; you're wonderful; you're everything any girl could ever hope for, and probably more. And here I am, standing here before you, knowing full well just how great you are, and still I make you mad and provoke you. I'm doing it right now! I don't mean to, but I do anyway. It seems I can't help but screw up. Eventually, you're going to realize that you could have someone else that's not going to do this to you. For whatever reason, you're happy with me right now. And I'll take that for as long as you'll give it to me. But when you wake up and decide to move on, well, I won't be able to say I didn't expect it sooner or later."

"I'm not just going to wake up one day and suddenly not love you. I can't believe you'd ever think that. There's no doubt in my mind, Charlotte, that you're the love of my life. Maybe you think I'm a little crazy for knowing that so soon, but I do know that. I'm so sure of it. And I can't believe you don't know it, too. If you still need time to figure out, then take as much as you need. I'm in this for the long haul. I'm not ever going anywhere."

She takes a shaky breath, her chest almost convulsing with emotion. "See? You go and spout out shit like that like it's nothing. Like it's second nature to spew forth emotion and poetry. A girl can get carried away with talk like that. That you can even feel that way about a person, about anyone at all, and put it into words like that.... I don't deserve you, Max. And you deserve someone much better than me."

I gently cup her chin in my hand and tilt her face to look up at me. Her eyes are wet and red as they peer into mine. While the words I say might sound angry, I whisper them in a loving tone. "Don't you dare assume to know what I deserve. Let me determine that. And it doesn't get any better than you. The words come so easily because it's how I feel. I wouldn't say anything I don't mean. It's a good thing I like to talk, because you're the type of person who needs to hear it."

Grabbing her hands, I pull her towards the couch and sit her down. I sit on the coffee table and face her, our knees touching and her hands still in mine; then I wait for her to look up at me before I begin talking again. "Last season, when the team dumped our old coach and picked up Bylsma, he said something to us. He said that you only need to hear something negative once for it stick with you for a long time, but you need to hear the positive over and over again before you can start believing it. I'm willing to bet that you've heard a lot of negative things about yourself from people like your mom and your ex, and never anything positive."

She chokes out a sob, and I think she wants to say something. Charlotte nods and takes a moment to collect herself, and I patiently wait and squeeze her hands. "When someone tells you that you aren't good enough, you start to believe it."

"Well, guess what? You're more than just good enough. You're better than that. I will be sure to tell you every day for the rest of your life just how incredible you are and how much I love you. If there's one thing you deserve in this world, Charlotte, baby, it's that you deserve to be happy. I want to be the guy that makes it happen for you."

"I want you to be that guy, Max. Maxime. But look at me. Look at us. This is just a mess. It's not supposed to be like this."

"How is it supposed to be?" I have to try my hardest to keep the anger out of my voice. "Excuse me if this sounds rude, but remember that you thought you had all that before, and it didn't pan out. Forget about the picture-perfect life. Appearances are deceiving, and sometimes if something looks too good to be true, sometimes it is. Well, the opposite can be true, too. Sometimes, something can look like a total disaster, but it's really not."

"And what about paper perfect?"

"Huh?"

"When things look so good on paper. I love you, Max, but I can think of a gazillion reasons why we're not destined for forever."

I shake my head. I can't believe I'm hearing this. Charlotte's a little insecure, but I never thought this was the kind of stuff that ran through her head. "Like what?" She quickly shakes her head, like she doesn't want to say. "What? Are you convinced you'll run me away if you say?"

She nods slowly and then confesses, ticking off all her points on her fingers as she goes. "You travel all the time, and I hate having to say goodbye. You like to go out and party, and I prefer quiet nights at home. I don't speak French. My mother doesn't like you. I'm always making you mad. You're amazing, and I'm never going to have the confidence in myself to believe that I'm on par with you. I'll never be your equal, and I don't know how I earn your love. I'm not worthy of it."

"Wow," I say, leaning back and looking at her face intently. "If all that's true, then why are you with me?"

"Because I love you, Max."

"Well, the same is true for me. I love you, and that's why I'm here with you. If you're allowed to feel that way about me, then why won't you let me feel that way about you? Why can't I reciprocate?"

Charlotte pulls her hands out of mine and then brings her knees up to her chest. "You make it sound so easy. You make it sound so logical."

"It is. I can see it. Why can't you?" I pause and wonder if she'll have an answer for me. When she doesn't, I lean forward, placing my hands on her ankles, and keep going. "Whatever strange fascination you have with perfection... you need to forget it. We work together, you and me, just the way we are. Flaws and all. You could list every reason why our relationship shouldn't work, but it does. We're the opposite of 'paper perfect.' Maybe it's because of our faults, I don't know. We don't need to be perfect to have a love that'll last forever."

"But what if someday you meet someone better suited for you than me?"

"That day will never come, and you can't think like that. When I think about my future days, I only see you."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"Why do you love me? It's easy to see why I'm completely and utterly head over heels for you, because of everything you've done for me. But me for you.... How? Why?"

I let out a breath. I'm no philosopher; I can't pretend to know the logistics of the way I feel. "I don't know, baby. I only know that I do. I love the way your face lights up when you're happy. Seeing that glow makes me want to make sure you're happy for the rest of your life, because that smile is my greatest reward. I love the way you get all self-conscious and cover yourself up when you're naked, even though I think you're beautiful. So, so beautiful. Not just parts of you, either—all of you, even what you hate about yourself. I love all the crazy shit you do, like the way you eat M&Ms and even the way you get mad at me when I eat them out of order. I just love you. I don't need to know the whys or the hows.

"All I need to know is that the last thing I want to see before I fall asleep is your face, and when I wake up in the morning, I want to wake up beside you. Everything that happens in between waking up and falling asleep doesn't matter as long as you're there."

She launches herself from her position on the couch and practically tackles me. I laugh and wrap my arms around her. Her voice is barely audible with her face pressed against my chest. "If you're not perfect, then my definition of perfection needs to change."

"Honestly, Charlotte. No more talk about perfect. Okay?"

"I promise."

"Because sometimes, things don't pan out the way you want them to, and that's part of life. But sometimes, things aren't too good to be true. They're great and it's for real. And that's what this is. This is amazing, and it's not going to change."

"Mmhmm."

"And no more talk about how I'm going to leave you. It's never going to happen."

"Okay."

"I love you, baby."

"I love you, Max-A-Million."

"One more thing?"

"Hmm?"

"You need to call Staal."

sixty-one: knowledge

2009-11-16T18:30:00.002-05:00

On Wednesday, as the two of relax on the couch and do nothing of any importance except spend time together, we get the long-awaited news. It's news that we both wanted to hear, that we both hoped to hear... but yet we also didn't want to hear it, either. We didn't know what this would mean for us and what other implications this may have on our relationship. We had been enjoying this limbo we were in, this ignorant bliss where knowledge couldn't hurt us. Much like Adam and Eve in Eden, I suppose. After all, if you don't know if things are going to get better or worse for you, if you're going to Heaven or Hell, sometimes you'd rather just stay in Purgatory.

When my phone rang at seven, I didn't recognize the phone number. However, ever since I got my new phone and number, I had been very selective in who I gave it out to. That meant that whoever was calling had my number for a reason, and likewise they were calling me for a reason.

"Hello?" I answer, standing up from my position on the couch next to Max. We had been eating out of each other's containers of Chinese food and watching whatever crime show that was on TV, and I didn't want to disturb him.

"Charlotte? It's Libby. I hope you don't mind that your mother gave me your number so I could call you."

I hesitate. I don't know how I feel about that; on one hand, I don't mind because Libby and I got along better than I got along with my sister. Hell, the two of us were supposed to become sisters-in-law. But on the opposite hand, I probably wasn't going to like her topic of discussion. And mother really needs to start learning to butt out of my life, because I'm a grown-ass woman.

I ignore her comment and get to the point. "Um, what's up, Libby?"

"He's awake."

I must have gasped, because Max looks over at me. I knew we'd get this news eventually, but I wasn't expecting it yet. He looks concerned. "Are you okay, baby? What is it?"

"John's awake," I relay to him before speaking back into the phone. "How is he, Lib? I just wanna know if he's all right."

"He seems to be fine. I mean, he's a little messed up. He doesn't remember much of what happened on Saturday before the accident, and he's confused about being in a coma for a couple days, but he doesn't seem to have any other memory loss or cognitive problems."

"That's good."

"Yeah. He'll be laid up for a while because of his broken leg, and then he'll have to rehab. Other than that, though, I think he's going to be just fine."

"I'm really glad to hear that, Lib." I cover the mouthpiece of my cell. "Hey Max, can you call Jordan and tell him that John's gonna be just fine? He'll really want to know that. It'll put his mind at ease." Max nods and picks up his phone to dial his friend, passing along the information. "Thanks for telling me, Libby. I appreciate it."

I plan on quickly getting off the line, but she keeps talking to me. I figure that she just needs to let off some steam, because the only person she's really had to keep her company over the past few days is Mommie Dearest, and well.... I kind of pity her for that.

"I'm so relieved. I mean, I prayed and prayed that he would be okay. I don't know what I would have done if I had to lose my brother, too. I mean, first my mom, then my dad after that, and now John? There's only so much one person can take, you know?"

"Yeah. It's a relief, for sure." I try to desperately to find a way to segue out of this conversation. I feel so rude.

"These past couple days have been so hard. Not just because he's been hurt and I've been worried about if he'd pull through, but because of what you said, Charlotte. That you guys weren't together anymore and hadn't been for a while. And it's not that I necessarily didn't believe you, but I didn't want to believe that he would lie to me. I mean, he didn't really lie because he didn't do much talking about you, but he never told me the truth by saying it was over, which he should have. It's just that he's my brother. I didn't know what to believe at all, until I talked to your mother about it. Not that she was the most forthcoming person either, because she was convinced that you two were going to patch things up so she thought that that meant you were never really not together in the first place, but at least she gave me the impression that there was some sort of rift between the two of you...."

While Libby goes on and on, I grab my heavy jacket and slip it on. Max is still on the phone with Jordan, and I'm under the impression that Jordan's grilling Max for information that he doesn't have. Since he's stuck on the phone too, I decide to take this call outside. I have a feeling that it's not going to end well, so I'd rather deal with it in privacy.

I catch Max's attention and nod my head to the door to let him know that I'm stepping out for a moment, and he winks at me to let me know he understands. I jog down the stairs, knowing that if I talk in the lobby, my neighbor will just yell at me. So I head out to the street and sit on the curb of the sidewalk.

"...I just want you to know that it's hard for me to believe he was lying. And as much as I was happy to see him wake up, I yelled at him. I really let him have it. Like, the doctors almost threw me out of his room, that's how much I yelled. I told him how disappointed I was in him, and I think he's sorry, Charlotte. He says he wants to apologize, and he—and well, me too, actually—we both would like it if you came by so we can this set straight."

I'm stunned speechless. I don't know what to say. If Libby was having a hard time trying to process everything that was going on, then this is damn near impossible for me. My curiosity is certainly piqued. What exactly is he sorry for? For lying to his sister? For coming to Pittsburgh and ruining my Thanksgiving? Or for the years of misery he made me suffer through?

Hell yes, I want to know what it is he's sorry for. And I'd love to hear an apology come out of his mouth if he's being sincere.

But it hits me that his apology, sincere or not, won't mean a damn thing to me. It won't change the past, and it certainly won't change my opinion of him. Maybe that means I'm being petty, that I can't be the bigger person and forgive him if he's truly repentant, but fuck that! I don't want to have to be bigger and better! I don't want to forgive and forget; I just want to forget.

Giving him the time of day for even a simple "I'm sorry" is too much, and way more than he deserves. Again, that may make me shallow, but I don't care about that at this point. I don't care about anyone else's opinion of me on this subject. If he's sorry, then so be it and good for him for seeing the light; that doesn't mean I have to hear it. I'm past the point of wanting or needing an apology; we're too far gone for that.

Of course, that's assuming he is sorry. For all I know, this could be some scam just to lure me in to see him. He's done it before, and this could just be another instance of that. Let me think that he's sorry for something, and then somehow turn it back to me, make me feel bad about something, and make me apologize for some perceived mistake I never actually made. Fuck that!

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, Libby, but I won't. Whatever he's sorry for, tell him to forget it. Because I don't care. It's over and done, and we both just need to move on and forget."

"What did he to you that you would can't even let him apologize to you? Forgiving is something else, but you can't even let him get it off his chest? What happened?" I pause, not sure how to go about this. I don't think I want to go through with this at all. "Did he hit you, Charlotte?"

My eyes well up. It comes down to this every time; if he had hit me or physically hurt me, no one would ever question my reasons for leaving him. Instead, they'd praise me for getting out of such a bad relationship and berate him. Emotional abuse, however, is tricky. We all think we'd deal with it differently, that we'd be strong enough to see through a shady guy and avoid becoming "one of those girls." I used to rationalize it and say that at least he didn't hit me. I never thought that it was just as bad.

"No, he never hit me."

"Then what's the big deal?

"He messed with my head, Lib. He was manipulative and negative and controlling, and I let him take over my life and thoughts. Hell, he was my life, and he knew that and used that knowledge to his advantage. It took a lot of strength and courage to walk away from him, and quite frankly, I'd appreciate it if everyone would get off my fucking back and let me live my own goddamn life the way I want to."

"Geez, Charlotte, chill out."

"I'm not going to chill out," I hiss. I feel bad for taking this out on Libby, but I can't stop myself. "Your brother really pulled one over on me and fucked me up. It was hard to get to this place, and it took a lot of help. Max has been beyond wonderful to me, for me, and even if I wanted to see John—which I don't, mind you—I wouldn't put Max through this. Not again. I won't let John ruin the best thing I have going for me right now."

"He just wants to say sorry."

"That's how it always starts out. You know, I gave him all summer to come to his senses. I've learned a lot about real love since then."

"This doesn't have anything to do with your new boyfriend, Charlotte."

"Yes, it does! This has everything to do with him. Max has been loving, kind, generous, magnanimous, constant in his affection, unwavering... nothing short of amazing and way more than I deserve. I don't know what he sees in me, but until he wises up and leaves, I'm going to hold onto him. And I certainly won't risk it by getting all worked up over John again."

Libby is silent for a moment before she speaks. "I guess you have to do what you think is best for you," she finally says. If it hadn't been for the tone of her voice, I would have been very offended, but she didn't sound resentful; she sounded resigned, and a little choked up. "Just know that John is sorry for how he treated you. Now that he's awake and is probably stable enough to transport, we're going to see about taking him up to Toronto, so he's close to me and Ron. It'll take some time to deal with the insurance and then getting him transferred to a hospital in another country, but that's the plan."

"I still hope he makes a speedy recovery." I pause. "Take care of yourself, Libby, and best of luck to you. For, well, everything."

I don't wait for an answer. I just hang up, and I linger on the curb for a few minutes and try to discern my thoughts and feelings. I had told Libby that I didn't want to get myself worked up by going to see him and potentially falling into one of his emotional traps. But I'm still worked up. This happens every time, every fucking time... except this time.

How can I sit here and cry over that loser when I have Max, the most incredible person on this Earth, waiting for me up in my apartment? This cycle ends now.

As I push myself off the sidewalk, my phone rings again. It's Mommie Dearest. I click to ignore it, because I can't possibly deal with her right now, too. She calls again two seconds later, as I'm making my way up the stairs. I ignore it again, and this time she leaves a message. I can only imagine what she has to say now. Judging by her fervent calling, she's not as in favor of Max as I thought she was.

I push open the door of my apartment and shed my jacket. I hang it up and wipe at my face before I go into the living room to face Max.

"What the fuck was that about?" he asks me, not giving me enough time to compose myself.

"What are you talking about?" I ask back, not answering his original question. Because I don't understand his original question. I'm lost.

"I heard your conversation."

"You heard that?" I search my brain, wondering if I said something I wouldn't want him to hear. I didn't; at least, not that I can remember. "And why in the world were you listening to me?"

"Don't change the subject here. What did you mean by, 'when he wises up and leaves'?"

sixty: colored box

2009-11-15T19:00:00.002-05:00

Going to work on Monday is a little bit of a reprieve, in a strange way, because that means I'm unable talk to my mother, who's trying to constantly update me on John's status. It's not that I don't care, because I would like to eventually hear the news that he's okay and going back to his home in Chicago and leaving Pennsylvania. I just don't need to hear every hour, on the hour, that he's slowly gaining consciousness and is due to wake up any moment.

I adhere to my schedule and work until three, and then head to the physio center. Hank's there, just like always, and he comments that I have a glow about me. He asks me if I dyed my hair or something. I smile and tell him no, but he tells me that something's different about me. "I don't know what it is, Charlie, but you changed something."

"I'm just happy," I tell him with a smile as I transition from the treadmill to the stationary bike.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Hank hands me a bottle of water like he sometimes does, looking at me with all the sagacity of his old age. "What's his name?"

"What's whose name?" I question him cryptically, knowing that he sees right through me. Knowing full well that I'm playing dumb, but I can't hide my metamorphosis from him.

"The lucky guy," he laughs. "When you're as old as I am, Charlie, you learn things about life. You learn things about love. And you, my dear, are in love."

I redden. I don't know why; it's not like I'm embarrassed about it. Perhaps it's residual timidity or shyness about the fact that, yes, I am in love. Again. But this time, it feels different. I know it's different.

I know it's for real.

When I finish my workout, I run back home and shower, then borrow Gina's car to pick my mother up from the hospital and bring her back to my place. She is my mother, and I feel obligated to her for just that reason, but I regret the decision to bring her home the second she walks through that door. She purses her lips and clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, looking around at my new home.

"This is your apartment?"

"Yeah. It's cute, isn't it? It's small, but homey."

"Well, it is small. But I wouldn't exactly call it homey. You'd rather be here than at home in Chicago?"

"Well, Mom, that's just the thing. Chicago wouldn't feel like home anymore. Because it is isn't. This is home now. Pittsburgh is my home."

She blatantly rolls her eyes. She never was one to hide her emotions or feelings for the sake of tact. "You are your father's daughter."

I don't know if she meant that to be an insult or not, but I certainly don't take it as one. Sure, my dad and I sometimes got along just as well as my mom and I get along, but if it had not have been for him, I wouldn't have my love for hockey nor would I have sought refuse in Pittsburgh. I wouldn't necessarily say he's looking out for me in death, but I would say that the life he gave me has lead me to this point. For that, I'm eternally grateful to him.

"Would you like something to drink?" I offer, trying to play the gracious hostess. "All I really have is water."

"Then I suppose that will have to do," she replies with a curt smile. I bring her a bottle of water from the fridge, and we settle in to watch the game on FSN, but she interrupts the action and distracts me by talking about all sorts of things: Caroline and her husband; her own husband and my stepfather; John and Libby; and all the news about my old friends back in Illinois.

And every time she brings up something I don't want to hear, something from my past that I'd prefer not to listen to, I point to the screen and make remarks about the game. "Look, Mom! Max just blocked a shot."

"That's nice, Sweet Pea. Whatever that means. Did you know that Julia Sanders, your best friend from the sixth grade, just had her second child? A daughter named Jessica. Can you believe that?"

"She's the same age as me. She's twenty-three, and she's already had her second kid?"

"Yes, isn't that wonderful?"

"She wanted to be a doctor. There's no way she's popping out kids and going to med school. That's a shame, because she would have made a great doctor. She was easily the smartest kid in my class."

"Yes, but Charlotte. Her mother has grandkids."

"Caroline's older than me, so why don't you bug her about giving you grandchildren?"

"Because Caroline and Derek keep saying they aren't going to have any kids. You're my only hope," she laughs.

I want to press the issue and ask her if she's envisioning me having babies with John or Max, but I'm afraid to ask. I'm afraid of her answer. So I let it slide and joke, "Well, I'll start practicing right away."

She rolls her eyes, but it isn't in her usual sarcastic way. We both drop the subject, because we prefer to avoid talking about a subject like sex to each other. In fact, I have to suppress a laugh when I reminisce and think about how she gave me a book, Our Bodies, Ourselves, instead of giving me "the talk" when I was about ten years old.

"So, which one's Max?" she asks, finally lending her focus to the television during the third period."

"He's number twenty-five," I smile. If my mother's crazy mind can transition from wanting grandbabies to the idea of her daughter having sex to Max, then I think it's a positive sign that she likes him. Or at least doesn't hate him. We watch as Geno gets thrown out of taking the face-off and Max skates over to take the draw. It's not a clean win, but the Pens get possession of the puck, and I'm glad that when my mother chooses to watch the game, she gets to see him do something of benefit to the team.

And then he promptly gets in a fight.

I feel like a horrible girlfriend, because my first thought is: oh no, how is Mommie Dearest going to react to this? My second thought is how he's going to have an awful-looking shiner when he comes home, because Sean Avery decked him and he fell to the ice. "Shit, Max," I yell, getting to my feet.

"He's not a very good fighter," she comments, watching as both Avery and Max are escorted off the ice.

"He's a lover, not a fighter," I quip. "Just don't let him ever hear I said that, because it'll bruise his ego."

At the end of the night, I drive my mother back to my grandparents', and I stop in to visit with them briefly before I feign exhaustion and drive home. It's not that I'm tired; I just can't wait to go to sleep, because the sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I'll wake up.

On Tuesday, instead of heading home after work, I go to Max's. I know he'll be home, and I can't wait to see him again. If I wasn't so happy with the prospect of seeing him, I'd be annoyed with myself for being so happy to see him. I know I'm head over heels for him, and it drives me a little crazy that I'm this in love. This is probably a phase of infatuation that will fade, and even though I'll always be happy to see him when he returns home after a road trip, I won't feel like the world is ending when I don't get to see him one day because he leaves for a game. I won't always want to spend every waking moment with him.

I'm such a sap. But I know that he's going to be just as excited to see me, so I figure as long as it's not one-sided, I don't have too much cause for worry.

I knock on his door, and I hear him holler from the inside that it's open, so I enter his house and find him on his couch, flipping through the channels. "Hey, baby," he greets as I take a running leap onto the cushion beside him.

"Hey yourself, Max-A-Million," I say back, leaving a trail of kisses along his jaw line until I get to his mouth. I pull away and examine his face and his black eye. "Where's your ice pack?"

"It's nice to see you again, too. Don't worry, I'm fine," he laughs, pulling me against him on the couch.

I curl up beside him, nestling against his side and wrapping my arms around his middle. "How pathetic is it that I missed you this much?"

"Hmm, not pathetic at all," he replies, kissing the top of my head. "Because I missed you, too. In fact, I missed you so much that I bought you something."

"A present?" I know my eyes have lit up. I tease him. "You know, Mommie Dearest will love it if you lavish me with gifts."

"Well, it's not really a gift, per se. It's more like, I saw it and thought of you."

I can't stop the smile on my face from breaking out like a rash. "Well? Don't torture me! What is it?"

"Close your eyes," he orders, and I can feel as the cushion beside me lifts as he gets off the couch. I do as he commands, giggling like a schoolgirl all the while. Max always keeps me guessing, always keeps our relationship fresh and new and exciting. "Now, you're probably not expecting this from me, but for the sake of our love, I think maybe it's best. Charlotte, open your eyes."

I hesitate a second before opening one eye. I see the distinctly colored box, open my other eye too, and then start to laugh. "Oh Max, you shouldn't have," I say, plucking the bright yellow box out of his hands and turning it over. "Rosetta Stone? Really? You think I'm so bad at French that you don't want to teach me anymore?"

Max laughs at me. "No, I'll still teach you. But I figure that you can use this when I'm not around. It's supposed to be a good program."

"Merci, Maxime," I say, using what little French I knew.

"Il n'y a pas de quoi," he replies, and I just laugh, thinking that that I'll never learn French by the time February rolls around. Max somehow reads my mind. "Don't worry, baby. You have plenty of time."

fifty-nine: game

2009-11-14T19:30:00.004-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Jack's Mannequin, MFEO: Part 1 Made for Each Other and Part 2 You Can Breathe

"No. No, no, no! We are in your bed, comfy and naked. You can't leave, Max. You just can't go."

"Baby, I have a game tomorrow. And it's just one away game. I'll be back, and I can see you on Tuesday."

"No," she whines again, pushing me down on my back and then straddling me and sitting on my stomach. Then she pushes down on my shoulders, as if that's all it takes to get me to stay with her instead of getting up to pack for my flight to New York. All I can do, though, is stare at her tits. "You're not allowed. I don't allow you to leave."

I try to state my argument, plead my case, but her teeth nip at the skin on my neck and I forget whatever it was that I was going to say. I run my hands up her thighs, and I can feel her wetness on my stomach. I'm instantly hard, even though we've practically just finished having sex. It's a good thing I have a high endurance. Who needs to work out in a gym when you have a horny, insatiable woman in your bed?

I place my hands on her hips and push her farther down my body so I can enter her. And my dick slides into her so easily, because she's so wet and hot. It's like we fit perfectly together, like we were made for each other, and our bodies are magnets, drawn to the other and wanting to meet this way.

Charlotte throws her head back and puts her hands in her hair as she swivels her hips in figure eights instead of the typical in-and-out movement. It feels good as she surrounds all of me, using my erection to hit that spot makes her moan. I bet her eyes are rolling back in her head by the noises she's making.

I love watching her pleasure herself using my body, but I can't watch it for long before I want to join her in mind-blowing bliss. I dig my fingers into her hips and thrust up into her. The change in pace and action makes her gasp, and I continue to push up into her, over and over again.

"You.... Always.... Do this...." she says between my thrusts.

"What?"

"Take.... Over...."

"So?"

Charlotte grabs my hands from her hips and pins them to the bed. Or should I say, I let her think she pins them to the bed, because I could easily take control again. She grinds her pelvis against mine, leaning over me and whispering in a tease, "Don't you like what I do? Don't you like this?"

I like it. I like it very much, and that's why I can't just sit back and relax and enjoy it. It lights a fire underneath me until I can't take the teasing anymore. Until I need to take over and finish what we started. It's like running a race: you pace yourself at first because you know you have to go the distance. But once the tape is in sight, you turn on the jets and push yourself to get to the finish line by any means necessary.

"Don't you like what I do?" I ask back, rolling us over until I'm on top of her and my cock is fully pushed inside of her. "Don't you like this?"

She moans and wiggles her hips, trying to get me to move and stimulate her. "Yes," she hisses.

"But if you really don't like it, I'll stop," I tease, pulling out, even though I don't want to. Sex is a game, give and take, and a little sacrifice now will more than be made up for later.

"Ugh, no. Max," she groans. "Get back here." She reaches out, but I move just barely out of the way. "Maxime," she pleads.

I shake my head and try to stop the grin from spreading across my face. Charlotte pouts out her bottom lip and tries to make sad eyes at me. I'm just about to give in—because I can't take it anymore—but she beats me to the punch and gives up on me instead.

"Fine. Be that way," she taunts me. "Two can play at this."

She leans back against the bed and cups her breasts in her hands, biting her lip and looking at me. Her right hand trails down her stomach, and my breath catches in my throat as I watch her spread her folds apart. Her eyes close as she touches herself and hums. I know the sounds she makes in the heat of the moment, and I know from what she's emitting now that she's just teasing me, trying to torture me. It's not working, as long as I know this little show is for my benefit and not hers, and that she's just trying to coax me into giving in. But as soon as she starts taking short breaths and lets out an honest moan, I jump into action.

I move her hand away from herself, and her droopy eyes open as she watches me hover over her. "You're such a fucking tease," I say, reaching down and rubbing the head of my dick against her clit.

Charlotte bucks up against me. "You're the tease. Please, Maxime."

"Is this what you want?" I ask, adjusting myself so I'm right outside of her opening, and she can feel me there, waiting to enter her. "Tell me what you want."

"Goddamnit, Max! You talk entirely too much. Less conversation. More action."

"I'm not doing anything until you tell me what you want."

"You. In me. Now."

I laugh, desperate to oblige her, but not wanting to give in just yet. I move so my erection slides across her opening, but not entering her. Not yet. Again, Charlotte pushes her hips upward, begging me to end our little game. I press my palm against the bed beside her head and lean down over her, kissing that spot below her ear that drives her nuts. I can feel how wound up and how turned on she is, like it emanates off her body like radiation. And it permeates me, making me want her that much more. "Tell me what you want me to do to you," I say in a low voice.

She doesn't hesitate to answer me this time. "Fuck me, Max. I want you to fuck me."

Before she finishes her second sentence, I press my pelvis down and slip right into her, fulfilling her wishes and, in the process, mine.

"But why do you guys have to leave tonight?" she asks, sitting up in bed with the sheet draped across her to cover herself. It's a good thing she did that, or else I'd probably be back in bed with her instead of packing my bag.

"The team usually leaves the night before, so we can rest up before the morning skate. It's our routine."

"I hate to sound like a whiny bitch, but I wish you didn't have to go. I had a long weekend, and it was supposed to be a mini-vacation, but it was not at all what I wanted it to be. It was stressful and we didn't get to spend any quality time together. And, well, I miss you."

I look at her and laugh. She's absolutely right in that our weekend together went miserably. Fighting, stress, drama, and too many people interfering. But it wasn't all bad either. We exchanged I love yous. Had crazy hot angry sex, and then crazy hot regular sex like always. Well, I wouldn't just say it's regular. Every time it's amazing.

"We're flying back right after the game, then I have a two day break before our home game on Thursday. And then I'll be here for a full week. We can have lots of chances to spend quality time with each other. Besides, I have to go out and physically work for my paycheck," I laugh.

She groans and buries her face in her hands. "I still can't believe she said that to you. It's so uncouth! If I ever embarrassed her by saying something like that, you'd best believe she'd never let me live it down."

"Whatever. She can say whatever she wants about me as long as she's okay with me dating you."

"But it's not okay, Max. It's hard work to get into the NHL, and it's something to be proud of. But for her, it's all about the titles and the names and the superficial things. She just wants to be able to go back home and brag to her stupid catty friends."

"Then I guess I better score a goal or something tomorrow? Give her something she can brag about?"

"You really want to get into her good graces, huh?"

"I told you, baby. Yeah, I want her to like me. And I want her to take it easy on you, too."

"She's never going to. You know, even after she told me that you were 'good enough,' she still asked when I was coming back to visit John."

I shake my head, wanting to say something but realizing that it would be better for me to just not address that subject. I toss a few more things into my bag. "Please tell me that you're not going to."

"I told her no. I said that if she wanted to visit some more with me, that she could come over and we could watch your game or something, but I wasn't going within a mile radius of that place. She wasn't happy, but I can't let her bully me. She's my mother, so I have to love her. But right now, she's pushing it."

"I can't wait to introduce you to my mother."

"Were you serious about Christmas? Did you really want to take me home with you?"

"Oui. Of course. My mother is about to burst with anticipation at the idea of meeting you. She's going to be disappointed you can't come home with me. I want to take you to my home, show you Montréal. Maybe during the Olympic break?" I ask her hopefully.

"I won't have a lot of time, because I'll still have to work." Something clicks in her head. "Wait. Max. Montréal." I look at her and nod, wondering what the hell her point is. "French. Max, your family speaks French. Shit! I don't speak French. Do they speak English at all?" I shake my head. "Oh, for fuck's sake! How am I supposed to meet your mother if I can't talk to her? And why didn't I think about this sooner?"

She's starting to panic, and part of me thinks it's hilarious. I never thought about it before, how they were going to meet, because it never occurred to me. After all, I can speak to everyone just fine. But with the exception of Frank, my family probably knows as much English as she knows French.

"Don't worry, mademoiselle. I will teach you French. After all, I am an expert. Je serai un excellent professeur."

"Ugh. Max. I'm already lost," she laughs. "But in all seriousness, what if they don't like that I can't speak French?"

"Charlotte, baby, they're going to love you, I promise. And I have until February to teach you, and I'm such a great teacher that you'll be fluent by then. We'll start with the basics. It's nice to meet you. Ça me fait plaisir de vous rencontrer."

She tries to repeat me, and it comes out in a jumbled mess. "I take it back. I may be an excellent teacher, but you're a horrible student."

Charlotte narrows her eyes at me, but her lips are still curled in a smile. "I'm glad you think this is funny. I'm really nervous now."

"Let's start with something a little simpler. How are you? Comment allez-vous?"

"Comment allez-vous?" she repeats.

"Bien! See, you will learn. Oh, and here's one you must learn so you can tell my mother: Maxime Talbot est le plus beau joueur de hockey de la Terre et je l'aime tendrement."

Charlotte laughs and crinkles up her face. "And what does that mean?"

"Oh, the meaning doesn't matter," I say, leaning onto the bed and kissing her. "Just make sure you learn it."

I continue to pack and spend time with Charlotte lazily until I absolutely, positively have to go. I drop her off at her apartment, give her one last kiss to tide her over until I see her again on Tuesday, and drive away, trying my damnedest not to look in my rear-view mirror.

As the guys all start to board the plane for our second flight to New York in four days, I ask the guys if they've done their Christmas shopping yet. They all groan in response. "Let's go tonight, after the team dinner."

"I don't even know what to get Noelle that isn't going to piss her off," the Kid sighs.

"Jewelry, mon ami," Flower replies. "It's what I've gotten Véro every year since I was drafted. And she hasn't been disappointed yet."

"I really wish I could get her a new car, but she'll flip. She needs it, because she's the one always doing the driving into Pittsburgh. But I promised her just two presents, one she needs and then something fun and expensive. But she'll tell me that a car is too much."

"I think you answered your own question," I tell him. "You said she needs it. She can't argue with that."

He mulls that over. "That might actually work. I never thought I'd ever say these words, but Talbot, you're a genius."

I laugh and smile. "Well, I'm glad you're finally catching on to what I've known my entire life."

A bunch of us end up going to Tiffany's. Maybe it's a cop out for them to just buy jewelry, but I think each of our ladies would be proud of us for not waiting until the last minute. The Kid finds a bracelet for Noelle, Flower gets earrings for Véro, and Staalsy and TK gets necklaces for Heather and Kelsey, respectively. I, on the other hand, am looking at rings. It's not her Christmas gift; in fact, I don't know when I'm going to give it to her. I just know I want it on hand for when I want to put it on her finger.

"Diamond rings, Talbo?" TK asks me as he meanders over the counter I'm examining. "Don't you think that's a little... soon?"

"No," I reply, wondering if I should go with a solitaire or something a little less conventional. "I feel like I've known her forever."

"Look at Flower and V, man. They have known each other forever, and they're still not engaged."

"If I learned anything from this weekend, it's that I want to show her how serious I am." I look around and make sure Gronk isn't in earshot. "When you're confronted with the fact that you may not be around on this Earth forever, doesn't it make you want to show your loved ones how much you care?"

"You've only known her a few months," he says back.

"And since when have you ever known Max to not do something wholeheartedly?" Flower interjects, joining us. "When he makes his mind up about something, it's made up. He throws all his chips in, puts all his eggs in one basket, and then goes after whatever he sets his sights on."

I smile at him, appreciative of his understanding. Yes, that's all true; but on top of that, I love her. If I know already that I want to spend my life with her, why not make that clear to her, too—as well as to the rest of the world?

"So, when are you going to ask her?" TK questions.

"I don't know," I sigh, pointing to it, to the ring, and handing my credit card over to the salesperson. "I guess whenever the moment's right."

fifty-eight: superstar treatment

2009-11-13T23:30:00.005-05:00

If I'm being honest with myself, then yes, I'm nervous. I feel bad for my girl, and I just want things to start getting a little easier for us. It took a long time for me to get Charlotte to think of me as more than just a friend and reach this place. Now, it seems like everyone wants to drag us backward and make things harder by telling her that I'm no good for her or that her and John were so good together.

This lunch is important. Ridiculously important, and I need to be confident in my abilities to show her mother, Mrs. Virgina Livingston, that I am, in fact, good for her daughter. And not just good for her, but better than that douche.

You know, I feel bad for calling him a douche when he's unconscious in bed, but I still hate him. Not hate him enough to wish that he'd die, though; I've learned my lesson. If I hope for him to die, and he dies, there will be innumerable consequences which will just continue to drag Charlotte and I through the muck and mire again. So now, I'm going to hope he recovers so I can tell him to go fuck off.

Charlotte tells me that her mother is a stickler for punctuality, and that if you're not fifteen minutes early, then you're late. And, sure enough, when we pull into the entrance of the UPMC Mercy to pick her up at ten after noon (even though I specifically told her twelve thirty), she's already standing outside waiting for us. This woman is a piece of work. I can't even think of any other way to describe her.

Charlotte slides into the back while I throw the car into park, and hurry to open the passenger side door for her mother. "Are you ready, Mrs. Livingston?" I ask with a wide smile.

She doesn't even acknowledge me as she gets into the car and says something to Charlotte, something about how Mercedes are better vehicles than BMWs. I'm glad she can't see my eyes roll as I trot back around to the driver's seat.

"Mom, where would you like to go for lunch? Max thought he'd let you pick, but I thought we could go somewhere distinctly Pittsburgh, like Primanti's."

She groans. "You know, Sweet Pea, your father used to rave about that place." She turns to me and says, "Her father was originally from Pittsburgh, you know."

"I know," I reply, trying to remember exactly what Charlotte has told me over the months we've known each other. "But he went to college in Chicago, and that's how he met you."

I can feel as she watches me while I'm driving. Inspecting me. "That's right."

"So, Mom, do you want to go to Primanti's or not?" Charlotte asks, ruining the potential break-through moment we may have been having. I almost showed her mother how good of a listener I can be. And a man that listens—and remembers what he heard—automatically wins brownie points from women.

"Oh, I don't know. What else is there? You say I get to pick?"

"Absolutely," I reassure her. I run through all the places I can think of, most of which are the ones I'm familiar with on the South Side. Mike & Tony's. Nakama. The Cheesecake Factory. Buca—

"The Cheesecake Factory," she interjects, making her decision.

"Okay," I say, pointing my car in the right direction.

"Mom, there's one in Chicago. Let's go somewhere—"

"No," she says, cutting her off. "I got to pick. Right, Max?"

"Most definitely," I reply. Her mother smiles at me for taking her side, I smile back at her, and then I look at Charlotte in the rear-view mirror. She's pouting in the backseat, and I try my hardest not to laugh. Typical women: when you please one, you upset the other. Well, right now I'm worried about making a good impression on her mother. I'll worry about pleasing Charlotte later, when we're alone.

I let the valet take the car when we arrive down at the plaza, and I think about all the fond memories I have of this place. The movie theater where Charlotte and I just so happened to see All About Steve together as our first unofficial date, seeing as though I didn't even know her name at that point in time. Getting our coffee and sitting on these benches the very next morning, talking and getting to know each other and then sharing that first kiss that sent her running.... Oh, to go back to the simplicity of those days.

When we get to the main doors of the restaurant, I hold the doors open for them and then hurry to the counter to put our names in. There are a few people waiting around, and I hope to use some of my pull in the city to get us a table in a hurry. I don't want to wait around, and I want to get this lunch over and done with. Yeah, I want to impress Charlotte's mother and win her over into joining my side, but I want to do it quickly. After all, I want to leave my afternoon open for relaxing with my girl after these hellish few days.

"Hello, Mr. Talbot," the hostess greets. "It's been a while since we've seen you here."

Okay, it sounds conceited, but I say it anyway. "Well, I'm a busy man."

"That you are," she returns with a smile, flirting a little but not going over the line. "Three of you?"

"Yes, please," I say. The hostess nods and grabs menus for us, ushering us past the other waiting guests. "Ladies first." I wave my hands and let Mrs. Livingston go first, and then Charlotte. I place my hand on her back as we to the other side of the restaurant, and I can feel as she shivers from the contact. I lean down and speak in her ear. "How'm I doing?"

Charlotte waves her hand in the air, as if saying that I'm doing okay or lunch could still go either way, but she's also smiling. It can't be that bad.

I hold out the chair for her mother, trying to be a gentleman. She nods and sits, and I join Charlotte in the booth side of the table so she's against the partition and I'm blocking her into the seat. I move to place my arm around her shoulders, but she subtly shakes her head so I place it on the back of the booth instead and pretend this is a comfortable position. Charlotte places her hand on my knee and squeezes.

"So, Mrs. Livi—" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"They know you here," she says.

"I'm here every so often," I reply.

"They know your name," she presses.

I open my mouth to explain that a lot of people in this city know my name, but then I'd have to explain why, and Charlotte told me that it's best if she doesn't know I'm a hockey player, even though it would clarify the situation. And I can't think anything off the top of my head that would explain why people know me.

"He's a big tipper," Charlotte says with a smirk.

"Oh." Her mother looks at me as if the way I look betrays the size of my wallet. It's difficult to not say something, but Charlotte's vice grip on my leg prevents me from opening my mouth. It's like she can read my mind. "What is that you do, Max?"

Charlotte speaks before I can. "He works at the Mellon Arena."

"Doing what?"

"I'm, um, in charge of... entertainment," I blurt out, as the first thing that I think of. And it's kind of true, isn't it? Scoring goals, making big hits, killing penalties, and dropping the gloves can be very entertaining to the hockey fans of Pittsburgh.

"Oh." It's her mother's common reply. Charlotte's hand relaxes and blood can flow through my leg again.

Before she can think of another question for me, the waiter walks over, greets me by name, and tells us all about the specials, and we place our orders and wait quietly for a moment before any of us speaks. Charlotte caves first and breaks the silence. "So, Mom, are you staying with Granny and Pap Pap while you're in town?"

Mrs. Livingston purses her lips. "Yes. You know, I haven't seen them in years, even though we've kept in contact since the funeral. They're back after their Thanksgiving vacation, and they went so far as to invite us over for Christmas. Like we don't have our own family to visit with."

Charlotte reddens. "They're still a part of our family, even if Dad passed away. They don't just go away, and they're still my grandparents."

"But what about my side of the family? And your stepfather's family, too. We always have Christmas in Chicago, and I'm not going to ruin tradition just because of their invitation."

"Why don't we invite them to come out to Chicago? They'll probably say no, and visit with their family out this way, but if they were nice enough to invite us, we should include them, too."

"Don't you think there will be enough people this year? And I suppose I should ask if you're bringing Max along?" she asks, her eyebrows raised to her hairline, but her words aren't biting. It doesn't sound like she's happy about it, but she's not completely adverse to it.... Could I be making headway?

"If he wants to come," Charlotte replies quietly, not looking up at me.

"Actually, Mrs. Livingston, I was hoping that I could steal Charlotte for Christmas, and take her up to my home in Montréal to meet my family." When I say that, Charlotte looks up at me with wide eyes, not expecting that response. "I know that it's such a big holiday, but I don't get to see my family often, and I especially don't get to go home often either."

"Christmas is out of the question. She didn't come home for Thanksgiving, and Christmas is too important of a holiday for her to miss it as well." She pauses before she adds, "If you wanted to, you would be welcome to celebrate with our family."

The hand on my knee begins to rub small circles. This is good. This is definitely good. "I thank you for your invitation, Mrs. Livingston. I must respectfully decline, though," I say. "My mother is already expecting me home, and it would break her heart to tell her that I couldn't all of a sudden."

"Oh." She purses her lips and analyzes me again. This is starting to get annoying. "Well, I have to respect that. A man who abides by his mother's wishes is a good man, in my book. I wish my children listened to me like you listen to your mother."

I grin widely as Charlotte scowls. Maybe I don't have her mother on my side yet, but I'm on her side. And that's a step in the right direction. Our food arrives and we eat, avoiding deep conversation and only talking about how good our meals are and how great the service is. I know that the waiter approaches our table often because he wants to make sure I'm happy, but Mrs. Livingston appreciates the attention, and she's almost... glowing with this type of treatment. Charlotte's nervous, so she continues to drink her glass of water, and the waiter constantly refills it.

Charlotte barely touches her salad, and her mother is quick to notice. "Aren't you hungry, Charlotte? Are you sick?"

"No, Mom. I'm saving room for dessert. Max always insists on ordering cheesecake when we come here."

"Is that so?" she asks.

"Of course! Why come to The Cheesecake Factory and not get any cheesecake? It's almost blasphemous," I laugh. As if on cue, our waiter appears again with menus in hand. Before he can say anything, I ask him, "Do you still have any of the pumpkin pecan cheesecake on hand?"

"Well, it's a seasonal thing, Mr. Talbot, but I'll check to see what we have," he replies, turning to leave.

"Two slices, if you have it," I tell him, and he nods with a smile as he walks away. Luckily, they still have some, and he sets a plate down in front of each of the two women at my table. They both dig in and eat, and I sit back and watch. They say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and I would argue that the way to a woman's heart is a good piece of cheesecake. It sure as hell works for Charlotte, so I hope it works for her mother, too.

The waiter checks on us one last time and leaves the check, so I quickly slide my card into the flap and hand it back to him.

Charlotte's squirming beside me. "I have to use the restroom," she says quietly. "Mom, will you come with me?"

"That's okay, Sweet Pea, I'm fine."

She looks at me and then back at her mother. "No, I guess I'm fine."

I slide out of the booth and pull her behind me so she can get out. "Go on. We'll be fine," I tell her, even though I mean to tell her that I'll be fine. She doesn't seem to trust the situation, trust me, or trust her mother, but she does leave us, and I slide back into my seat across from Mrs. Livingston.

I know what she's doing; I know what this whole thing has been about. She wants to make sure that I can provide for her daughter. I sure can; I may not have a contract the size of the Kid's or Geno's, or even Orpik's or Dupuis's, but I can sure as hell give her what she needs. Instead of playing this game, I'm going to just come right out and say it. Before I can, we get interrupted by a few patrons that ask for my autograph. I sign and smile until they leave, and then I get back to business.

"Autographs? Who are you?"

"I have to tell you that I may have not told you the whole truth. I'm... a professional hockey player for the team in Pittsburgh." She purses her lips. "I make decent money, Mrs. Livingston."

"That's so blue collar," she sighs. "Having to physically work for your money."

What a unique perspective; I would think that the physique of a professional athlete would more than outweigh the notion behind having to physically work for a paycheck. I lay all my cards on the table. "I'm not rich, but I make enough to be more than comfortable. I'm good at my job, too. I'm successful. I'm a good looking guy, if I do say so myself. But most of all, I love Charlotte more than anything. I can and will provide for her, and I'll care for her no matter what. I'm everything you could possibly want for her. I want you to want me for her."

The waiter hands the check back, and I sign my name and leave a large tip in cash on the table. She's silent as she stands, and we head toward the door and meet Charlotte along the way. Her mother is quiet as we leave the restaurant, our hefty leftovers in our hands, and I hand my ticket to the valet.

Charlotte's worried that no one's talking, but we still remain silent as I drive Mrs. Livingston back to the hospital. I remain in the car as the two of them get out and exchange words animatedly as I wait. At long last, they hug and she gets back in the car. I shift into gear and head toward my house. "So?" I ask, impatient to hear if I have accomplished anything I had set out to do.

"You have impressed her, but not because of you. Because of who you are. That you're famous and people know who you are and think you're God's gift to the Penguins. Not because you're a great guy and I love you or anything important like that," she sighs.

I smile. "It's better than nothing."

"But those aren't the reasons I like you, Max. I want her to like you for all of your good qualities. Not because you get special treatment—ergo, she gets special treatment—when you go out."

"Eh," I say, shrugging my shoulders. "I guess that's just a perk of being a superstar."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't pull that superstar shit on me, Max-A-Million. It won't work."

I laugh. "Why don't we go home? I'll give you a little superstar treatment, and we'll see how you change your story."

fifty-seven: prep

2009-11-12T19:00:00.004-05:00

"Your boyfriend? Sweet Pea, your boyfriend is admitted to this hospital, and he needs you to be serious and be there for him, instead of playing these games. Whatever fight you think you and John are having, you need to just forget about it because he needs you right now."

My mother continues to stare down Max even though she's supposed to be addressing me. She, of course, is siding with John in this matter instead of with her own daughter because she thinks she knows what's best for me. While she scolds me for my perceived pettiness, she's picking out all Max's visible flaws so she can later tell me why Max is no good for me anyway, and why I need to get back with John pronto.

His shirt's wrinkled and he looks unkempt, even though it's because he slept here in the lounge with me all night. He has a day's worth of hair growth on his face, which I happen to love, but he looks unshaven and derelict. And his eyes are red from sleeping in his contacts, yet again, so he looks like he's recovering from partying all night long. In my mother's opinion, if he doesn't care about his outward appearance, then how can he care about her daughter?

"Wow! Quelle garce!" Max interjects, under his breath. I'm curious about what he said, but I know it couldn't have been positive. Justified, yes; helping our situation, no. He should have learned his lesson and kept his mouth shut, because he had misspoken every time he's said something to her. He's clueless.

"What did you say?" she asks, confused and annoyed. I know exactly how she feels, because I'm always baffled when he speaks in French.

"Wait, you didn't know they weren't broken up either?" Libby asks, making her presence known. Honestly, I thought she had gone into John's room and left us to deal with this matter.

"Mom," I quickly say, trying to get the upper hand and stop her analysis of Max so we can focus on the real issue at hand: my ever-elusive happiness. "I know that you're clinging desperately onto the idea that John and I will get back together, but that's just not going to happen. I'm with Max now. I know that these are bad circumstances for you to meet him, but you were going to have to meet him sooner or later. Please just be nice and give him a chance." I'm not sure why I'm pleading with her like this, because she's already made up her mind regarding him.

"Now, Charlotte, that's no way to talk to your mother," Max comments, placing his hands on my shoulders and stepping behind me. At first, I think he's scared of her and is trying to use me as a shield. Also, I can't believe he just said that. I look up at him, and the corner of his mouth is pulled up slightly. Suddenly, I get it. He's trying to play right into her hands. Look like he's on her side. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Livingston. But Charlotte's been here at the hospital ever since we heard the news, and she's hardly slept because she's been so worried. I think she just needs a shower and a nap to feel brand new."

My mother barely returns his smile. Her eyes are trained on his hands on me, disapproving. "Charlotte does get cranky when she doesn't get enough sleep. She's always been that way."

I jut out my lower lip and try to think of something say. I'm feeling ganged up on, even if Max is trying to play my mother to get on her good side. They've made me a pawn in their little chess game. I'm used to it from her, but not from him.

"If it's all right with you, Mrs. Livingston, I'd like your permission to take her home so she can rest and go back to being her old self. Go back to being the wonderful young woman you've raised."

I bite my lip and force myself to not roll my eyes. He's laying it on thick. Almost too thick, in fact. He's dangerously close to crossing the line and going too far by trying to stroke her ego. This is a treacherous game, because if she sees through it, his chances of making a good impression will disintegrate—if they haven't already. Not to mention that I'd prefer if he'd stop trying to pander to her and instead take my hand, tell her fuck off, and drag me out of here.

She lets out a low pitched hum as she contemplates him and his suggestion. Before she can give him her answer, Max continues, "Of course, I'd also love to get to know you better. Beyond all of the wonderful things Charlotte's told me about you. Would you let me take you out to lunch? The three of us?" he asks, flashing that smile that always makes me melt.

My mother continues to watch him, and I'm worried that he's overdone it. She jokingly counters, "You must know a different Charlotte, because my daughter would never say wonderful things about me."

"Au contraire," he replies. "She's said nothing but good things. I'd love the chance to see if it's all true or if she's been exaggerating."

"I suppose I could use the time to catch up with my daughter," she agrees, and I don't know if I should release a sigh of relief or continue to hold my breath. "I'd hate to think of Libby on her own, though."

"It's okay, Virginia," Libby says to my mother. "I need to spend some time with John. I'd really like to see him now."

I wave over the Dr. Ryan and introduce her to John's sister, and my responsibility here is finally waived. I feel as if handcuffs have been removed from my wrists and the fetters around my ankles are gone. I'm ready to leave now. Max tells my mother that we will come back and pick her up at twelve thirty, and I quickly and superficially hug both Libby and my mother and make a bee line for the elevator with Max on my heels.

When the door closes and we're alone, I grab his face in my hands and look him square in the eye. "What in the world has gotten into your head?" I ask him, searching his face for signs of insanity.

"What?"

"I couldn't blame you before for thinking you could handle my mother. But you've just witnessed firsthand her in full-on bitch mode. And you still want to take her out to lunch? Are you crazy?"

"I told you, your mother will love me. She just needs to get to know me. Then she'll see how much you love me and that I am so much better than he was and better for you than him," he gladly informs me.

I open my mouth to say something, but I don't know what to say so I clamp it shut again. This is a mistake. But he's so determined, and I guess it's kind of cute that he wants to earn her favor. "Max-A-Million. If you're sure...."

"Yeah. You know me, baby. I never give up on what I want," he says with a smile. It makes me blush, because I know how true that statement is. Max is going to try to win her over, but I can't guarantee it's going to work. "And I want her to like me and stop hassling you about that stupid douche bag. I just need you to help me."

I laugh. "I can't even believe you got her to agree to lunch, so you're off to a good start. How do you want me to help?"

"Tell me all the wonderful things about her that I lied about you telling me," he chuckles. "Tell me what I need to do to impress her. She's... a real piece of work. How is it that you two are related?"

I groan and lean against the wall of the moving elevator. "I think I'm the way I am because of her. Like, I had to adapt into someone who always needed to see the good in people, because I needed to see the good in her. She's not all bad. She's just pushy and demanding and imposing and she thinks she's always right. And this is gonna sound ridiculous, but she does it because she loves me and wants what's best for me."

"Well, I'm going to show her that I'm what's best for you," he counters huskily, and I grab his ears and pull his mouth down on mine.

While Max showers, I raid his closet for something for him to wear. I pick out a dark, navy blue button down dress shirt and khaki pants. It's casual looking but kind of business casual. He walks out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping down his chest and stomach, and I can't help but stare. Damn, he's one gorgeous man.

"Baby? You're ogling me," he laughs.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, snapping out of my daze and looking away. I'm supposed to be concentrating on how to let him make up for his bad first impression and not on how much I just want to pounce on him and forget about lunch. Who needs to eat anyway, with a man like that naked and inches away from a bed?

"Do you think I should shave?" he asks seriously, running his hand across his cheek and looking in the mirror.

"No," I say, stepping behind him and wrapping my arms around his middle. I rest my cheek against his back. "I like it."

"But what will your mother think about it?"

"I don't care," I sigh. "I don't want you to change everything just to get her to like you. I want her to like you because of who you are and because of what you mean to me. Not because you shaved or because of whatever you said to boost her already-huge ego."

"I told you that I'm going to do what it takes, but I won't change who I am. I'm a likable guy, Charlotte. I don't know why you doubt me like this," he says with a sly grin, teasing me.

"I don't doubt your likability. I doubt her ability to look past her prejudices." I begin to tell him anything and everything about her that I think he needs to know or will need to know. I explain that she was trained in voice and dance, and it was her lifelong dream to perform on Broadway. Until she got pregnant at eighteen with my sister Caroline, so she married my father and had a family instead. So he should bring up that she's talented, but not talk about why she never got to be a performer. I further tell him that even though she loves her daughters, she's still a little bitter that she never got her chance to make it big, and she always kind of blamed it on my father.

"That's why we need to think about a job for you. You can't be a hockey player."

"Yeah, you said that last night, that we couldn't tell her. But, um, why?"

"My dad played hockey all through college, and then when he started teaching high school, he took over as the coach of the high school boys' team. He loved it, and it kinda drove my mom batty how he would yell at the television during games." I pause as Max laughs. "I used to watch the Blackhawks games with my dad, because it was the one way I really got to spend quality time with him. My mom didn't like that I was into a manly, brutish sport like hockey instead of something girlie. Needless to say, she's kind of biased against hockey players."

"Wow. So I have all these odds against me? First she won't like me because I'm not John, and now she won't like me because I play hockey."

I shake my head, but I'm smiling nevertheless. "I told you this wasn't going to be easy."

"John didn't like hockey?" he asks while buttoning up that blue shirt.

Rolling my eyes, I clarify, "John wouldn't know backchecking from forechecking from poke checking." Then I laugh. "I just like saying poke checking."

Max doesn't find the same humor in that as I do. "Will you be serious? I'm trying to take this all in."

"Oh my goodness," I continue to tease, moving to help him with some of the buttons. I wish I were undressing him instead of dressing him. "For once monsieur Maxime Talbot is more serious about something than I am."

"What is this world coming to?" he laughs.

Once Max is finished dressing, he drives me over to my place so I can go through a similar routine. I shower, shave, wash, condition, scrub, pluck, moisturize, and examine myself in the mirror when I'm finished with all of that. I think I'm spending more time getting ready for lunch with Mommie Dearest than I ever did for a date with Max.

As I walk into my room in a towel, I go through my own closet to pick out something appropriate. Max interrupts my thoughts. "Merde, did you have this much trouble watching me get ready? Because I do not want to leave this apartment. I'd rather spend the day here with you." He groans. "After yesterday, I just want to relax with you."

"You should have thought about that before you asked us out to lunch." My stomach growls. I start to giggle. "I'm starting to look forward to eating, apparently."

I pull my comfortable hippie skirt out of my closet. It's a little cold for it, but I want to dress up and also be comfortable. "No, don't wear that," he says, taking it from my hand and hanging it back up.

"Why not? I like that skirt."

"Just as much as I need to prove to your mother that I'm better for you than John, you need to prove to her that you're doing fine without John. Better than fine. Show yourself off." He scans my closet for something. "Where's your little black dress?"

"That's Gina's," I explain. "And I'm not wearing that."

"Why not?" he asks, repeating my previous question. "I like you in that dress."

It makes me laugh how we're kind of mirroring each other. "It's too sexy for lunch on Sunday with my mom." I pull out the outfit that Gina made me buy when I was trying to dress nice for Max. Paired with a cardigan, I look halfway decent. I quickly do my make-up and hair, and it's just about noon and almost time to go pick my mother back up and head out for lunch.

"Where are we going by the way?"

"I figured your mother would pick the restaurant. You know, butter her up by letting her decide."

I smile. "That's a good idea. You just may be able to charm her yet."

"I told you, no one can resist the Talbot charm."

I mockingly roll my eyes. "You know, you and my mother will get along just fine, because you both have such big egos. If you remember, Max-A-Million, I resisted your charm for quite some time."

"But you eventually caved," he says smoothly, pulling the collar of my cardigan to the side and planting lingering kisses in a line from right below my ear to where my neck and shoulder meet. I instinctively moan; I can't suppress it. "You may have said no at first, but you never say no to me anymore."

"I changed my mind," I pant. "Let's cancel lunch."

Max smiles and gives me one quick peck on the lips before he takes my hand in his. "No, we're going to do this. Let's go make your mother love me. Are you ready?"

"No," I sigh. "But let's go."

fifty-six: three strikes and you're out

2009-11-11T19:45:00.001-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Kina Grannis, The Goldfish Song

I wake up in the morning, feeling a severe crick in my neck. I straighten myself and rub my nape, trying to ease the tension caused by sleeping with my head resting on Max's shoulder. He's breathing deeply and snoring softly, his head tilted back against the top of the couch. Poor Max hasn't moved since we fell asleep like that last night.

It makes me so happy to see him here with me. I don't know if he just didn't want to leave me, or if he fell asleep and stayed involuntarily. Either way, I don't think I care. I just like that he's here. I'll take it.

I push away from the couch and grab my things and head back into the restroom to wash my face and put my contacts in. I try to brush my hair, but it's hopeless and flat and frizzy all at once, so I pull it back again. I desperately need a shower. It's been over twenty hours since I've been in this damn hospital, and I can't wait to get out of here and get my life back. I brush my teeth, too, and then walk back into the lounge to my sleeping, beautiful boyfriend.

Sitting beside him again, I run my fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp with my fingers. For now, I'm just enjoying watching him sleep. I could do this forever, nothing but this. My touch begins to rouse him, and his eyes flutter open before his head turns to face me. I continue to massage his scalp. "Good morning, Max-A-Million."

"Bon matin," he says, his voice raspy. I love how he sounds in the morning. "What time is it?"

I look up at the clock in the waiting room. "It's stopped at two. I don't think that's right," I say, grabbing his wrist to check his watch. "Hmm. Quarter after nine."

"Thank goodness," Max replies, switching our positions by grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward him. With his lips inches from mine, he adds, "I can't wait for this morning to be over, and then you and I are going home."

"Sounds goo—" I can't finish my comment because he kisses me, and I'm glad I brushed my teeth.

"Charlotte?"

Our moment is disturbed by the call of a voice, of Libby's soft, feminine voice that I haven't heard a long time. There's a twinge of hurt in the way she says my name that makes me feel like I've been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I break the kiss and slide away from Max a little.

"Hi, Libby," I greet with a blush. I didn't think she'd make it here this soon. I knew it was a Sunday morning, but I didn't think she'd make it here in under an hour.

She's heartbroken enough, knowing that her little brother, her only brother, is a broken and beaten mess somewhere in the hospital, but she's looking at me with sad eyes, making me feel like I caused at least a portion of that emotion. Libby wants to say something to me, but it seems like she's not sure how to begin.

"I can't believe you're.... I mean, John's hurt.... And you're kissing... him? What's going on, Charlotte?"

I divert my gaze to Max and then look back at Libby. Okay, so making out with him in the middle of a hospital may not exactly be appropriate. But I desperately want to just be happy right now, and if kissing Max is going to make me that, I'm sure as hell gonna do it. Still, I shouldn't rub my happiness in her face since she has cause to be upset. I stand. "Sorry. He's in room 417. I'll get the doctor to update you on his condition."

"Don't you know his condition? Why are you out here with him instead of with John? And why are you guys even in Pittsburgh?" There are tears in her eyes, and I feel so bad for her. Libby was never anything but nice to me, but she's looking at me like I'm the scum of the earth right now.

"Lib, I live in Pittsburgh now. And Max is my boyfriend," I explain. I'm not even sure why I'm telling her this.

"What?" Now she's looking at me like I'm crazy. I've been getting a lot of that lately, and quite honestly I'm sick of it.

"I'm sorry, Libby, but I don't know what you don't understand."

"You and John aren't... together... anymore?"

"No," I say, shocked that she didn't know. "We broke up in May. Like, seven months ago. Didn't he tell you?"

"No," she replies, looking devastated. "Every time I asked about you, he'd always just say you were fine. He told me about his promotion, and I thought he was finally going to pop the question. I even asked him when he was going to, and he said that he would once the time was right." She looks at me inquisitively. "Is that why he came here? To propose to you?"

"No," I blurt out immediately, more to try to convince myself of that, because I can't be so sure of that. "He was on a business trip." I ignore the fact that the trip wasn't supposed to start until Monday, and he showed up early to see me.

"Oh," she says, pausing a moment before tearing up and adding, "I feel like I'm losing a sister and a brother."

Libby bursts into sobs, and I embrace her without even thinking. I feel so bad. "He's going to be okay, Lib. You're not going to lose him."

"What happened? I don't even know the details."

"Sounds like his bad ankle gave out on him in a crosswalk, and the driver of the car didn't even see him. And he feels so bad, Libby—"

"You talked to the driver?"

I clear my throat and stop myself from looking at Max, deciding to leave out the tiny little fact that I know the driver. The fact that he's one of my boyfriend's teammates. This situation could only be made worse if it had been Max who had hit John. "He was here after the accident, and he wanted to know if John was going to be okay. He's really distraught and worried."

"Good," Libby says. "Well, no, not good. I just mean, I'm glad he's worried. No, it keeps coming out wrong. It's just that it's easier to forgive the penitent. You say John's going to be okay?"

Now I wish I hadn't've said that, because I don't know. "Well, he's already off the respirator. The doctor said it's a very good sign. Why don't you go see him?"

"Will you come with me?"

"He's only allowed one visitor at a time. And, um, well, I'm going to leave...."

"Why are you leaving?"

"Because I can't stay," I sigh. "Listen, it's not that I don't hope he gets better, because I do. I hope he makes a full recovery and lives a happy life. I just want that happy life to not involve me. John obviously wasn't open with you about what was going on, and I hate to have to say this when he's in this condition. But things weren't good between us anymore, and I don't care about reconciling. I just want to be done with him."

"How can you say that? You were so good together. And you were so good for him."

"But he wasn't any good for me. On the contrary, Lib, he was like a poison. Every time I get him out of my system, he comes back." I feel so bad having to say these things about her injured brother while she's so upset. I hate that John put me in this position of having to clean up his own mess. I can't believe he didn't tell her that we were at least broken up! Even if he didn't want to implicate himself in the break-up, even if he wanted to blame it on all on me and how I wanted to leave, that would have been better than having to do this. I hate him even more for making me look like such a bad person for wanting to leave while he's in this state. I can't believe I ever loved him. "I just can't sit out here anymore. Please understand, Libby."

"I wish Ron could have been able to come down with me, but he couldn't get the time off work and then we would have had to bring little Ronny with us, too."

"My mom's coming down," I say, trying to sound happy for her that she won't be alone. "You know how much she cares about him."

"Oh yeah, I know."

"She's like a third mother to him, after your mother and you, of course."

Libby wipes the corner of her eyes with the back of her hand. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I know your mother's coming down to see John. She was on my flight."

All the blood drains from my face, and even though I've lost all peripheral sight, I feel as Max stands beside me and puts his hand on my back. I think he's worried I'll pass out. "She wasn't supposed to arrive until noon."

"We both had layovers in Detroit. She was able to catch an earlier flight, my flight into Pittsburgh. I left her outside, because she wanted to call you and let you know. But I guess if you're here in the hospital, she wouldn't be able to reach you with your phone turned off."

No. This can't happen. I look like a mess, and my mother will chide me for not looking presentable out in public. Forget that I've been in the hospital, which I didn't even want to be, and couldn't shower. She's also going to be mad that she has tried to call but has been unable to get a hold of me, even though it's because I'm in the hospital so I'm not allowed to have my phone on. Both of these situations could have been avoided if I didn't have to be in the hospital, but then she'd just reprimand me for not being here for John like she feels I should. It's a Catch-22, and I can't win.

Toss in the fact that Max is unshaven and still in that bright, loud shirt, and that the introduction of my boyfriend to my mother is inevitable, and this is going to be downright disastrous. It's a good thing we're in a hospital, because I'm about to have a heart attack or a panic attack. My first instinct is to look for a place to hide—whether that be to hide myself, Max, or us both.

I wonder if I can hide behind one of these horrible couches, or if room 413 is still empty. "No. You're joshing me, right, Libby? You're pulling my chain. Please tell me it's not true."

"She sat in the row behind me on the plane, Charlotte. She's definitely here."

The elevators doors open and reveal my greatest fear: my mother, dressed to the nines, scanning the room as she steps off. I close my eyes and will myself to become invisible or spontaneously combust or implode or something, anything, to avoid this. Unfortunately, it doesn't work as I hear her call my name. "Charlotte!" She's seen me. And I'm fucked.

I look up at Max quickly, and he looks down at me with that broad grin of his plastered on his face. He's turning on the charm and trying to be reassuring, but I realize instantly that he has absolutely no idea what he's just gotten himself into.

"Hi, Mom," I say weakly, trying to smile, but I feel like I'm grimacing. "How was your flight?"

"Awful, of course. You've lost weight, have you been sick? You look like hell."

"No," I sigh, still trying to look like I care about having this conversation but not offering any clarification on how I've been working out and watching what I'm eating, how I'm proud of my achievements, and how I'd look better if I could just go home and clean up.

"Oh. Well, have you gotten any of my messages?"

"No," I repeat. "I've been here since yesterday, so I can't use my cell."

"That's stupid," she blurts out loudly.

"The signals of the phones will mess with the life support machines," I try feebly to explain.

"But what if I needed to reach you? I did need to reach you. With technology today, you'd think they'd find a way to make cell phones work in hospitals. What good are cell phones if you can't use them anywhere?"

"You're right," I say sarcastically. "Cell phones are completely useless."

My mother doesn't pick up on my bitterness. Instead, she focuses on the man beside me, whose hand is still on my back, because honestly no one can miss him in that shirt. "Charlotte, who's this?"

"Oh. Mom, this is—"

"Max Talbot," he interjects, taking her hand his both of his, bringing it to his lips, and kissing the back of it. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Bickley."

Strike number one: she remarried and changed her name. If Max had let me introduce her properly, he wouldn't have called her that. She pulls her hand out of his grasp and wipes it on her pants. "It's Mrs. Livingston," she replies, looking down her nose at him, inspecting him. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Mom, that's rude," I say, trying to inject myself back into this situation and gain some kind of control or act as some sort of buffer between them.

Max looks unaffected and quickly tries to think of something. "I lost a bet and had to wear it as a joke," he lies.

"So, you're a gambler?" my mother returns, raising an eyebrow. That's strike two. Now she thinks he's been ensnared in vice and evil.

"I don't make a habit of it, no," he responds, his smile partially fading.

"Are you a friend of John's?" she asks, still wary of him.

"No, Mom," I say, hating the consequences that my next statement will effect. "Max is my boyfriend."

Her lips purse into a thin line as she reinspects him with fresh scrutiny. Strike three.

fifty-five: risk

2009-11-10T18:00:00.003-05:00

My sincerest apologies for not finishing this yesterday. My work schedule's off kilter for the next two weeks with my coworkers traveling for business, and plus, these aren't easy chapters to write. Please enjoy, my dearies.

Soundtrack Song 1 - John Mayer, Only Heart
Soundtrack Song 2- Daughtry, Used To

"Charlotte Bickley? We need to talk to you. About the patient."

The nurse looks at us like he feels sorry for me, for her, for us. For whatever it is we're going through. I know why: we're red-faced and look like we're exhausted. Well, it's not from arguing.

She stiffens beside me. "What is it?"

"The doctor would prefer to talk to you in his room."

We turn into robots and try to ignore all the emotional implications of what's to come, whatever it may be, and effectively detach our brains from our hearts. We go through the motions, right back to where we were when we shouted at each other, no closer to a possible reconcilitation. She nods and pushes away from the ledge of the window. For whatever reason, I follow and exit room 413 with her, aiming for the lounge. That is, until I bump right into her outside the threshold of John's room. "I don't want to go back in there."

I let out a deep breath. It seems like there's a huge schism between what she wants and what she feels she needs to do. "It's okay." Still, she hesitates. That's when I say, "I'll go with you, if you want."

She looks up at me with a shocked expression. "Really? You'd... do that?"

I shrug. I don't know what else to say. Because foolish me wants to help her, even if that inadvertently means I end up helping him. We both step into his room, and I wrap my right arm around her front and rest my right hand on her left shoulder. My other hand is on her left hip. Charlotte leans back against me and she keeps her eyes trained on the ground.

I knew the accident was bad, but it doesn't hit me until now, when I see him. His head is swathed in white, and the only parts of his face which are visible are purple with bruises. He's attached to a respirator, a heart monitor, an IV. Charlotte never once looks up at the form in bed, and I can't blame her. I wish I could look away, but I can't. John is moving. It almost looks like he's vomiting into the air as he reposes on his back, although he's not awake. I don't even like the guy, and this is a hard thing to witness.

The doctor looks at us before she begins. She seems suspicious that I'm here and that Charlotte won't look up. No matter what her reservations may be, she tells us what she believes is going on.

"We think John's beginning the process of trying to gain consciousness. His body's regaining its autonomy, and it seems like he's trying to breathe on his own. We want your permission to take out his endotracheal breathing tube."

"He's waking up?" she asks, looking up but peering at the doctor instead of John. Her hands fold up to rest on my right arm, and her nails scratch lightly on my skin in a nervous motion.

"Well, it's not as simple as that. Recovering from a head injury is a long and arduous process. It's very rare for someone to just spontaneously and totally 'wake up' or become completely conscious in a matter of seconds or even minutes. It can take hours, but usually and more often it takes days or weeks. Sometimes, even years."

"So what does this mean?"

"Well, we think his body's trying to take over its natural functions, that the brain stem is kicking back in. Which is what we want to see. Basically, his lungs are trying to rebel and breath on their own, but the machine isn't letting that happen. If he were fully awake, he'd basically want to rip out the tube himself. Instead, his body is trying to regurgitate and bring it up, because it regards it as a foreign object."

"Then take it out," she says.

The doctor clears her throat and pauses, and that makes us both look at her and wait for what she's going to say now. "Extubation needs to occur at the earliest possible time to prevent complications of having the tube in place for an extended period of time, especially if it's unnecessary. Also, it may shock his body into trying to 'wake up' even more. There's no telling how his body is going to respond.

"However, it's not without its risks. He may not have adequate respiratory muscle strength. Even though he's giving the appearance of being ready to do this, he may or may not be ready to breath on his own, but there's no way to tell unless we try to let him. There is a risk that his body may not get enough oxygen. We'll immediately use a BiPAP face mask to deliver oxygen to his lungs, but there is a chance he'll need to be re-intubated. If his oxygen saturation falls, we'll have to reinsert the tube, which of course comes with its risks.

"So John will need to be closely monitored to make sure there aren't any complications, and then he'll need to be sedated and possibly restrained. Sedation has its risks, too—"

"I'm sorry. I don't understand. What do you want me to do here?"

"We would like your permission to remove his breathing tube, but I need you to understand all the implications of the procedure."

"Do whatever you feel is best," Charlotte says, looking back to the floor.

"I can't. I need your permission, but I need it to be a well-informed decision."

"How am I supposed to make a decision when I just don't care?" she asks to no one. "It sounds like either way, something detrimental could happen," she sighs and closes her eyes altogether. "Go ahead and take it out." Charlotte lets go of my arm and reaches out for the clipboard in the doctor's hand, signing and handing it back to her. She then moves my arms from around her so she can leave the room, leave us here, and head into the lounge again.

The doctor again seems confused by her behavior. "Don't you want to wait and see what happens?"

"Nope," she replies, continuing through the doorway and out into the lounge. "I'm sure you'll let me know." The doctor looks at me, and I shrug and follow Charlotte.

She's pacing the floor, agitated. Confused. And I sit on the couch in the corner and watch. I'm out of things to say to her. Beating her with a two-by-four isn't going to help. Putting additional pressure on her will just make this worse. So I give her space. It's so bizarre to be with her and not touch her. We're always touching; when we're around each other, we're always physically near each other.

After a few minutes, the doctor approaches her. "So far, so good, Charlotte. He's breathing on his own, he is using the BiPAP, and his oh-two stats are steady. This is a very, very good sign. We're going to continue to monitor him for any other signs of change in his condition. I feel like the next few hours will show us how he will continue to progress, if it'll be slow or quick process. In the morning, we'll know a lot more. I hate that I have to keep telling you to wait and see, but...."

Charlotte nods and lets out a breath. She discretely pulls out her phone, turns it on, and types a quick message.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Letting Jordan know what's going on." I must have given her a funny look, because she adds, "He's really worried about him. I'm glad to hear this good news, just because that means it'll put his mind at rest."

I keep forgetting about Staalsy. I feel like I have my hands full, so I can't figure out how she can deal with this and still worry about him, too. Then again, I wasn't the one in the driver's seat, so I don't know what it's like to have hit someone and know that he's really hurt. What would it have been like if I were the one behind the wheel? I try to think about it in earnest. After all, I'm the one who said that I wished he would get hit by a bus. I kind of got my wish. But I never wanted this. I didn't think about these possible consequences or repercussions. I just wanted him gone, so Charlotte and I go could back the way things were before Tuesday, before we had that stupid fight and all this drama rained down upon us.

It's the memory of how we were that keeps me going in this situation. That's what makes me want to stick around and see this through and reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Because eventually, we're going to get through this and things are going to go back to how they were before, right?

I think I'm on the edge of two huge epiphanies....

First, our relationship, just a mere week ago, was incredible. It was amazing, and I was loving every minute of it, even when I was away from her. I was ready to give her my everything. Anything she wanted, I was going to make sure it was hers. I was planning on introducing her to my mother. And I'm so close with my family, that I wouldn't even contemplate a move like that if she didn't mean the world to me. If I didn't think she'd fit in or if they wouldn't love her. I wouldn't subject her or my family to such a big, symbolic gesture if I didn't want her to become a part of my family, if I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with her. Epiphany number one: I want to marry this woman. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after, but someday I'm going to propose to her and I'm going to pray to God that her answer will be yes.

Second, our relationship is going through a downturn. Obviously. That's an understatement. But I want to spend forever with her, and our forever can't always be like this. It can't always be full of drama and heartache and fights and shouting matches. Sure, all relationships are going to have their sour moments, but Charlotte and I have had our sweet ones as well. And those are what I'm looking forward to: the day we're going to get married, the days our children are born, and the hopefully many times I'll get to share winning the Stanley Cup with her. And I can wait out and trudge through these shitty times and stand beside her until they pass, so we can share those happy days. Epiphany number two: I kind of, sorta, understand what she's going through right now.

Charlotte will always be a part of me, and she will always have a piece of me that I can never get back. Everything that Charlotte is to me now, John was once to her. She had their futures planned, so even when their relationship nosedived, she wanted to stick it out. That's exactly what I'm pledging to do now. Our circumstances certainly aren't identical, but I feel like I at least maybe see her point. Even though she told me that she was over him, that she didn't care about him anymore, and that she loved me, he needed someone to look over him right now. This wasn't about what I wanted or what she wanted; it's about a life that requires a little coddling and care, no matter how much I detest him. Now that I'm so sure I will have the rest of my life to love Charlotte, I suppose I can lend him my own personal angel until the morning.

Come morning, though, this twisted, three-way tango is done and over. I may be able to act noble right now, but I'm drawing the line. When Charlotte's responsibilities here dissolve with the arrival of John's sister, I will be her escort out of this hell. That is my one unconditional demand.

I hate having to be the bigger person here. I'm always going the distance, going the extra mile. But, I suppose, that's love. There will come a day when I will need her unquestioning, unwavering, devoted support. Things will even out in the end.

When I look around, Charlotte's no where to be seen. She disappeared while I was lost in thought, but she enters the waiting room shortly after I notice she left. Her hair's pulled back in a messy bun, her glasses are on, and her face is pink from scrubbing. She sets the bag I had brought with me down on the floor. "Thanks again for bringing my things," she says, breaking the silence that had fallen between us.

"You're welcome." I smile at her and add, "I had to risk my life to get those for you. Gina's determined to put me into a bed in this ICU."

"What?" she asks sincerely, completely clueless.

"Well, let's see. First, she tried to bust my knee with a hockey stick. Then," I laugh, "she threatened to run me over with a Zamboni. I didn't have the heart to tell her I could outrun it."

Charlotte bursts into a fit of giggles for several moments before she finally composes herself. "I'm sorry. Gina's a riot. Did she hurt you?"

"Not a scratch," I inform her, and she nods and smiles but doesn't otherwise move. I gesture to the uncomfortable cushion to my left. "Come here."

She bites the inside of her cheek before hesitatingly sitting next to me. I pull her toward me until the lengths of our thighs are touching. She lets out a deep-sounding sigh, rests her head on my shoulder, and places the palm of her right hand over the back of my right hand; my left arm is around her shoulders. "Why did you come back?" she asks, watching her fingers intertwine awkwardly between mine, refusing to look at me. She hates talking about stuff like this, but it will bother her until she gets the answer.

"I don't know. First, Kris lectured me, and then Gina.... And I hated that everyone was painting me as the bad guy. Because I'm not. I'm just mad."

"At me?"

I think about it. Am I mad at her? Or at the situation? "I'm mad at everything. That this happened, that you have to be put through this, that I have to be put through this. I know it's no one's fault, but I'm still angry."

"I'm not gonna lie, Max-A-Million," she whispers, rubbing my hand, "I kinda liked the angry sex. A lot."

I laugh heartily and nuzzle her as I reflect on it. "Me too, baby." My dick immediately starts to get hard and I try to think of something else.

"But I don't want to fight anymore."

"Then it's settled. No more fighting."

Charlotte laughs quietly and disguises her eye roll. "I hope so." She turns her head and looks up at my, examining my face. "You don't have to stay."

"You want me to leave you here?"

"Well, not really. But I don't think it's fair to ask you to stay and sleep on these uncomfortable couches when you don't need to be here."

"What about the morning?"

"Libby's flight arrives at 8:30, so she'll be here by 9:30 as long as there are no delays."

"And your mother?"

Charlotte groans and buries her face back into me. I can't hear what she says, so I ask her to repeat it. "I forgot all about Mommie Dearest. She's scheduled to come in around noon."

"Should we all three go out to lunch?"

"You still want to meet her?" she asks.

"Um, yeah. Don't you want me to?"

"I don't think our relationship can take any more strain right now, and she is a lot of strain. She's going to make things infinitely worse."

"She can't be that bad. You call her Mommie Dearest."

"After the movie. Haven't you ever seen Mommie Dearest?" I shake my head. "It's a bad movie. Not that it's bad, but it's freaky. Not scary, like, it's... just not right." She shivers. "Joan Crawford is the worst mother ever. 'No wire hangers!' My mom's not like that, but she's no June Cleaver either."

"Who are these people? And what do they have to do with hangers? I'm confused. Do I get to meet her or not?"

"If you're sure about this."

"I am."

"Okay, but you're digging your own grave. This will be a disaster. She's going to hate you. If you want to impress her, I suggest you speak only when spoken to, be on your best behavior, and turn on that charm to the Nth degree. Don't tell her you're a hockey player, and please, dress smart. Not like this," she adds, pulling on my plaid shirt.

"What's wrong with this?"

"It's... flamboyant? Boisterous? It screams for attention. Nothing too bright. Dark, muted colors, perhaps a sweater, and no bummy-looking jeans either. Sophisticated. Wear your glasses—they make you look smart."

"Maybe I should write all this down?" I jokingly ask, smiling at her. This is a lot to take in at once, but she's surely exaggerating because she's nervous and wants me to make a good impression.

"This is going to be bad. I can't believe you're talking me into this. I haven't even told her about you, Max."

"So you dumped your old boyfriend. You were bound to get another one."

"She doesn't even know I'm dating anyone. She's convinced this is some sort of phase, and one day I was going to wake up and run back home to Chicago."

"Well, then, I guess I'm going to convince her it isn't."

She smiles and nestles back down against me. "Good luck with that. Aren't you leaving?" Charlotte doesn't move, so I couldn't even get up if I wanted to.

"I'll wait 'til you fall asleep," I explain, resting my head against the back of the couch as I wait for her breathing to slow and even out. Tomorrow can't be any worse than today; even if it could, that's a risk I'm willing to take.

fifty-four: shoes

2009-11-08T20:00:00.007-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Death Cab for Cutie, Meet Me on the Equinox

By the time the evening rolls around, I'm going stir-crazy. I've never liked hospitals, because so many bad things happen in them. I know babies are born in them, but somehow that doesn't completely negate that people die in them, too.

When I woke up this morning, I didn't think my day would end up like this. I try not to let myself think about what I could have or would have done differently. That's a dangerous path to tread. The human psyche is a fickle thing. People can drive themselves crazy by thinking about the "what ifs." The situation at hand is too complex to involve myself in this kind of debate. I'm just going to put my blinders on, focus on getting through until the morning, and then, well... we'll see.

I'm going to stand behind my decisions, be they right or wrong. I had to stay here. If it were Max in that bed and his head wrapped in bandages, I'd want someone looking after him; I'd want someone there having his best interests in mind until I could get there and take care of him myself. Maybe if Max could have placed himself in John's shoes, he'd understand. Or even if he were in my shoes and he got to see that this isn't easy for me.

Too bad that's a nonissue anymore. Max ended our relationship when he left. I hate this situation, but it's not like I could have done anything differently. That's what kills me. I couldn't have left with him. But I don't blame him, and I can't hate him for that. On the contrary, I still love him. He means too much to me for everything he's already helped me through. I wish I had him to lean on, but I don't. Maybe he was right all along; I am strong enough to get through this myself. I wish I didn't have to be though.

When John was rolled out of surgery and back into the ICU, Jordan and Kris left. Jordan made me promise to keep him updated on John's condition, and Kris made me promise to let him know if I needed anything. I assured them both that I would keep to my word. I of course would keep Jordan apprised of the situation. He was too distraught for me not to. But I'm not going to be asking anything of Kris. I'm going to start relying less on other people and more on myself.

The doctors continue their constant observation of John. They tell me that he's regained his gag reflex, and that's a very good sign. They try to emphasize that he's not out of the woods yet, that he still has a long road ahead of him to trek, but he's progressing and that's a baby step in the right direction; it's better than regressing or even remaining stagnant. They keep me up to date after every check, but his medical state never wavers.

That night, the nurses turn the Pens game on in the lounge, and I watch it. I guess to torture myself. It's a reminder of happier times. As much as I know I shouldn't, I think about how nice it would be if I had Max here with me. No, I take that back. I wish that I were with Max anywhere else than here. A tropical island sounds nice. Palm trees. Mai tais. Sex on the beach. I fall asleep with the game on in the background and dream about such a vacation.

It seems so real, the way the sun beats down on my face. The color of Max's eyes matches the ocean. I can feel the sand beneath my toes as he walks toward me and calls me baby. The way he says it sends a shiver down my spine. "Baby."

I smile as I admire the way the sun has tanned his smooth chest. I run my hands across his cross tattoo, up over that chest, and around his shoulders and feel the latent strength in his muscles. "Max." I call out his name, hoping to entice him into reciprocating and reaching out for me. He doesn't.

"Baby."

The beach fades away, and the hospital lounge comes back into the foreground. Max, however, is still there. Here. My breath catches in my throat. I can't believe it. I can't believe he's here. At first, I'm relieved and I beam at him, the blissful beach memories in my head like they were real. When he looks back at me with his mouth drawn in a thin line, the reality of the situation crashes into me like the waves of the beach.

He clears his throat and answers the question I didn't ask. "I'm not here to apologize."

"Then why are you here?"

"I brought you some of your things. Toothbrush. Contact stuff and your glasses. Hair thingy. Pillow."

I nod and feel tears sting my eyes. I just want to go back to that happy time. I feel like I'll never have that again. My voice sounds raw when I choke out, "Thanks."

"Don't cry," he says. It almost sounds like a plea and an order, all at once.

"Sorry." It doesn't sound convincing. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, because I can't stop my tear production. "It's just been all-around a long and hard day."

Max throws the bag of my stuff on the couch beside me and shoves his hands inside his pockets. "You make it hard to stay mad at you when you cry."

"If you want to stay mad at me, then just go."

He shakes his head. "If I go, he wins. And that... that's the last thing I'm going to let happen."

"Let me get this straight. You're not here to help me through this. And you're obviously not here because you want to be. So you're doing this to spite John?"

"Oui."

"That's stupid," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Why?" he asks, seemingly mad that I don't understand his logic.

"You're not making either of us happy right now. And he's unconscious in the other room, so you're not even pissing him off. You're just making this whole thing worse."

"St-stop it! Don't tell me I'm making anything worse. Nothing can get worse than this. I'm not the bad guy here. I'm sick of everyone trying to place the blame on me! Like I'm the one at fault. I'm not. I am looking out for your best interests. God damn it, Charlotte, I love you."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I snort. "You leave when I need you most. If that's your brand of love, then I don't need it."

"Will you just fucking listen?"

I cross my arms over my chest while a nurse walks by. She gawks at us as we continue to bicker loudly. "Please, by all means, go ahead."

"I can't stand here and watch this. You're letting him control you, and he's not even conscious to do it. You're still caught up in his fucking games, and you don't even see it."

"He's in a coma, Max—"

"And you're still defending him."

"You don't get it. You want me to walk away, but I can't. Not until the morning. Nothing changes—"

One of the male nurses steps up beside Max. "You guys can't do this here. I'm going to have to ask you stop or leave."

"I can't leave," I say, rubbing my forehead.

"Then you'll have to stop arguing. You're making the other nurses worried, and bothering the other visitors," he tells us. I look around and don't see any other visitors. Not unless they're in the other rooms, because it's just us and the nurses and doctors on staff. And the janitor mopping the floor down the hall. "Wait, are you Max Talbot?"

I roll my eyes. I can't believe the audacity of this nurse, to interrupt our discussion—our obviously heated discussion—and then talk to Max like this. "Yeah," he says, obviously annoyed.

The nurse speaks quietly. "Room 413 is unoccupied. You can talk there, as long as you keep it quiet. Otherwise, I will have to notify security to escort you out," he warns us.

Max nods and thanks him, and then I promptly grab the sleeve of his shirt and pull him toward the empty room. I guess being a game seven hero has its perks. I only let go once we're in that dark room, and Max closes the door and flicks on the light as I stand by the window and rest against the ledge. "You need to stop," I tell him. "Either you're mad at me or you're not. You're either going to be here for me, or you're not. It's your call here. So make up your mind and stay or go, but don't put me through this."

"Stop trying to make it seem like this is all my fault, like I'm doing this to hurt you. Because I'm not. This isn't just about you. It kills me to think you're stuck in this hospital wasting your positive energy hoping that asshole wakes up."

"I never said I wanted him to wake up. I'm not here to support him. I have to be here for when something happens. You're acting like I'm doing this on purpose to get some kind of reaction or even some kind of action from you. I don't want anything from you, except you. Just you."

"So what? So I can just sit here and watch this? Watch as you turn into an emotional fucking wreck, and I'll be the one picking up the pieces again and trying to put you back together? No thank you."

"Oh boo-fucking-hoo, Max. Once again it's all about you. How this affects you. How you have to be the one who picks up the pieces. But in your little scenario, I'm the one who's going to be in pieces. You know what? No, I'm not. If I've learned anything from being around you, it's how to be strong, because you made me need to be strong. Because you couldn't help me when I needed it the most."

"And every time you've needed me, it's because of that man!" he yells quietly, pointing out the door in the general direction of John's room. "It's like banging my head against a fucking wall, hoping one day, he'll never be able to hurt you. But you won't let that happen, because you let him hurt you."

"Oh. Okay. This is all my fault. You're right; I deserve all the blame. If only I had been smarter and never met him. If only I had never fallen in love with an asshole. People do it all the time. Cupid misses all the time, and people have to learn to adapt all the time. I'm doing my best, believe it or not.

"But let me tell you something, you arrogant, pompous ass. If this situation were reversed, and you were in John's shoes right now and John was here arguing with me about leaving you alone in the hospital, you'd be feeling mighty different. You'd be glad someone was there for you, even if you screwed them over and hurt them. And if I were your girlfriend in that situation, trying desperately to get to my injured boyfriend, I know I'd be happy that someone was watching over you until I could get there."

"You want to play this game? Fine," he snaps, stepping dangerously close to me. I can feel the cold emanating from the glass pane behind me as I lean back to put the distance back between us. "What if I were the one in your shoes, huh? What if it were me, staying at the hospital and doting over my ex? You'd be happy about that?"

"Well, no I wouldn't be happy about it—"

"Admit it," he says, placing his hand on the ledge beside me and leaning closer to me. "You'd be pissed. You'd be even more mad than I am."

I grind my teeth together, so tempted to reach out and strangle him or slap him. Everything that Max and I do is intense and emotionally charged, and making it ten times worse is the anger that bubbles up within my core to think of him thinking of another girl—even someone that came before me—and to think that he'd waste any of his energy on her, no matter what the situation may be, when I'm the one who's his girlfriend. I'd personally rip out her breathing machine if that meant she'd just die so I could take my boyfriend home. Picturing Max, sitting anxiously in the waiting room, his mind with the girl wrapped in bandages with tubes down her throat instead of with me.... Jealousy is not a pretty emotion. "Fine. Yes. I'd be pissed."

His mouth curls in a smug little leer that makes me want to rip his lips off, just so he'll never be able to grin like that again. "Look at that. You can teach old dogs new tricks."

"So what? That doesn't fucking change the fact that I am the one in this situation. And it sucks, and you hate it and so do I. But that's just it, Max. I can't always give you happy and butterflies and sunshine and rainbows. If that's what you expected, then you chose the wrong fucking girl, and you'd better turn around, walk out that door, and never fucking look back."

"That would be the easy thing to do, Charlotte. But for some odd reason, which I sure as hell can't explain, I want to put up with all the pain and misery you're going to cause me if it means I get to be happy, at least some of the time, with you. You are so fucking insane that I think you're driving me crazy," he grinds out between his teeth, pulling back a little and softening his expression. "But at least we'll be in the loony bin together."

That may be the most wonderful thing I've ever heard in my life, even if it was incredibly, horribly backhanded. My anger starts to melt, even as I desperately try to cling to it. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Because I'm sticking by my decision, even though you hate it, and I won't apologize for that. But I'm sorry that this whole thing happened. I'm sorry that I didn't just turn my phone off so I never had to hear the news. I'm sorry that I had to drag you into this. I'm sorry that—"

Max's eyes flash before grabs me and pulls me toward him, his lips melding to mine and ending my speech. Initially I'm shocked, and I push against his chest to get him to stop. But he doesn't, so I channel my energy into kissing him back in a twisted attack of tongue and teeth, biting and sucking. He unbuttons my jeans, yanks them and my underwear down to my ankles, and pushes me back against the narrow ledge of the window. He shoves my thighs apart as far as they physically will go to the point where it's almost painful, considering that my ankles won't spread apart because of my pants. My feet aren't on the floor so I'm perched precariously on the edge in that position, unable to balance myself, and I'm sure I would have fallen or slipped if Max hadn't quickly unfastened his own pants just enough to release his dick and crash into my body.

My reaction is to scream in a mixture of wild pleasure, satisfaction, and confusion, but his mouth covers mine to quiet the loud groan I'm emitting. His fingers dig into my thighs as he pumps into me with reckless force. I'm lost in oblivion, to the point where I can't kiss back or move at all. I can't move any part of my body, for fear that I'll lose my balance. I curl my fingers around the window sill and try to keep myself from falling off as he moves in and out. Every time he pulls away, I feel even more like I'm going to slip off, and every time he drives back in, I get pushed farther toward the glass pane. He's the only reason I haven't yet hit the floor.

Since I've stopped kissing him, his mouth moves to my neck. I can feel his teeth biting and nipping over my voice box, making it difficult for me to release the primal chant repetitively spewing from my mouth, like I'm possessed and speaking in tongues. "Yes, Max. Uh, harder. Faster. Oh, yes. Max. Don't stop. Yes. Uh."

One of his hands lets go of my leg and moves between our meeting bodies, rubbing my clit in hard, fast circles. He's so close to finishing, and he wants to make sure that I am, too. "Come for me, baby," he whispers, demanding my physical response. "That's it. Come for me."

I can feel it starting in my core, building quickly, and almost instantly every one of my nerve endings explode and my body collapses into shudders. The scream that threatens to make the entire building shake only just barely escapes as a tiny moan by the time it reaches my lips.

Max groans as he finishes, thrown over the edge by my orgasm, and he leans against me, still inside me. With his weight pushing me against the cold window, I let go of the ledge and wrap my arms around his shoulders and neck. My fingers are painfully frozen in their clenched grip from holding onto the sill so hard. It's an uncomfortable position I find myself in, but I never want to move out of it. His face is buried against my neck and shoulder, and I feel his panting breath against my skin.

I don't know why I speak, because I don't want to ruin the moment. For some reason, though, I do. "You know this doesn't change anything, right? Nothing's fixed."

"I know," he replies, not moving his head from off my shoulder. "I know."

"I don't know what either of us can do to try and fix this. I don't know if it can be fixed, Max."

He pulls out of me and away, tucking himself back into his pants and then helping me as I pull my pants up from ankles and over my hips. "Let's worry about that in the morning, okay? Let's just get through tonight."

I nod, and Max stands besides me against the window. Our timing is impeccable. Now that we're dressed and out of our compromising position, a light knock comes from the door. The male nurse opens it and pokes his head. "Charlotte Bickley? We need to talk to you. About the patient."

fifty-three: no more

2009-11-07T21:30:00.002-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Not a Pretty Girl (cover)

When Max heads for the elevator, leaving Jordan, Kris, and I in the waiting lounge of the ICU, I try to tell myself that it's because he has a game. Over and over, that's what I say in my head, because I need to lie to myself. I know it's not true; I know that his departure has nothing to do with the fact that he has a game in the evening and everything to do with the fact that I am not leaving with him. But I don't want to think about that. I can't think about that.

This is the second time, the second time, he's hitting the road when I need the most. Last time, it was because he told me I needed to do it on my own. I still don't know if he was right in that instance. He was right about the fact that I could do it on my own, because I did. But this time.... Well, I guess I'm going to have to be strong enough to handle it on my own. I can't trust him; I can't depend on him or rely on him to be there to lean on. So I will just have to stand tall on my own and weather the storm. I don't have a choice. I have to.

"I'm sorry," Jordan says, disrupting my thoughts.

"I told you, it's not your fault." I reach out and rub his arm. "Accidents happen."

"Not... not about that," he replies. "I mean, I am still sorry about that. But, you know, Max...."

I nod. And that's when the finality of it all sinks in. It was different when I was the one trying to convince myself otherwise, but when Jordan expresses his sympathy, I can't deny it anymore. And that's when I start crying. Not because of John, but because of Max. Jordan wraps his arm around my shoulders, and Kris trots after Max.

It's foolish to rely on other people. To think that they can help you or somehow hold the key. Because people will only let you down. I was stupid to think that Max was different.

I take that back. I can't blame this on Max. He'd been wonderful up until this point. He put up with more than anyone else would have. Any other guy would have given up on me so long ago. Max stuck with me through a lot, but everyone has their limitations. I was asking too much of him. This was just the straw that broke the camel's back. This is all my fault; I've brought this all upon myself.

I likewise hug Jordan. He's upset because of John, and I'm upset because of Max. We're comforting each other for different reasons. I let myself mourn the death of my relationship for a few moments before I make myself stop crying. I swear to myself that I'll never cry over a man again. Men don't deserve it, any of them.

It's not like I wanted this; it was thrust upon me. Libby told the hospital to do it, since she wouldn't always be reachable. Her phone would have to be off while she was flying, and if something happened, someone needed to be there to make a decision, no matter if it was a good or bad thing. I wasn't even asked if I wanted to do it. When Dr. Ryan walked in and handed me the form, my gut reaction was to tell her no. But what else was I supposed to do? Practicing doctors can't make objective decisions about patients, so I couldn't just say, "Do whatever you think's best, doc," and leave. If that had been possible, Libby wouldn't have had to do this.

Libby, being the consummate optimist, decided that John would have the surgery to insert the metal rod into his thigh. She was so sure he was going to make it, and she knew that John would be mad if anyone had ever doubted his ability to make it through. As the operating room is being readied for his surgery, Jordan asks if he can go in and see him.

"I just can't believe this happened. I'm a good driver, and I've never been in any kind of accident, ever."

"Really? Not even a little fender bender?"

"No," he sighs, running a hand over his face. "I learned how to drive a tractor when I was seven. I'm a good driver," he repeats, more because he's trying to convince himself of it than because I'm doubting him.

"Even the best drivers—"

"I know, I know. Accidents happen."

I feel the worst for Jordan. Despite how this accident has affected my life, it's nothing in comparison to what Jordan's feeling and going through. He's being put through the wringer, worried about the consequences of his actions. Not just about how the media's going to tear him apart, analyze the situation, or even the legal and/or financial repercussions, but because a life hangs in the balance and he was the one behind the wheel. It's eating away at him, and he's guilt-ridden. I feel even worse because it's not like he hit the pope or anything. He hit John.

While he heads into John's room, I see Kris approaching. I'm glad that I won't be left alone yet, because my mind might wander and start thinking about how much fun it would be to unplug John's life support machines or smother him with a pillow. Except that since he's unconscious, he wouldn't know it was me killing him for fucking up my life when it was finally starting to get good and worth living again. No sense in going to hell if it wasn't worth it, and it would only be worth it if he knew it was coming. I take a seat on one of the uncomfortable couches. "I thought you were leaving," I say, tucking my legs underneath me.

He shakes his head as he sits beside me. "No. Heather's coming to get us."

"Then why did you leave with...?" I can't even say his name. I'm trying to put him out of my mind completely, and I refuse to even say his name. It's best not to talk about him or mention him.

"I just needed to talk to him. Or rather, just to talk some sense into him. He's acting like a coward, Charlotte—"

"No, Kris," I interrupt. "He's right. He's one-hundred percent right." Kris looks at me like I'm crazy. "It's more complicated than it seems—"

"I know," he cuts me off, rolling his eyes. "I heard him telling Flower about it. I mean, Marc—"

It's my turn to cut him off. "I know who you're talking about. It was unfair to ask him to stay. This isn't his problem."

"If he loves you, then he's supposed to make it his problem."

"No. He sees the situation through an outsider's eyes. He knows that John wasn't the nicest person to me, and he wants me to put as much distance between John and my past with regards to him and our present together. He wants that for me because he doesn't want me to have to hurt anymore. He wants that for me because he wants what's best for me. I totally get that. I mean, I know the reason behind the way he's acting. He wants to protect me, and I love him for that.

"But John's too unstable for me to leave. Anything could happen at any moment. If it wasn't so touch and go, then maybe I wouldn't need to be here. He's in critical condition. Maybe I should have explained that to him. If he were stable, it would be different.

"And I'm not doing this for John. Libby didn't even ask me. But I'm doing it for her. She's a sweetheart, not like her brother at all. It's only until she can get here. Once Libby shows up, I'm outta here. So fast. And it's not like I even want to go into his room either. I can't stand to be in the same room with him, even though he's unconscious. It sucks to say I hate him, when he's in this state.... I feel like I should forgive him or something. I don't want to, but I feel like I should. Because if he dies, I'll never get the closure I want. I want him to live and become someone else's problem, so I know he'll never bother me again.

"Max didn't live through what I lived through. It's not so easy for me to paint John as the enemy. I hate him, but does that make him evil? See, I just can't think like that when he's possibly dying in the other room. Call it Stockholm Syndrome, if you want to, but I can't leave him here, even though I want to. Not when I know he's alone. I mean, he's still alone, because I'm not in there with him, but...." I sigh, wondering how I can spill my guts to someone I barely know. "You know, you're really easy to talk to."

"If it helps, then I'm glad," Kris replies with a slight smile on his lips.

I laugh. "No, it doesn't really help. I just always keep going around in circles. Max.... Max is the only one that ever pointed me in the right direction, ya know? He didn't do it on purpose. In fact, he never even knew he was doing it, but it was like, just because he was there, I figured it out for myself. And now, well. I guess I have to figure it out on my own.

"But, it's for the best, I think. I mean, when you go from living for one person to living for another, you don't get to figure out what you want out of life, ya know? Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. It's about time I do things on my own."

"You shouldn't have to go through this alone. Regardless of how you feel about the man in the other room, this is not an easy thing to go through. Accidents like this, death, it shakes you to your core. It makes you question everything in your life. It's times like this that you need the people around you, especially the ones that mean the most to you."

I smile grimly at Kris. To be this wise about such a topic of discussion means that he's had his own experience. I feel bad for him for that. "I've been here before, when my dad died. I've done my questioning of God, so it's not like I'm in some existential meltdown. I just hate having to be in this situation at all."

"But Max should know that this isn't easy, no matter what the circumstances. He went through this with his mother."

"Wait. What?" Am I missing something here?

"His mother had breast cancer."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, she's in remission now. I think she's at the point where you can say she's 'cured.' But that's why I can't believe he's being so stubborn about this. He shouldn't be putting himself first."

"It's okay, Kris. I've put him through so much already. I've relied on him so much. Too much. When you put someone up on a pedestal, they're only going to let you down. And now it's time for me to step up the plate. I don't need him."

Before either of us can continue our conversation, Jordan comes back into the lounge and John's being wheeled to the operating room. While we wait for the procedure to be completed, I head outside and call Gina, just to let her know what's going on.

"I'm so glad you called me," she says. "I was worried sick without knowing what's going on."

I tell her everything about John, the accident, being appointed his medical proxy, and both Libby and my mother's plans to come to Pittsburgh. "Unless his medical state changes, I'll be here at the hospital until Libby gets here. I think one of the nurses said she made her flight arrangements, and she'll be here like at eight or something in the morning. So, I'll see you tomorrow. I need to get back inside."

"Wait. You're staying with John at the hospital?"

"Unless something changes. He's in surgery now, but the doctors still aren't sure if he'll make it. If he gets through the next twenty-four hours, then it's safe to say he'll make it. But in the meantime, we just have to wait and see, pretty much."

"So, you're staying there with him for the next twenty-four hours?"

"Listen," I yell, blowing up at her and totally snapping, unable to hold my emotions in. "I don't need this from you, too. I'm trying to do what I think is the right thing. I'm trying to be the better person. I don't need to hear this from you, too."

"Chill out for a second, Char. What do you mean, 'you, too'?" When I don't say anything, Gina comes to her own conclusions. "Max?"

"Yes, Max. He's mad at me, too, for staying here, so he just up and fucking left. So I don't need you making me feel worse. No one's happy about this situation. Not me, not Max, not you, and once my mom and Libby get here, they're not going to be happy either. I'm not asking for you to agree, or even for you to understand. I'm not asking for you to help me. All I ask is that you not make me feel even worse about this. If that's too much to ask for—"

"God, calm down, Char. I didn't say anything. I'm not trying to make you feel worse."

"I'm sorry," I cry, my emotions taking a one-hundred-eighty degree turn. This must be what it feels like to be insane. "I'm sorry, Gina, I didn't mean to freak out on you."

"Are you upset about John or Max here? What's going on that's got you acting like this?"

I take a few deeps breaths. I promised myself, no more crying. "Max did what he thought he needed to do. And I'm doing what I think I should I do. And we're either both right, or we're both wrong. Either way, Gina, we're over."

fifty-two: advice

2009-11-06T22:30:00.004-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Ne-Yo, Go On Girl

Charlotte lets go, her arm falling limply at her side. She doesn't say anything further, and neither do I. I head for the elevator, and when I step in and turn around to press the ground floor button, Tanger trots in after me, and I watch as Staalsy and Charlotte embrace and comfort each other as the doors close.

"You're an idiot," he says.

I glare at him. "Shut your mouth before I shut it for you."

"I can't believe you're walking away and leaving her at at time like this."

"You don't know the circumstances," I mutter. He doesn't know that John isn't Charlotte's friend. He doesn't know how I've been competing with him to win first place in her heart, and especially that nothing I do will ever make me her top priority. I don't like coming in second.

"I know more than you think. I told you, I overhead your conversation with Marc. I know who John is. I know all about the situation." I give him a puzzled look as he shakes his head. "Just because you speak in French doesn't mean everyone won't understand. You two aren't the only French-Canadians on the team."

"Then you know everything I've had to tolerate. I let her set the terms and the pace, and I was patient and understanding and always tried to be sweet and do the right thing for her. To show her that I'm not her ex, that I care about her more than anything or anyone else. At some point, though, she needs to return the favor. She needs to show me that she cares about me."

"She said she loves you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"She says a lot of things. Like how she's over him. But she's still willing to put her life on hold for him, despite everything he's put her through. She doesn't want to be happy with me. She wants to be miserable with him."

"Charlotte needs you right now. She doesn't want this, Max, but she doesn't see an alternative."

"They have her phone number. They can call if they need anything. She doesn't need to be here. And what about what I need? I need my girlfriend to act like my girlfriend and not someone else's."

"She isn't acting like his girlfriend. She's his medical proxy! She needs to be here! You're acting like a selfish ass right now, Max."

"Well, apparently Charlotte responds to that. Maybe now she might pay some attention to me and care about how I feel."

"He might die!"

"He might live!" I yell back. "And then what? If he wakes up and asks her to stay, what will she do?"

"I don't know. And neither do you. That's what has you so worried. You should go back up there and talk to her."

"He should have just died on impact," I grumble, wiping my face with my hand. I don't like that I feel this way and I'm not proud of it, but if John had just died, none of this would be happening. If he were dead, this would be over.

"What? You would have preferred if Staal had killed him? If he had to live with that for the rest of his life?"

"No! But if anyone deserves to die, it's John."

The doors to the elevator open, and Tanger steps out ahead of me. "You're unbelievable. No one ever deserves to die. Life is precious."

I realize my error. "This isn't like Luc, Kris—"

"You're right. And this isn't about John. It's about you and Charlotte, and the big mistake you're about to make, if you leave now."

Holding my hands out at my sides, I look down at myself before looking him in the eyes again. "What have you been telling me this whole time? I was just going to fuck this up. Well, I guess you were right!"

"You idiot!" He hollers back. Neither of us pay any mind to the fact that we're in the lobby of the hospital. "I didn't mean any of that! You needed a kick in the pants so you wouldn't screw it up."

"That is ridiculous and asinine," I tell him, rolling my eyes. "You never helped. All you did was piss me off."

"But it worked, didn't it?"

I pause. "I didn't need your mind games then, and I don't need them now."

"Apparently, you do, because you're about to screw it all up. You're blind. This isn't easy for her. She doesn't like this any more than you do, and she needs you to support her."

"Well, I can't. I can't support her when the simplest solution is for her to tell them 'no' and leave, but she just won't do that."

"It's not as easy as that."

"Well, it should be." I jingle my keys in my hand. "You can walk home, for all I care."

"Real mature, Max. Just because I disagree with you, you'd leave me here. Nice. Well, you don't have to worry about me, because I'm not leaving. But go ahead and run away when things get hard. Way to be a man. If you can't be here when Charlotte needs you, if you're going to quit on her, then you don't deserve her."

I don't answer as I walk away and head for the door. He's wrong. This isn't about being strong. This is about recognizing when the situation is hopeless. I can't do it anymore; I keep giving her my everything, thinking that it's going to be enough. But it isn't, so it's time to learn my lesson. Insanity is defined as performing the same action repeatedly and expecting different results. It's about time that I realize that all my loving isn't going to make a difference.

At some point during the game against the Rangers, I have a breakthrough. It's funny how I had chastised myself lately for not trying the "relationship" thing sooner, because I had been enjoying the perks so much. Looks like I was playing the fool, though, because I had it right the first time around. Relationships aren't worth it. Why risk your heart, when it's just going to get broken?

No, the single life is the way to be. If you don't give away your heart, it won't get hurt. I am hurting. It feels like my heart was run over with a car, too.

Even though we lose the game, we're going out. "Where's the party at tonight, boys?" I ask, lifting my shoulder pads over my head.

Flower gives me a funny look. "Why do you want to go out? You hardly ever go out anymore."

"Why do I need a reason? I swear, everyone's a psychiatrist nowadays. I'm just looking for a good time. Are you guys going out to Diesel, or what?"

Geno nods. "Yes, come out! These guys lame. You, Max. You party."

"That's what I like to hear!"

The media pours into the dressing room, and the Kid, of course, gets mauled in the stall next to mine. I'm used to how the reporters encroach into my space, but it's even worse today when Tim Benz starts asking him about Staal and Letang, what happened, and when they're going to return and play again. At that point, I shed the rest of my pads and head for the showers, and I stay there until I know every last one of the cameras and microphones is gone.

The rest of the guys are gone at this point—even the Kid. I enjoy the silence as I slip into my boxers and dress pants; that is, until I begin to hear noises behind me. "What are you doing here?" I ask as I pull on my dress shirt.

"I promised you bodily harm if you hurt my friend," Gina says, holding one of Sid's hockey sticks in her hand. Her threat doesn't scare me, but what really strikes me as hilarious is that the Kid would flip out if he knew someone was touching his taped stick. Flip out. "Char's hurting, and now you are going to, too."

"Gina, you've got it all wrong. She may be hurting, but it was not of my doing."

"You're being a fucking douche bag. I know better than most people how frustrating she can be. I don't like that she's spending the night at the hospital, but telling her that it's wrong isn't helping anything. She's trying to be the bigger person here and do the right thing."

"It's not the right thing. Not after the way he's treated her. Not after all the times he's made her cry. She should not be doing anything to help him out. I don't care if he's seconds from death!"

"It's not a black-and-white thing, where you can say what's right and what's wrong. What she should do or what she shouldn't do. Life is full of these shitty situations. If you cared at all about Char, you would just let her make her own decisions and love her through them."

"Even though I know it's a mistake?"

"Especially when you know it's a mistake. Charlotte is far from perfect. She's never going to be the person you want her to be or do the things you want her to do. But if you truly love her, Max, you will let her do what she thinks she needs to."

"I love her, Gina," I admit, shaking my head as I fumble with my tie. "Never doubt that. But I can't be a part of this."

"Well, I hope you change your mind, because she needs you even more than ever now. Now she's acting all proud like she can handle it on her own. But once her mother and John's sister show up tomorrow, she's going to be a wreck. You can think about it while you ice your knee," she adds, raising the stick in her hand over her head.

I catch it easily as she brings it down, and neither of us are any worse for wear when I rip it out of her hands. "Gina, no offense, but I'm a hockey player. I'm tougher than you think. Hitting me with a stick isn't going to hurt me."

"Then I'll think of something else," she assures me as she heads for the door. "You have no idea what you've done, and if you don't fix it, I will make you pay."

fifty-one: broken bones and broken hearts

2009-11-05T21:00:00.007-05:00

I loved all of your various reactions: the good, the bad, and the surprising. You're amazing.

Soundtrack Song - The Weepies, Living in Twilight

"Car accident?" I ask. He needs to be a bit more specific.

"Yeah," he replies. "Tanger and I were going out for lunch, for our pre-game meal. We left the Mellon and headed for Morton's, and we were stuck behind this Hummer. Couldn't see a thing. We turned onto Fifth Ave and next thing I know my head's smashed against the steering wheel." He points to the sutures on his face. "Tanger hurt his hand or wrist or something when he braced himself against the dashboard, but he's gonna be fine, too. But as for the guy.... I never even saw him." Staalsy shakes his head, clearly shaken up and worried. "The doctors won't tell me anything. But what if he dies? What if I... killed him?"

"Stop." Charlotte's voice is barely audible. She's made the connection; there are too many parallels for this not to be the same accident. What are the odds? What are the fucking odds?

The nurse that has lead us up until this point shifts her weight and interrupts. "I'm sorry, but I can only allow one person in at a time."

I squeeze Charlotte's hand before letting go completely, but she doesn't immediately release her grip on mine. She's scared and worried; I know that. And I feel responsible. I said it—I put it out there into the universe, and it happened. This isn't what I meant. I wanted him to go away and stop messing with the good thing I had, and now he's fucking it all up again.

She finally untangles her fingers from mine and heads into the room. A doctor follows her in a moment later. I forgot all about Staalsy until he speaks up. "Wait a second. What are you doing here? It's not because of me."

Tanger appears, and his left wrist is wrapped. The first thought that pops into my head is What is it with our defense hurting their wrists? Our pp is going to suck even more now. "Did someone tell you to come pick us up?" he asks, puzzled by my presence.

Shaking my head, I them them what I've pieced together so far. "You guys hit Charlotte's...." How do I explain this to them? I can't say friend, because that's a lie. If I say ex, they're going to wonder why she's here and involved. "You hit someone that Charlotte knows."

Gronk nods and then shakes his head, too. "Small world, eh? Is he going to be okay? They won't tell me anything, and I need to know. I can't believe I'm responsible for this."

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, and he's taking this especially hard. Not that he shouldn't, but it honestly seems like it was a true accident. It sucks the way the world works. "I'm sorry, man, but it sounds like it's bad. We'll know when Charlotte tells us."

He hears that and plops down in a chair, impatient to hear that John's going to be okay. He wants some of the guilt to dissipate and fade away because it's weighing on his chest like a cinder block. Tanger and I sit on either side of him, and I wait for the news, too, so Charlotte and I can go home and pick up where we left off.
______________________________________________________

The doctor drones on. I try to concentrate on her, and I don't even look at the unmoving body on the bed. Something about broken femurs. Intrameduallary rods. How surgery should be preformed right away, but it might not be necessary. Because he might not make it. Severe head trauma. Fifty-fifty chance.

Should they wait and see if he should have the rod inserted, or proceed as if he's expected to pull through?

"I'll give you his sister's number. She's family, and that's who needs to make these decisions," I tell her, pulling out my cell phone. The doctor gives me an evil look, because I shouldn't have my phone on in the hospital, but how else am I supposed to give them contact information? "She'll be able to give you more details about his medical history anyway."

I press the number five button and scroll through the L's, looking for her name, but it doesn't manifest itself. Then it hits me. Oh yeah. I broke my phone a while back and lost all my old contacts. I can still get them this information, but it's going to cost me dearly. Only one other person I know has her phone number: Mommie Dearest.

"I'm afraid I don't have it on me. Um, I'll have to make a call and get you her number."

The doctor points toward the phone in his room. She instructs, "Please use the land line. Just dial nine first."

I nod, dial nine, and then punch in my old phone number. If and/or when John pulls through, he owes me. The things I do for him. "Hello?" my mother answers.

"Mom. I need Libby's number please."

"Charlotte?"

I roll my eyes. She has two daughters, and we sound nothing alike. She very well knows who I am. "Yes. I really hate to be a pain, but I can't talk. I really just need her number. Now."

"You want me to do you favors, after the way you talked to me on Thanksgiving?"

"Mother," I say, grinding my teeth together. I know she hates when I call her that, but I'm losing my temper. "I'm sorry if what I said upset you, but I meant it when I said that I don't need you to interfere with my love life. This is a time-sensitive matter. Please, can you give me Libby's number?"

"Whatever could you need it for? Don't you have it?"

This is painful. She's really giving me a headache. "I lost it, and I'm trying to send out my Christmas cards," I spit out sarcastically. "Does it matter? I just need it."

"Where are you calling from?" she asks.

"The hospital," I finally cave and admit. "John was run over my boyfriend's friend, and I need to give the doctors Libby's contact information."

"Oh, very funny, Charlotte. You know, you could just try telling the truth for once." She rattles off the phone number that sounds familiar now that I hear it again.

I copy it down and hand it to the awaiting doctor, who then leaves the room to notify Libby of the situation. "Thank you, Mom," I say, just as a code is being paged in the ICU.

"Wait," she pauses. "Are you seriously calling from the hospital?"

Rolling my eyes, I wish she didn't pick now to actually believe me. "Yes."

"And it's... John?"

I pause before whispering, "Yes."

"If he can't talk, it must be bad. Is it bad?" I don't respond to her question. "I'm coming."

"Mom...." How do I tell her not to come?

"He was like a son to me, Charlotte. And he doesn't have a living mother to worry about him. No matter what's going on between you two, it's just like if you were in the hospital, or Caroline or her husband. I want to be there."

"But you aren't family. Neither am I. We aren't responsible for him, and there's nothing you can do for him."

"You may feel that way, Charlotte, but I do not. Maybe it's because I'm a mother. Besides, it gives me an excuse to see you. You haven't invited me out to visit you since you moved."

No. No no no. Things aren't supposed to be happening this way. John was supposed to disappear, my mother was supposed to stop interfering, and Max and I were supposed to put all this behind us and be happy together forever and ever. Why isn't my life going the way I want it to?

Life isn't supposed to work this way. My life is not a soap opera; so why all of a sudden has it turned into an episode of General Hospital?

The doctor walks back in with a form for me to sign. I tell my mother that I have to go, that the doctor needs to talk to me. She promises to call me when she arrives in Pittsburgh tomorrow. I don't tell her that tomorrow may be too late; instead I hang up and give my attention to Dr. Ryan.
______________________________________________________

She walks back out, eyes still wide and blank. Emotionless. "Hey, baby. What did they tell you?"

Charlotte looks at me, and her eyes are unfocused, so I don't think she actually sees me when she faces me. "Want the good news or the bad news first?"

I look at Jordan, who's impatient for any word. I tell her, "Bad news first."

"He's touch and go. Fifty-fifty. I'm sorry, Jordan," she replies.

"No. I'm sorry," he counters, choking on his words. "I hope your friend.... I hope he makes it." He looks down at his hands.

She shakes her head. "Jord, it was an accident. It's not like you chased him down. It just... happened. And it sucks that it did, but we have to play our cards as they're dealt."

Jordan nods. It seems weird to me that Charlotte's consoling Jordan. "And the good news?" I ask.

"My mom's coming to town tomorrow. If you were serious about wanting to meet her," she sighs, taking a breath and rubbing her eyes with her palms, "I guess you're gonna get the chance."

I can't tell if she's crying or just tired or really worried or frustrated. Either way, I don't think she wants the guys to see her like that, and that's why she's trying to hide her face. I stand up and pull her into me, almost expecting to feel her body shake but that doesn't happen. Charlotte instead leans into me and takes a deep breath. "She's coming here because of him, isn't she?" I feel her head bob. "Well, it's not under the best of circumstances, but I'm very excited to meet her."

"Really?" she asks, sounding shocked.

The guys are looking at me funny, too. "Of course. I told you so before. She's going to love me." She giggles a little. My chest feels light, knowing that she can laugh at a time like this. "So, you've told them everything you needed to? We can leave now?"

"I can't leave, Max," she says quietly, so Tanger and Staalsy can't hear. "Libby named me his medical proxy until she can get here. In case... decisions need to be made while she's traveling."

I clear my throat. I can't fucking believe it. She has to take care of him? Once again, he is defining and dictating how she lives her life. He's not even fucking conscious right now, and he's still involved. I hope I'm wrong. "What?"

"I know. I know, you don't have to say it," she says, reading my mind. "I don't like it. I don't want to do it. But it's just until his sister gets here tomorrow. He doesn't have anyone else to do this. He needs me."

"I need you," I tell her.

"Just until tomorrow, Max."

It's like something snaps. "I can't believe you're choosing him over me."

"I'm not," Charlotte adamantly denies, looking me square in the eye. This is the first time she starts to tear up. "I love you. I want you. I don't want him, and I don't want to do this. I don't really have a choice right now."

"Yes, you do. Tell them no, that you're not doing it. You're not responsible for him. You don't owe him anything, remember?"

"If I do this, and he makes it through, then that's it. He'll owe me. I'll feel guilty if I leave him here alone, if he dies.... Don't ask me to put myself through that."

I still can't believe it. Don't ask me to put myself through that.... But what about what she's putting me through? Huh? I love her. I gave her my heart. And she doesn't care. I'll always play second fiddle to another guy. Worse of all, he was an ass, and I've done everything I could to give her the world. Give her my world. What else do I have to do? I don't think there's anything else that I can do at this point. "Fine. I won't ask you to." She's made her decision, and I'm making mine. I pull away completely, ready to leave the lounge, the hospital. I'm out of here.

"Wait," she begs, grabbing a fistful of my sweatshirt. "Where are you going?"

"Home. If you guys need a ride, I'll drive you," I say, looking at Staalsy and Tanger. But they don't want to make eye contact with me.

"Can't you stay?"

"It's a game day, and with these two guys having to sit out, I need to focus."

"Five minutes?" She can barely eke out those two words. I know she's upset, but I doubt that it's anything like what I'm feeling right now.

I shake my head, knowing that I won't be able to speak either. I can't stay here; I can't be here for this; and I can't watch the girl I love rededicate herself to the well-being of the guy that treated her so badly.

fifty: hold that thought

2009-11-04T22:38:00.005-05:00

Can I just say: wow. Fifty. I can't believe it that I've hit this number already. Also, it's been too long since I've thanked you all, my wonderfully devoted readers, for your day-brightening comments and overwhelming support. You mean more than the world to me. You are the Max to my Charlotte. :)

The morning skate is optional, and he insists that he didn't need to go. He said he needed the morning to rest when there are back-to-back games, especially when there's travel involved between the games. I knew it was a crock of shit, because there wouldn't be any resting going on once I got to his house, but I didn't exactly have plans to rest either.

When I finally make it there and walk up to his door, I poise my hand to knock. Instead of my closed fist meeting the wooden door, though, it flies open and his hand wraps around my raised wrist, dragging me in from the cold.

"Mon Dieu, I missed you," he says, slamming the door shut and pinning me against the wall.

"I missed you, too, Maxime," I barely eke out before his lips crash down on mine. I'm overwhelmed by all the sudden sensations. Our tongues playing a game of tug of war as each fights for dominance. His thigh pressing against the vee between my legs, likewise pressing his hard-on against my hip. His hands furiously trying to unzip my jacket and disrobe me.

"I don't think you understand. You've turned me into some lovesick sap," he clarifies, whispering his words as he kisses across my cheek to my ear.

I arch my back and grind against his leg. My head is hazy and fuzzy. "Make me understand," I half-tease, half-beg.

His fingers tangle themselves in my hair, and he grabs and pulls gently but firmly so I'm forced to lean my head back and expose my neck to him. "Gladly," he quips, and he attacks my neck like a vampire hungry for its next feeding. His face is just the right amount of scruffy, and every time he moves his mouth, my nerve endings ignite.

Two days ago. The last time we had sex was merely two days ago, but right now it feels like two months or two decades.

I want to rip off every stitch of his clothing, push him down to the floor, and jump on top of him, but all I can do is stand still and focus on remembering how to breathe while he nips and sucks on the thin flesh of my neck. I reach out and realize he's not wearing a shirt. That makes me smile, because he's saving me the work of pulling it over his head.

My nails dig into his shoulders and scratch downward. Max hisses as I palm his nipples. When he speaks, his breath hits the wet spot he left on my neck, sending shivers down my spine to that spot between my legs. "I can't wait. Please tell me you're ready."

"Yes. Ready," I answer breathlessly.

Max roughly unbuttons my jeans and shoves a hand into my panties. "Charlotte. You're so fucking wet. Do you walk around like this? Damn."

"I told you," I gasp, wishing I didn't have to speak. I want to concentrate on other things. More important things. None of which require talking. "Always ready for you."

He slides his fingers around, never staying in the same place long enough for me to find any satisfaction. I'm torn between needing him inside of me and just needing to get off, and in the end my desperation wins out. I place my hand both over my jeans and over his hand, trying to put his fingers where I want them. Trying to add pressure and consistency to his movements. Trying to get what I want.

"Don't I do it for you anymore?" he asks, resisting my attempts at giving him physical directions. His hand slows down until it isn't moving at all. "Don't I know how to please you anymore?"

I whimper with total frustration. I just moan and wiggle, unable to form words. Instead, I try to move my body against his hand, since the alternative isn't working.

"Charlotte," he grunts.

"Ugh," I groan. "Just. Please. Max."

"Look at me," he says.

I realize that my eyes are pinched shut. It's like the sensation of touch was so overwhelming, every other sense needed to turn off. No tasting, no smelling, and no seeing. Slowly, I pry them open and do as he commands. Max is peering back at me, with more than lust in those deep blue eyes and something other than love. It gives me chills for another reason.

Wordlessly, Max conveys that he needs me. Not just physically, although that's also true. No, I feel like he's telling me that he needs me emotionally. He's giving me a piece of his heart for safe-keeping, and I'll gladly hold onto it and protect it always. I like knowing that he's in this like I am: over our heads, out to sea, completely and totally hopeless. I've made the leap, and he has, too. Knowing that just rekindles the flames, burning like a wild fire.

I can't wait anymore. I grab at his cotton knit pants and yank them downward until gravity takes over. Max is pushing my jeans over my hips with his free hand when my pocket begins to ring. I fully intend to ignore it, but he suggests I at least check the caller I.D. "It could be important. You don't have to answer, just look."

"Whoever it is calling me right now had better have a damn good reason. Someone better be dead. Or dying. Or just won the lottery," I mutter, reaching into the depths of my pocket. "It's Gina," I tell him. I left her half an hour ago.

He raises his eyebrows. "She knew you were coming here, right?"

"Yeah." I'm worried. Gina wouldn't be calling right now if something wasn't seriously wrong. I know that for sure, and Max knows that, too, but neither of us are happy about the interruption. "Hold that thought," I tell him, as he pulls his hand out of my panties and then sticks his fingers in his mouth. I feel like I could orgasm from that visual alone, and now I'm beyond agitated at the disruption. I press the accept call button and answer. "G—"

"I know. I'm sorry. But, Char," she whispers, "the cops are here looking for you."

That causes me to hesitate. "Say what?"

"There's a uniformed police officer in our living room, sitting on our couch. He won't tell me anything, just that he needs to speak with Charlotte Bickley in apartment number thirty-one, building—"

I cut her off as she rattles off our address. "Okay, I get it. Am I in trouble? Am I going to be arrested?" I rack my brain for memories of anything illegal I may have done. Nothing comes to mind, but maybe I'm caught on camera jay-walking? Or haven't paid the fines for overdue library books?

Max scrunches his eyebrows together inquisitively. I shake my head at him, not knowing what's going on yet. "I don't know, Char. He won't tell me anything." I hear as she holds the mouthpiece away from her. "Do you have an arrest warrant?"

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I just need to speak with Ms. Bickley."

"Can he talk to me over the phone?" I ask Gina, my heart pounding in my chest. I'm stricken with worry.

Gina doesn't acknowledge that she heard me, but she repeats my question to him. I don't hear a response until a male's voice comes through the ear piece. "I'm not supposed to do this. I should be speaking to you in person, but I'm worried there's not enough time. There's been an accident."

"An accident?" I repeat, giving Max more cause to worry. "What kind of accident?"

"A car accident. A Mr. Johnathan Witters. Unfortunately, we can't find any immediate next of kin, but we found a piece of paper on his person with your name and address. Any information you could provide us with would be helpful and appreciated. His condition is pretty dire."

John. Was in an accident. It sounds bad. "What do you need to know?"

"It would be best if you could go to the hospital and talk to the doctors, ma'am. He's been taken to UPMC Mercy. They need to know any medical information you may know, and also any contact information for his family. Ms. Bickley, I have to tell you that this is urgent. It doesn't look good for him."

"I'll get there as soon as possible," I tell him.

"Ma'am," he interrupts before I can hang up. "Can you tell me his blood type? He needs a transfusion."

"He's type A positive," I say, slightly amazed that I still know that. I hang up the phone and immediately pull my pants back up.

"Baby, what is it?" Max asks. I had almost forgotten all about him, because he had stayed silent. As soon as I heard the news, I got tunnel-vision and blocked out everything else. "Is it bad? Is it serious?"

I clear my throat. I'm not overly upset, but I feel like I'm in shock. I don't know how to react, but I do know that I need to help. "John's been in an accident. A car accident. It's bad, apparently, and they need me to go to the hospital now."

"Why?" he asks, but he pulls his pants up and looks in his living room for a shirt. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have swooned at how he unquestioningly followed my lead. "Why do they need you? Why do you need to go?"

"There's no one else," I told him, closing my jacket around myself in preparation to bear the cold again, and Max pulled a hoodie over his head and grabbed his car keys. His erection is still visible, but it doesn't register in my mind as he pulls the sweatshirt down to hide it. "No next of kin. His sister lives up in Toronto. They found my name and address. Max, he said it's urgent. That it doesn't look good."

We walk briskly to the car, and I tell him the hospital. He knows where it is, and we drive in silence until he meekly asks, "You said a car accident? Was it... a bus?"

I recall what Max said just a few days ago. I said that I hoped John would disappear, and he said he wished he would get hit by a bus. Could it be? Could he have gotten what he asked for? "Uh, he didn't say," I reply, looking out the window as we pull up to the hospital.

"I'm just going to drop you off, find a parking spot, and meet you somewhere inside, okay?"

"Okay," I say, throwing open the door and stepping out. I feel the need to hurry, because I don't know what's going on and I need to get answers. Before I close the door behind me, I turn around and duck my head down. "I love you, Maxime," I say, trying to be reassuring. I may not know what's going on, what all the circumstances are of this situation, but I am well aware that my new boyfriend just drove me to the hospital so I can take care of my ex. I can't believe this is happening.

"I love you, baby. Go."

I close the door and jog into the lobby of the emergency room. Looking around, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. I approach the front desk and drum my fingers against the ledge as I wait for the nurse or receptionist or whoever to notice me. She looks at me with caution, and I know I must look wild. "Can I help you?" she finally asks.

"Um, I was told that Johnathan Witters was brought here, and you guys need some information? I'm afraid I don't know much else other than that," I spew.

She nods and grabs a file. "Are you related to him?"

"No, but his only family is a sister up in Canada."

"So, you're a friend?"

No. "Yes."

She hands me a few forms. "We're in the process of trying to get his medical records, but unfortunately we're having some problems with getting a hold of his general practitioner back in Chicago. We were alerted with his blood type, but we especially need to know if he has an allergies so we can begin treatment—"

"Cipro," I say.

She nods. "And any other recent surgeries or procedures?"

I close my eyes and probe my brain. "Um, appendectomy around Christmas of... 2007. He broke his ankle in July of 2008. Can you tell me what happened? I know car accident, but was he in a car, too?"

"According to eye witness accounts, he twisted his ankle and fell in a cross walk, and a car was turning and didn't see him. We can take you to see him, as soon as you fill out as much of those forms as you can."

Taking an empty seat in the noisy lounge, I write with a shaking hand. Name, address, preexisting conditions, current medications, medical history, his doctor back home.... I fill out what I know, but leave most of it blank.

At some point, I realize Max had walked in and found me. He's sitting beside me quietly. When I finish the paperwork, I grab his hand and bring him to the counter with me. The nurse accepts the clipboard and has someone escort us back. "It wasn't a bus," I tell Max as we are lead toward the ICU. He nods, but it doesn't seem to ease his mood.

After taking the elevator and heading through another lounge, I can hear the cacophony of machines beeping, doctors speaking in hushed tones, and families crying. Before we reach John's room, someone behind us calls, "Talbo!"

The voice sounds familiar, but I can't immediately place it due to my current mental state. But I do know that not just anybody calls him that. "Staalsy?" Max asks, turning around.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "It's nice that you care, but no one else showed up."

"What are you talking about?" Max questions.

I notice Jordan has stitches across his forehead as he explains. "Car accident."

forty-nine: leap first; look later

2009-11-03T20:15:00.000-05:00

"Okay. Your man is gone now, so spill." I walk back into the living room and see that Gina is putting the kettle on the stove, ready to make steaming cups of green tea for our up-coming gab session. She looks at me and waits for me to begin gushing.

Kevin still looks a little star-struck. "Max Talbot is your boyfriend?" he asks, ignoring the direction his girlfriend wishes to take the conversation.

For a second, I pause; Max and I haven't discussed titles since making The Big Declarations, but I guess it's safe to assume we've crossed that particular bridge. I nod. "Yeah."

Gina rolls her eyes. "Kevin, do I detect a man-crush?"

"I put off graduation so I could still do student rush! My family's been on the waiting list for season tickets for, like, forever. That was Max fucking Talbot, the scorer of the game-winner for game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals!"

"Way to be cool about it, Kev," she laughs. "So, Char, are you going to tell me voluntarily or are you going to make me beat it out of your?"

I look at Kevin and then back at her. "Later, Gina."

"Okay, Kev, out!" she orders.

"What? I thought I was going to spend the night."

"Ugh, I've seen you all day. I need some girl time."

"But we were going to—"

"I know what I said, but obviously something has come up. Chicks before dicks."

"But—"

"Just meet me in the stacks half an hour before class tomorrow. Will that make up for tonight?"

Kevin nods, and Gina kisses him before he heads out the door. I can only smile. It's obvious that Gina wears the pants in that relationship, but she wouldn't want it any other way. She's blunt and forceful, and she needs someone who is willing to take orders. But she has a heart of gold.

Once the door clicks shut, I get up and slide the deadbolt into the locked position. It bothers me a little to know that John knows where I live, but I highly and sincerely doubt that he'll be showing up again. He said he came to town early and his meeting wasn't until Monday, and I hate knowing he's somewhere in the same city as me. I hate that he knows how to find me. I kick myself and think that I should've asked to go home with Max, where I'd feel safe.

That thought makes me happy and sad at the same time. It's a good thing my therapist is here, because I need this talk. I have so much to tell her. "Okay," I begin. "I'm going to give you the CliffsNotes version. On Tuesday, I was cooking dinner for Max and he didn't seem to care, and we started to fight. I accidentally called him John. I felt horrible about it, and then we had this unbelievable make-up sex that literally left me weak at the knees. It was just...." I have to take a deep breath and calm my racing heart. Just the memory of it affects me.

I continue, "So anyway, I thought everything was okay until Wednesday, yesterday, he told me that we needed to talk. He wanted to hear about John and that whole thing."

"Wait, I thought you told him about that already?"

"Um, well, I pretty much only told him I had an awful ex, and didn't go into the details. Needless to say, he was pretty adamant about wanting to know the whole truth, and I told him everything last night. He was so sweet about it, Gina. I mean, I can't even tell you. He listened, and he didn't bother with the token phrases of sympathy. He was just... there. He always says the perfect things, but it's like he knows when words aren't going to help, either.

"This morning, we were just relaxing in bed when I opened my big mouth again and told him I loved him! I didn't even realize that I had felt that way before I said it. I said it, and then realized I felt that way after the fact. It was so bizarre, and I was so embarrassed, but he was so good about it and basically told me that he did, too, but he wanted to wait for the right moment to say it.

"And then," I continue, as Gina looks at me in wonderment that my story is not yet finished, "you'll never guess what happened. I mean you'd never guess in a million billion years—"

"So just tell me!" she interrupts, her eyes as wide as saucers.

"John shows up at the door." Gina's mouth drops to the floor. "To visit me for Thanksgiving, because he felt bad I was alone."

"How?"

I smile grimly. "Mommie Dearest thought she was doing me a favor. I don't know whose idea it ultimately was, but they were in cahoots. I thought Max was going to pound him through the floor. And then, he left, telling me I needed to handle the situation on my own. So it was me and John, and he pulled the bipolar, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act that I'm all too familiar with, and, well, I don't need to go into specifics. But he left all pissed off, so I think it's done with and he's gone forever. Finally."

"Jesus Christ, woman!"

"Oh! And I forgot. After that, Max comes back, tells me he loves me and that his mother wants to meet me."

"Is that all?" she asks sarcastically.

I close my eyes and think. "Yeah, that's all."

"Damn," she says and then pauses. "I don't even know what to say."

That makes me laugh. Gina always has a comment. "It has just been a crazy couple of days. I'm glad Max isn't going to be around tomorrow, because I just feel like I need to process everything and soak it in. It's been nonstop, emotional insanity, and it feels so surreal." I turn serious for a moment. "Gina, do you think this is happening too fast?"

"Where is this coming from?" She leans forward and looks at me curiously.

"I don't know. You know me, G, and you know that I jump into things head first. I tend to get carried away and take it to the extreme. Am I doing that now? Am I leaping without looking?"

"I don't know, Char. My guess is that you aren't, seeing as though you're thinking about it and analyzing it instead of skipping around the room and spouting poetry. I think you're too far gone, though, to worry about it. You're so in love."

I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile. "He's so amazing! It was just so weird, when he said about meeting his mom. I mean, I talked to my mother this morning and didn't even bring him up. I purposely didn't mention seeing anyone new. Does that make me a bad person?"

"Char, darling. Stop it. I love you enough to tell you that you're being ridiculous. You're in love. Just enjoy it, and worry about that when it comes up."

"It is going to come up, and soon. Christmas is a month away. We haven't talked about it. My mother is going to expect me to go home, especially since I stayed away for Thanksgiving. I can't imagine bringing him to Chicago."

"Just don't worry about it yet. Talk it over with him. You guys will find a solution."
______________________________________________________

Hockey players like keeping to specific schedules. Every game day should have the same pattern. Because yesterday was an American holiday, we all had an off day. That meant we were flying that morning for the game against the Islanders. It wasn't a long flight, but it messed with our schedules and routines. That's why we lost.

But we were also flying back right after the game, since we host the Rangers the next night. We're all tired and stressed. I sink into my seat on the plane and stretch my tired muscles.

"You going out when we get back, Talbo?" Staalsy asks, sitting in a seat behind me while Flower takes the one beside me.

"No," I reply, shaking my head.

"What? Why?"

I shrug. I hadn't even thought about going out. All I want to do is get back to Pittsburgh, drive home, and sleep in my bed because I know Charlotte's coming over in the morning. It's bad enough I've been thinking about her every moment I haven't had blades laced to my feet, but I'll probably dream about her all night. We've barely been away from each other for over twenty-four hours.

Merde. I've turned into the guy I used to make fun of.

"Is your shoulder bothering you?" Flower asks, and I roll my joint and shake my head wordlessly.

"It's not a painful shoulder. It's a lonesome heart," Tanger quips, taking the seat next to Gronk.

"Non. It's not lonesome; I left it back in Pittsburgh," I reply, opening the window and peering out at the orange lights dotting the runway. Some of the guys are still boarding, but I wish they'd hurry so we could get into the air.

"I'm happy for you, mon ami," Flower says with a smile as he plugs his ears with his iPod, closing his eyes and relaxing.

It's quiet for a few more moments. I turn around and look at Letang. "What? No smart comment? No wisecrack about how I'm going to fuck it up?"

He smiles back, and it's genuine. "No."

"No? Have you finally run out of things to say?"

"Listen. I can be a big enough person to say now that I'm sorry." He runs a hand through his hair and looks at the floor. "I heard what you told Flower, over lunch. I thought.... I mean, I didn't realize. Please accept my apology."

Tanger is... apologizing? I can't even remember what I said during lunch. Now I'm even more confused than ever. I nod at him, and then I turn back around and sink back into my seat. The plane begins to taxi away from the gate, and I watch out the window at the moving lights.

forty-eight: mother knows best

2009-11-02T23:45:00.004-05:00

1.) I detest shameless self-promotion, but... A Sharp Contrast, which may or may not interest you. PP is still my priority, but I had to get the idea out before my head exploded.
2.) For the sake of simplicity, it should be understood that he obviously is speaking in French when his speech is totally in italics.

My first real American Thanksgiving turned out to be quite an experience. It was filled with drama and lust. The food was mediocre at best, but the company during dinner was stellar.

After we ate, we curled up on the couch with large slices of pumpkin pie topped with humongous dollops of Lite Cool Whip and mugs of hot chocolate. The first hockey game of the night isn't scheduled to come on until seven thirty, so we lie together and end up watching a horribly cheesy movie on ABC Family.

Well, I'm not really watching the movie. Charlotte is; meanwhile, I'm lost in my thoughts about the position in which I find myself. Not so much about the position. We've been here before, sitting on the couch together watching television with her head propped up against my shoulder and her hand on my knee as I run my hand through her still-damp hair. No, this situation is familiar, but the way I'm feeling in it is different.

I'm... comfortable. Content. Satisfied with sitting still with my arm around the woman I love. It seems hard to believe and difficult to explain. Am I a reformed ladies' man?

Has Charlotte changed me? I don't think so. I think I'm the same person: my personality hasn't altered, but what I want from life, I think, has. I still like to party and have fun, but I want to do it with Charlotte. And if having fun means staying in her apartment watching television instead of going out, well, then, so be it.

I think this is what a psychologist would call a "break through." I think it would make my mother proud. Speaking of which, I should call her. It's been a while since we've spoken.

By her deep, steady breaths, I know Charlotte's sleeping. It must be the tryptophan in the turkey that's conked her out. Or maybe it was our earlier activities. Either way, I slide my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. She answers on the second ring. "Maxime!"

"Bonjour, Maman. How are you?"

"Much better now that I've heard from you. If I hadn't have watched you play yesterday, I would have thought you were dead! You used to call every few days. But you haven't called since Sunday."

"Je suis désolé. I've been busy lately, and I've forgotten."

"Just remember that your mother worries about you, Maxime. My baby, so far away in another country."

"You have two other sons at home in Montréal. Francis's wife is about to pop with child, and you're worried about me?"

"Francis and Juliette are surrounded by family. You are out there all by yourself."

"Maman. I'm not by myself. There's Marc-André and Véronique, and the rest of the team. I'm not alone," I tell her, looking down at the top of Charlotte's head while she sleeps. I kiss her temple quietly, but somehow my mother knows. I guess it's mother's intuition.

"Maxime, is there something you're not telling me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I blatantly lie. This isn't how I want my family to find out about Charlotte.

"You are my son, my baby. I know when you're not being honest with me. Now I'm going to ask you again, Maxime: is there something you're not telling me?"

I clear my throat. "Maman...." I begin, trying to find the words. I pause, and she stays silent and waits for me to continue. "I met a girl."

The line is silent for a moment. "And you were planning on telling me when?!"

I chuckle a little. "I was going to tell you, but it's only been a few months—"

"A few months?! It's been months and you haven't told me about this girl?"

For a moment, I think that my mother's shrill voice has woken Charlotte, but instead she nestles even more against me in her sleep. "Maman, when things calm and settle down, I promise I will introduce her to you."

"Well, is it serious? What does she look like? How did you meet? Maxime, I want to know everything."

"Well, it's complicated. But, oui, it's serious. I'm serious. And I can't wait for you to know her, Maman, but things need to quiet down around here first. Maybe Christmas?"

"I can't wait to tell your father. Serge!" she yells into the phone, even though she's not talking to me. I pull the phone away from my ear as I hear her continue to yell. "Your son has finally met a girl."

Now I listen as my father speaks to my mother in the background. "I'm sure he's met plenty of girls, Lucie."

"Serge, you are not listening to me. Maxime, what is her name?"

"Charlotte," I say into the mouthpiece of my cell, and that causes her to stir beside me. "Maman, I have to go."

"Oh no you don't. We have a lot to talk about and catch up on, too."

"I promise I will call you later, but I can't talk now. Je t'aime, Maman." I end the call and turn my attention to the groggy woman next to me on the couch. "Hello there, sleepy head."

"Who were you talking to?" she yawns, rubbing her eyes underneath her glasses with the back of her hand.

"My mother," I answer, putting my phone back in my pocket and wrapping my arms around her to pull her against me.

"You should have let me talk to her," Charlotte says.

"Why's that?"

She shrugs and whispers her response. "I would love to talk to the mother that gave me such a wonderful man. I figure I owe her big time."

I clear my throat and think about how to put this gently. After everything that's happened, I can understand if and why Charlotte doesn't want to make this move, but she should know the next step that I'm willing to take. "Well, you can do it in person. My mother wants to meet you."

For a moment, I don't get any response and I wonder if she's fallen back asleep. "She wants to meet me? You told her about me?"

"Oui. And she is, to put it mildly, very excited about you." She smiles and reddens, and then bites in the inside of her cheek. I will never figure out this girl. "Why are you feeling so shy all of a sudden? You just said you wanted to talk to her."

"Saying I wanted to talk to her, and then hearing you say that, I mean.... It just makes it so real, ya know?"

I laugh. "No."

She smiles and kisses me. "You wouldn't understand, Mr. Carefree."

"No? Like I'm not going to meet your mother."

That puts a frown across her face. "I don't think you want to."

"Of course I want to. Charlotte, what is that supposed to mean?"

Sighing, she answers, "She won't like you. I can tell you that right now." I open my mouth to say that Charlotte can't possibly know that, because her mother hasn't met me, but she keeps talking. "She won't give you a chance. You're not John, and that's all that she cares about."

"I am a great guy, and she will see that. She'll see that I love you, and I won't ever treat you like that. And that's all that matters."

She shakes her head and leans her forehead against my chest. "Max, I wish it were that simple. My mother is... particular. She wants things the way she wants them, in a certain way. And she has very high expectations. He was everything she wanted for me: he was successful and charming and she loved him. On paper, we were the perfect couple. She still can't understand why I wanted to leave, so there's no way she's going to drop it all of a sudden."

"And why can't we be that perfect couple? I think we could be."

"Mmm," she quietly groans. I wait for her explanation. "With my mother, it doesn't matter what I want. What does matter is what she wants for me. The way you make me feel is the way she wants me to feel. But...." Charlotte sighs, searching for how to express adequately what she's thinking. "Appearance-wise, you would embarrass her."

I don't know what to say to that. I'm shocked. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be mad. I'm just trying to warn you about what you'd be getting into. She wants an investment banker or a district attorney. Someone who makes up for her failure of a daughter, who wouldn't—no, couldn't—live up to her expectations."

I grab her chin and make her look me in the eyes. "You know you're not a failure, right?" She tentatively nods. "She's your mother. She'll love you always."

"I'm a disappointment in her eyes, Max. I've screwed up too much and too often. I don't want to bring you into that. My old life is not a happy place. It's not like what I have here in Pittsburgh. There's a reason why I left it behind and came here. When I'd spend my summers here with my grandparents, over in Penn Hills, those were the best times of my life. You saw what it was like when my old life clashed with my new life. Can you blame me for not wanting that to happen again?"

Charlotte presses her face back into my chest. I rub her arms and think. "I love you, baby. I love all of you. Good, bad. Past, present, future. I'm not saying it has to happen tomorrow. I am saying that it will happen eventually.

"And," I continue, as she looks back up at my face, giving me a little smile, "your mother will adore me. No one can resist the Talbot charm, and besides, appearance-wise, she'll love me. Who wouldn't, with guns like these?" I lift my right arm in the arm and kiss my bicep.

"You're such a dork," she giggles, kissing my chin.

I'm about to bring her mouth to mine when the door opens, and Gina enters with her boyfriend. "Hey," Charlotte greets as they walk into the living room.

"Hey there," Gina smiles, taking in the scene of us on the couch together.

"Did you have a good time?" my girlfriend asks them, looking between Gina and Kevin.

"Yeah, it went well. They liked him, at least," she laughs. "What about you guys? What did you do?"

Charlotte rolls her eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." Gina raises her eyebrows at her roommate's answer. "I'll tell you about it later. I don't feel like reliving it now."

"Ugh. You can't say things like that and not tell me!"

"I promise I will. Just later, k?" Charlotte pauses. "Are you okay, Kev?"

He's standing in the space between the hallway and the living room, starting at us. At me, specifically. "Max Talbot?"

"It's nice to meet you," I say. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't mind this so much. But after today, I'm in the right mood to meet and converse with a fan. "I think I'm gonna head home, baby. I've got to get up early for the flight to New York."

"Okay," she pouts. I kiss that bottom lip that's jutted out. She smiles at me and pushes away so I can get up. "I'll walk you out."

I nod at Gina, and shake Kevin's hand as he thanks me for last year's finals, which makes me laugh. "You're welcome, I guess. But we won the Cup for you, for the fans."

"Good luck this year, man. You guys got off to a great start, and you'll beat this slump."

Nodding at him, I somehow prevent the grimace that wants to break out across my face. You lose a couple games, and suddenly you're in a slump? "Thanks. We're hoping to play well into the summer, so—"

"Okay, enough hockey talk," Charlotte interrupts, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the hallway. "Mind if I steal my boyfriend back?"

Kevin smiles and nods, saying his goodbye. "Thank you," I whisper.

"No problem. Have a good game tomorrow. You're back on Saturday, right?"

"Yeah. Home game on Saturday. You'll be there, right?"

"As long as you supply the ticket," she replies. We kiss and say our final goodnights, and I head out of the apartment and back to my cold, lonely house.

forty-seven: back to happy

2009-11-01T20:30:00.005-05:00

Soundtrack Song - Aly and AJ, Blush

I didn't want to leave, but I knew I had to. That little fucker just showed up and invited himself in.... As soon as I knew who he was, I wanted to punch his lights out. When he opened his mouth, I wanted to hit him even more. Everything that Charlotte had said wasn't enough to prepare me for him.

I had tried to stay calm, but I knew that staying in the same building with him wasn't going to be conducive to solving her problem. If I had stayed, we just would have fought. So I sped home, took out my contacts, threw on my glasses, grabbed a fresh pair of boxers, jeans, and a hoodie, and ran right back out the door.

When I get back to Charlotte's, her door's unlocked. I open it and step right on in. The place is quiet, so I assume John's gone. The farther into her apartment I walk, the more aware I am that it's not completely silent. The sound of muffled sobs come from her room. That door is open, and I peer in.

Immediately, the breath is sucked out of my lungs and I stop in my tracks. She's in jeans but not in a shirt. I fear the worst and start kicking myself for not sticking around and letting him hurt her. I should have known better, because she told me all about him. What did he do to her? If he.... I'll kill him.

"Get out," she says, her voice low and hoarse.

"Baby, it's me," I quietly reply.

"I have a name, you know." Her tone is caustic and biting.

"I know. Charlotte." I try to keep my own voice level and smooth, knowing that she's upset and hoping that she doesn't mean that. She knows she's my only girl, and I don't call her that because I don't know her name or because I'm afraid of saying someone else's. I'd never put her through what I had to experience when that happened.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "He just said.... I'm sorry."

I walk in her room and sit beside her, still scared to touch her. "It's okay. Did he.... I mean, he didn't...."

Charlotte shakes her head as I grab a blanket off her bed and wrap it around her bare shoulders. "No. He just barged in while I was changing."

"He what?"

She punches me against the chest. It's not a real punch; she hits me with the bottom of her clenched fist. "It wouldn't have happened if you had been here! I still can't believe you just walked out on me like that! When I needed you!"

I grab her wrist as she's about to do that again. It's not like it really hurt, but I hate that she's taking out this aggression on me. Because that's what this is: it's safe to lash out at me now that she's safe instead of taking out this anger on the person who caused it. "Stop it. You didn't need me. You did it, and you did it on your own. Charlotte, I'm so proud of you for sticking up for yourself, and it must feel really good that you did it." I rub circles on the pressure point of her wrist, and she calms down a little.

"I don't know. I don't feel any different. I mean, I thought I'd feel like the clouds cleared out of the sky to reveal the sun, or something like that, but it's not like that." Something buzzes or beeps from the other room. "The oven," she explains. "I forgot about that."

She stands and tosses off the blanket, reaching for the sweatshirt on the floor and pulling it over her head. "Why don't we forget about dinner? It's been a rough day so far."

"It's okay. I don't want to let him ruin anything else. Thanksgiving doesn't go away just because I'm having a bad day. Besides," she groans, "I have to call my mother."

Charlotte leaves the room, but I stay there for a moment and try to soak everything in. We've had a crazy few days, but maybe now we can finally get back to happy. Where we belong. I hear as she works in the kitchen, and I sneak into the bathroom and snoop around. Bath salts? What the hell are bath salts? Then I find some orange blossom bubble bath. This I can handle.
______________________________________________________

I finish Operation Turkey, which had been so rudely interrupted. Once that is completed, I turn my attention to more unpleasant tasks. I find my cell and flip through the contacts, until I find my mother's number.

Here goes nothing.

The phone rings twice before she picks it up. "Happy Thanksgiving, Sweet Pea!"

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."

"So? How is your day going?" She asks, the pitch of her voice high as she probes for answers. I know exactly what she's doing.

"You will never guess who showed up at my apartment," I say sarcastically.

She plays the game with me. "Really? Who?"

"My ex-boyfriend, John. You remember him, don't you?"

"Of course, I do! How is he?"

"Oh Mom, stop with this. You know how he is because you spoke with him. I know all about it. You can't do shit like that."

"Watch your language, young lady."

"Whatever. Mom, you're missing the point."

"I don't see what the big deal is. He's such a nice boy, and you're breaking his heart. I don't know why you can't see what's right in front of your face."

"He's not the kind of guy you think he is. It's all an act, and he doesn't make me happy anymore. You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am on your side, sweetie, and that's why I'm trying to push you in the right direction. You're going to regret it if you keep pushing him away, because he won't wait around forever for you to change your mind. You're just being foolish."

We've been over this so many times. "I don't care if you think I'm not doing the right thing. It's not about what you want for me; it's about what I want for myself. And I need you to support me in that."

She becomes more condescending. "I can't support you when I see that you're making a mistake. He's a great guy, so don't let him go."

"If you think he's such a great guy, why don't you marry him?" I sigh.

"Don't be silly. You know I'm happily married to your stepfather. I just want to see the same happen for you."

"It will, Mom. Just not with John. You need to understand that and stop trying to interfere, okay? I can't believe you gave him my address."

"Well, you told me that I couldn't give him your new phone number. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Not give him anything! Don't call him! He's not a part of our family. He never was. He was my boyfriend. It's like you're a twelve-year-old caught in the middle of a divorce. Just lay off, Mom."

"I don't appreciate the attitude," she counters. "I was just trying to help."

"If that's how you help, I don't want it. I know you feel bad for him, but don't bother. He's not your responsibility. I hope you enjoy your dinner," I say, hanging up. I feel so bad for talking to my mother that way, but it's impossible to be nice to her when she's like this. I always thought children were supposed to get along with their parents, but our personalities just clash too much to be the Leave It to Beaver kind of family I wish we were.

I place my phone on the counter and sigh. We'll probably have this same conversation in a week. Now that my call is over, I notice just how quiet it is in my apartment. It's never this quiet when Max is around. What is he up to? First I poke my head into my room, where I left him, only to see he isn't there. Faint humming floats through the air, and I follow the sound into the bathroom.

Max is in my undersized tub, surrounded by way too many bubbles. The room smells like oranges. He gives me that big grin of his that makes his eyes sparkle with mischief. "What are you doing?" I laugh.

"I figured you could use a nice, hot, relaxing bath."

"With you?"

"Well, yeah. The bath is relaxing. I'm the nice and hot part."

I giggle at his cheesy lines and unbutton my jeans. "I don't know. That tub looks awfully small. I'm not sure there's room in there for me." I'm teasing him, because I know full well that I'm going to end up in there with him. Nice, hot, and relaxing sounds perfect right about now. Maybe now this is the part where Max and I can forget about all the crazy and bad things that have happened lately and get back to that elusive happy place we were at so recently.

"Don't worry, baby. You'll fit, even if you have to squeeze in." He draws circles in the bubbles, and that's all the invitation I need. I step out of my pants and shed my sweatshirt, and then sink into the tub quickly under his watchful gaze. I dip my head back, submerging myself under the water, and then I resurface and slide toward him. The tub is too small for this, and Max has to throw one leg over the side of the tub so I can awkwardly lean my back against his chest.

"This is incredibly uncomfortable, but this may be the best idea you've ever had," I say with a smile, resting my head against his shoulder.

His hands caress down my arms in a soothing motion. "I thought you'd like it." Max pauses. "So, how did the call with your mother go?"

I wish that Max wouldn't have brought that up, seeing as though this is supposed to be relaxing, but it's easier to talk about it when he's rubbing and massaging my shoulders. I close my eyes and enjoy it, despite the topic of discussion. "She doesn't get it. No one in my family does, really. He made such a good first impression that she can't see past it. I told her to stop interfering, and I hope she does."

"And what about John? Is he gone for good?"

"Mmm," I moan, enjoying his touch a little too much to think clearly. "I think so. I don't know what else I can do to make it clear to him, besides get a restraining order against him. I just wish he'd disappear."

"I wish he'd get hit by a bus. Preferably a Port Authority bus."

I smile. It's mean; I shouldn't find humor in this. "Don't say that, Max."

"What? Can you blame me?"

"It's not that," I laugh, running my nails across his knee. It always surprises me that Max isn't as hairy as he would appear to be. "Wouldn't you feel bad for all the passengers on that bus?"

Max chuckles behind me, and his shaking chest makes me move with him. He sweeps my hair over one shoulder and kisses below my ear. The contact makes me shiver. "You're right. Oh, Charlotte. I love you."

I tense a little. "This is your special moment?" I ask, so confused. He didn't want to say it this morning, but now? After everything that happened and the fact that we're currently talking about my dreadful ex?

"I thought about it," he says, and his mouth is so close to me that I can feel his lips move as he speaks. The breath he exhales sends jolts all over my body as it hits my neck. "And every moment I spend with you is perfect. So, why wait to say it? I love you."

He kisses my neck again, and I feel his hand move to my inner thigh. It's a good thing he's busy, so he can't see my face redden. I want to believe him when he says things like this, but as good as they make me feel, I don't want to get sucked into thinking he means everything he says.

Of course, I believe him when he says he loves me. Max wouldn't have put up with everything over the past few days—hell, put up with me at all for the past couple of months—if he didn't care. Although, honestly, I don't know how he could have fallen for me, when there are so many other girls out there that he would have had an easier time with—

I'm pulled out of my thoughts when I feel his hand slide between my legs and one of his fingers brushes against my clit. I choke out a breath at the unexpected touch.

"You were thinking about something too much." Max nibbles on my earlobe until I turn my head as far back as it'll go so he'll kiss me. Our tongues swirl and twirl together in a heated dance. His hand quickens its pace, and I reach behind me and wrap my own hand around him, helping him get hard for me.

When I can't take it anymore, I turn around and try to face him in the tiny tub. Max wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him, but my knees can't find purchase against the slick porcelain and my bottom slides away from underneath me, making our foreheads collide. Neither of us seem to notice the pain as we struggle to our feet and make our way into my bedroom, leaving a trail of puddles and bubbles behind us.

forty-six: one last time

2009-10-31T22:30:00.002-04:00

I'm not one to embed videos, but this deserves it:

And onto the story. It's been a hard chapter to write....
______________________________________________________

Soundtrack Song - Bullet for My Valentine, All These Things I Hate

"Would you like to explain why you're fucking my girlfriend?"

"John!" I yell, shocked and annoyed and angry and pissed off and confused and furious and a million other things, too. I was stunned to see him there, but that off-color comment snapped me back into reality. How dare he come here and say something like that! It's wrong on so many levels. I don't know what to say; there's so much swimming around in my head that I can't concentrate on one. I want to say that I don't have an excuse. That I don't need an excuse. Because I'm not his girlfriend anymore. I left him. He may not have thought I was serious on that day in late spring when I boarded the bus, but didn't he get the hint when I changed my number? Speaking of changing my number, how did he even know where to find me? And why would he think it's okay to just show up here? How dare he!

Max places his arm in front of me, creating a barrier between me and John. It's more symbolic than a physical blockade, showing me that Max wants to protect me and fight for me. "Hold on a second," Max tells him. "She's not your girlfriend."

"Why don't you stay out of this?" John grinds out between his teeth to Max, before turning back to me. "What excuse are you going to give me this time?"

"I'm not staying out of anything," Max growls, demanding John's focus. "You have some nerve showing up here like this."

"I have some nerve? I'm not the one screwing another man's girl. You're the one with some nerve, buddy," John spits.

"I'm not your buddy." Max takes a step toward John. He pushes me behind his back. The situation is quickly escalating, and I need to defuse it. Not because I don't want Max to pummel John—I would like that very much, in fact—but because I can't let him. I've heard through the grapevine all the repercussions Sidney's dealing with after being accused of hitting Noelle, and I can't let Max get arrested for beating the shit out of someone.

I grab a hold of Max's arm and pull him back a little, stepping into the space between them. This line of arguing isn't going anywhere, and this isn't Max's fight anyway. It's mine. "Cut it out, guys. That's enough. I'm not your girlfriend anymore, John, and I haven't been for months. You have no right to show up here like this and say something like that. I don't even know how you could think that would be remotely okay."

"Your mother," John replies, still trying to stare down Max as I stand between them, "led me to believe that you'd be happy to see me."

Of course. My mother loves John, and she would have done anything if she thought it would mean I would get back together with him. She didn't understand why I wanted to leave him or why I wanted to leave Chicago, and I certainly wouldn't put it past her to try something like this in order to patch up our relationship. I owe her a very irate phone call.

"She was wrong. I'm not happy to see you, and I never want to see you again. Just go, John," I tell him, feeling confident with Max there to back me up. I'm absorbing the strength that he's irradiating.

"I'm not leaving until I have answers, Charlotte," he says.

"What else do you need to know?" I holler at him, raising my voice. This man is infuriating in his adamant persistence. To think I used to admire that quality in him. "It's over! And if you didn't believe me before, now we have a witness."

The neighbor across the hall opens her door a crack. "Do you mind?" she calls out. Stupid lady always get in my business.

"Let's do this inside," John suggests, but it's not at all a suggestion. He brushes past me and walks right into my apartment, like I invited him in. It's a bold move, in my opinion, to turn his back on Max, because there's fire in his eyes which he is trying to douse. Max is trying to keep his anger and incredulity in check. But this is typical John; he's assuming he has control and therefore acts that way. I used to like that kind of attitude, that cocky confidence. Max acts that way sometimes, too, but he'd never do something like this. He understands boundaries.

"What an asshole," Max mutters under his breath, but I hear it.

"You're telling me," I scoff. "What am I supposed to do? I don't want him here."

"I can hear you," John calls from the living room. He's sitting on the couch, having set the bottle of wine on the coffee table.

"Good! I don't want you here!" I yell, losing my composure and my sanity.

"Okay, let's take a deep breath and calm down," Max says, rubbing his hands over his eyes. I feel so bad for him, for being dragged into this situation and for it happening right now. "Yelling isn't going to help."

I don't want to be rational and clear-headed right now. "Yes it is! Yelling is going to make me feel a lot better! This is why you don't talk about things like this! It's like he's a demon, and just saying his name conjures him up from the depths of Hell."

"I think that's a bit of an exaggeration. And you did the right thing in telling me."

"So it's just a coincidence that he shows up the day after I tell you all about him? God, what else do I have to do to make it clear to him that I don't want anything to do with him anymore?"

Max shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe you should just try talking to him, calmly, and we can find out why he's here and what he wants. And what it takes to end this, once and for all."

John speaks up again. "We? I don't think so. You're not involved in this. You can leave," he tells Max, ignoring me.

As long as these two guys are in the same room, nothing's going to be resolved. Max knows this, even though I don't want to admit it; I need Max with me, after all. I can't resolve anything without being able to feed off of his strength.

"He's staying," I smugly inform John.

"He's right," Max says meekly behind me. I turn slowly to look at him. I did not just hear him say that. "This is between you and John."

"That doesn't mean you can't be here for me," I whisper, so John can't hear. I don't want him to know that my backbone is breaking and my courage is wavering.

He speaks back in hushed tones. "This is your chance to make him understand. I'm going to run home, take my contacts out and grab some clothes, and I'll be back in fifteen minutes. And when I come back, if I need to, I'll beat it into him."

"Fuck, Max. Don't say things like that. Just stay and back me up. I can't do it without you."

"Yes, you can, Charlotte. You're stronger than you think you are. And you and I both know that nothing will get fixed as long as I'm here. Fifteen minutes. Twelve, if I speed," he says as he looks down at me with a smile he doesn't mean. "Unless you're scared of him."

I look back at John, who's waiting impatiently now that he can't hear our conversation. "No. I'm not scared of him. I just... can't do it alone. Max, I can't."

"You can. Ne t'inquiète pas. Tout va aller bien. Je le promets." He kisses my forehead. "Twelve minutes," he announces, shooting a scowl at John before he turns and leaves, just like that.

For a moment, I just stand there at the closed door, from which Max just left. I can't believe he abandoned me when I need him the most. He may have faith in me that I can do this, but I'm not so sure of that at all. I finally turn around, and John's looking at me and awaiting some type of reaction or move from me. I feel so vulnerable, naked, and raw without my source of strength to draw from. That's when I look down and see that I practically am naked.

"I'm going to put some clothes on, and then you and I are going to have a serious discussion about how you need to leave me the fuck alone," I tell him, heading into my room and closing the door behind me. I know I only have a limited span of time to do this, to convince him of what a jerk he's being, but I need to gather my all my resources to get it done.

I pull on a pair of jeans and then take off my shirt as I reach for a sports bra to throw over my head. As I work, I go over everything in my mind. I need to tell him that we were long over, and that we have no future. We never did, and it's time he realizes it, too. He needs to not talk to my family, and leave us all alone. Leave me alone.

The door opens, and I turn as John steps into my room. I instinctively shriek and cover my chest. I cross my arms across myself. "Get out, John!"

"Why? It's nothing I haven't seen before," he laughs.

"That doesn't matter!" I yell, grabbing something more substantial to provide coverage over my bare top. "You can't act like this anymore! I'm not your girlfriend, so you can't act like you deserve to be here. You don't."

"I put in for vacation time to come out here before my meetings, so I could spend more time with you. I told you I was coming to Pittsburgh to see you—"

"No, you're here for work. You're not here to see me."

"Then why am I here, in your apartment, in your room, if I'm not here to see you?"

"I.... I don't know." I look down at the floor.

"You know, your mother called me to see if I still wanted to come over for Thanksgiving," he says, taking another step toward me. Of course she would. My mom felt so bad that John's parents were dead and that he had spent the holidays alone before I brought him home. She felt that he was a part of our family now, like the son she never had. "But when she said you wouldn't be there, I couldn't imagine being there without you. The holidays should be spent with family and loved ones. I hated to think you were going to be alone in Pittsburgh," he spits out, as if that were a fate worse than death.

"Well, that goes to show you that you shouldn't worry about me. I am spending the holiday with a loved one. And it's not you," I tell him.

That puts a frown on his face as he makes another move closer to me. "What? That guy that doesn't even call you by your name? He loves you?" I nod; even though he hasn't said it, I know he does. He does. And I don't mind at all that he calls me "baby." I like it, actually. "Does he even know your name?"

"Yes!"

"Did he make you change? Make you lose the weight? Because you were pretty enough before, Charlotte. You should never have to change for someone else."

"He didn't change me, John. I did that, and I happen to like who I am now."

"You're the same girl inside. The same girl I met at the bar. Does he know you like I do?" he asks, taking another step forward.

"No," I begin, taking a step back to maintain the distance between us, and I keep moving until my back's against the wall. "He knows me a lot better than you ever did. Max treats me a lot better, too. He's everything you aren't."

"You just want to throw away the three years we spent together like they meant nothing? I don't waste my time, Charlotte. I wouldn't have spent that time with you for nothing." He's right in front of me now.

"I don't see it as throwing away three years. I see it as opening up my future for something bigger and better. For someone bigger and better," I say, tossing out that last statement to hurt him. Immature, yes; but it's about time the tables turn.

John reaches out and brushes his fingers against the side of my neck below my ear. I clench my jaw and tighten my grip against the sweatshirt that I'm holding up in front of me. "Does he know how much you like to be kissed right here?"

"Don't touch me," I order. "This is over and done. Why can't you see that?"

He retracts his hand. "Why are you so insistent that we're broken up?"

"Because we are!" I scream, holding nothing back. "I left! I left Chicago! You watched the bus drive away, you saw it with your own eyes! I told you goodbye! I blocked your e-mails and I changed my phone number! What else do I need to do? John, I hate you and I want you to leave me the fuck alone already!

"I came here for you. And this is how you repay me?" He's so calm, even though I'm screaming my head off at him. He makes me feel so crazy, like I'm overreacting.

I groan. We're back at square one. "Did you not hear a thing I just said? It's like talking to a kumquat! You shouldn't have just showed up and think that things were going to be okay. I've been ignoring you for weeks now, so I can't believe you didn't get it. You're seriously retarded. What did you think was going on, huh? When I left and stopped talking to you?"

John shrugs, and it's the first time in our entire relationship that he looks indecisive or unaware. "You needed to figure out what you wanted."

If I didn't need to hold something up in front of me, I would have thrown my hands in the air. "I've figured out what I need. And it's not you. Did you think I'd suddenly realize I missed you? That I needed you? Because I don't. I need you to get the fuck out of my life!"

"Three years," he growls, coming back closer to me. His hand balls into a fist and he raises it at his side; I've always known John had a temper, but it's never been directed at me like this before. He usually would just cut me down with his words, and that was enough to whip me into shape and grovel to get on his good side again. Not this time, however. I wasn't going to cower down, and now he doesn't know how to react.

His arm falls back down to his side as he realizes what he was about to do. As much of an asshole as he is, he was never physically abusive. I have the upper hand now, so to speak. "Three miserable years, John." He's more focused on the fact that the time he wasted with me could have spent doing something, or someone, else. He just doesn't get it. I try to explain with cool composure, "We weren't having a good time together anymore. You were constantly reminding me of everything wrong or bad that I did. Not only did that make me feel like shit, but you couldn't have been happy if I was doing things that you didn't like. I don't understand why you want this thing between us to continue. We were a mess, dysfunctional."

"Relationships aren't perfect, Charlotte. So we hit a few bumps in the road—"

"A few bumps?" I laugh. It's not funny, but laughter is my initial reaction. I must be going crazy. "We have very differing opinions on the past three years, apparently."

"Apparently," he says, quietly. "But Charlotte, I miss you."

Those words wash over me and give me goosebumps. I close my eyes and wonder: how many times this summer have I wished to hear him say that? They're three simple words, but they mean so much. I miss you. I dreamt every night that he'd realize what he was lacking when I left, and he'd wake up and snap out of the funk he was in and be that person he once was.

But even if he were willing to change, it wouldn't be enough. Not now. It makes me sad to hear him say that now. And I tell him so. "It's too late, John. I'm over it. I've moved on. And now it's your turn to do so."

"Don't say that. There has to be some way we can fix this."

I shake my head and get angry again. Why won't he just give up and let it go? It may have taken me months to get over him, but once I made the decision, I stuck with it. I didn't run back to Chicago and beg for forgiveness. I may have dreamt and hoped that he'd show up at my door and beg me to take him back.... Well, isn't it funny how these things happen? I finally got what I wanted, only to find out that I didn't want it anymore.

"No, John," I spit. "You can't fix what's irrevocably broken. That's why you should just go."

"And that's it? We can't be friends?"

"No. I want you out of my life. I want to pretend like I never met you, and like you don't exist. So I'd appreciate it if you leave my apartment and leave me alone."

He shifts his weight to his other foot and leans a little closer to me. "What do you say to one last time, huh? I came all this way to find you, so why don't you make this last memory a happy one?"

"You're disgusting," I spit.

"Why? It never bothered you before, when you cheated on me," he says, leering at me.

"That was just kissing. I said I was sorry. You can't keep holding it over my head. No, I won't let you hold that over me anymore. Because what I did stupidly back then doesn't matter anymore. We're over. Get out."

"Once I'm out the door, don't think you can come crawling back," he grunts.

"Oh, believe me, I won't," I laugh. "You'll never have to worry about that."

"You're such a stupid little bitch." Typical John, resorting to name calling. It still cuts me when he talks like this, and I'm so sick of it. Even though I hate him and want nothing to do with him, he can still play with my emotions.

I wonder if this will ever stop. "Yes, I am a bitch. Now get the fuck out!"

His hand comes up again, but he points it in my face. "You're going to regret this day, Charlotte. You're going to regret it for the rest of your life!" Without another word, he turns away and leaves. I don't relax until I hear the door click into place on his way out.

I collapse on my bed and drop the sweatshirt, burying my head in my hands instead. It seems like no matter how often or how hard I cry, I can't completely purge myself of this. Hopefully, though, this will be the last time I'll ever have to do this. After a few minutes, I can hear the door open again, and footsteps back into the apartment.

forty-five: booby-trap

2009-10-29T21:50:00.002-04:00

Short, I know. And I can't guarantee a post for the next couple of days, since I'll be busy. Don't hate me, please, if I leave you hanging.

I'm feeling pretty good. I mean, sure things could have gone better, gone a little more smoothly, but sometimes you just have to take it for what it's worth.

No doubt, I'm in over my head. This feels so different this time around. It's not bad, just very different, and definitely more overwhelming. Are there degrees of love? Can you be more in love with one person when you say you're in love, than you are with another person?

"I'd better get home and change into other clothes. And I need to take my contacts out," Max says as he rubs his eyes. "Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"It's Thanksgiving," I tell him. "Nothing's going to be open. I mean, you'd have to have made reservations already. I have stuff for a make-shift meal. It won't be a conventional Thanksgiving, but it will be good enough for me."

"Okay, baby. If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me." He rolls off me and starts searching for his clothes. Now that I have space to breath again, I take the opportunity to let out a deep breath, exhaling some of my frustration and happiness. I have a feeling that life with Max is going to be a lot like this. Frustrating and happy, all at the same time.

While he begins to change, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch before padding into the kitchen. Since I knew I was going to be spending the day alone, I didn't buy much in the way of Thanksgiving staples, but I had the bare necessities: a frozen turkey breast, gravy packets, instant mashed potatoes, and Stove Top stuffing. Of course, I had bought a pumpkin pie. If I had thought about spending the day with Max, I would have made it from scratch—and when I say from scratch, I mean from a can.

I search the cupboard for a can of corn, and when I find that, I figure our meal will be complete. Except brown-n-serve rolls! Everyone knows it's not Thanksgiving without those.

"Hey, Maxie. Would you mind terribly stopping by one of the stores, if they're open?"

"Sure. What do you need?" he asks, stepping into the kitchen area. His clothes are all wrinkled. I don't remember how he shed them last night, but he didn't hang them up or fold them.

"You look like a ragamuffin," I laugh, reaching out to try and smooth out some of the creases so he looks less like a homeless person and more respectable. His fingers reach out to play with the hem of the tee shirt I'm wearing, because that's all I'm wearing, besides my boy shorts.

"A what?"

"A ragamuffin," I inform him, trying to suppress another giggle as I look at the confusion on his face.

"Ragamuffin?"

"Never mind," I say. "I don't have any rolls. Would you mind stopping for some?" I move away from him and look for my purse, so I can give him some money.

Max waves his hand in the air, dismissing my action. "Don't worry about it. Give me about an hour?"

"Okay. That's plenty of time." I look at the clock, and it's just after eleven. I can't believe it's that late in the day already. "We'll eat early, like around one?"

"That's early for dinner."

"The point is to eat early, and then eat pie a couple of hours later, and then eat left-overs again after that. At least, that's how we always did things in my family."

He smiles at me and begins to head for the door. "Whatever you say. You're the expert. I'll be right back," he promises.

I very cheesily blow him a kiss as he turns for the door, and then I move back into the kitchen to preheat the oven. I figure I'll jump in the shower while it warms up, and then I can throw in the turkey breast to start cooking. I hear the door open as I check the package before I turn the oven on to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Two and a half hours to cook this little thing? Oh well. I rip off the plastic wrapping to find netting around the frozen breast. Butterball has booby-trapped my turkey. Can I cook it like this? I reach for the scissors to perform surgery and free my turkey.

"Baby?" I hear Max call from the hallway. I thought he had left.

"Yeah?" I call back, wondering what he wants without making a move to see.

"Can you come here for a second?"

I groan quietly and roll my eyes, putting down the frozen puzzle. Cooking would be a lot easier if he wouldn't distract me. I turn the corner and look into the hallway, where I can see Max standing with the door open, looking out into the outside hallway rather than at my approach. "What is it?" I ask, continuing my walk to the doorway.

When I get to the threshold, I look at whatever is captivating Max's attention. There's a man on my doorstep. Like, Max, he's dressed in a suit, although his isn't wrinkled at all. Instead, it's crisply pressed and very professional looking. His dark hair is slick-backed and gelled, making it look almost black instead of brown. His hazel eyes flit from looking at Max to looking at me. When he sees me, the corner of his mouth pulls upward in a dark smirk. He proffers a bottle of white wine. I hate white wine; he knows that.

A few moments pass before I can speak, because I'm stunned silent. "How...? And why? What are you doing here?"

"I didn't want you to be alone on the holiday." Those eyes move up and down, taking in the entire length of my body and noticing that I'm only wearing a big, baggy tee shirt. He then looks at Max. "But it looks like you weren't."

"You know him?" Max asks, looking between the two of us.

"Yes," I whisper, thinking that maybe I'm dreaming. More like having a nightmare.

"Why don't you introduce us?" the other man suggests. His eyes are shining with mischief.

Max looks at me, wanting in our little secret. "Max, this is John. John," I say, with a sigh, "this is Max."
______________________________________________________

Charlotte blows me a kiss, and it makes me chuckle to myself. It's a silly little display of affection, and I can't believe it makes my heart skip a beat. I consider myself a romantic guy—at least moreso than the rest of my uncultured teammates—but I can't believe that such a simple gesture makes me feel this way.

I leave her in just her tee shirt, knowing I've got to get home and take out my contacts. They're killing me. A scalding hot shower sounds good right about now, too, in order to wash off the layer of sweat that builds up only after a hot night spent together with a feisty cat between the sheets.

Reaching out for the door knob, I throw open the door, but I'm met with someone else on the other side, looking at a piece of paper in his left hand while his right is poised to knock on the door.

This stranger gives me an odd look and then double-checks what's written on the paper in his hand. He looks back up at me and says, "I'm looking for Charlotte Bickley. Is this her apartment?"

Something about this doesn't seem right. Today is an American holiday, so this isn't a business call. No one's working today. So why is there a man, dressed in a suit, looking for Charlotte? And he's holding a bottle of wine. Why? She would have told me if she was expecting someone. In fact, she told me she was originally planning on spending the day alone.

I yell back into the apartment, but I never take my eyes off him. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end, and I'm not sure why. "Baby?"

"Yeah?" she replies, as I hear her work in the kitchen.

"Can you come here for a second?" I ask.

The stranger folds the piece of paper and shoves it into his pocket, seemingly satisfied that he's found the right place. He pulls on the lapels of his jacket and cracks his neck as he waits.

"What is it?" she asks, rubbing her hands against the material of her shirt. I don't answer her, and she walks all the way over to me until she's standing beside me. Instantly, I feel as her body tenses beside me.

Something's definitely not right. He smiles, but it's not a happy expression. I don't want to say it's evil, but there's something wrong about it. This man looks between Charlotte and me, as if he's seeing something he shouldn't or like he's letting himself in on a secret. He stretches out his arm to hand Charlotte the bottle of wine in his hand, which she doesn't make a move to accept.

When Charlotte finally speaks, her voice sounds shaky. "How...? And why? What are you doing here?"

"I didn't want you to be alone on the holiday. But it looks like you weren't," he counters.

I'm missing something. I want so badly to know what these two know that I don't. "You know him?"

"Yes." Her answer is so quiet. All the alarms are going off, the lights and signs are flashing that something's wrong.

"Why don't you introduce us?" the other man suggests. His eyes are boring a hole into her almost; that's how intently he's looking at her. Observing her, like she's a specimen and he's trying to figure out how she's going to react.

She looks at me, looking back at her. Her face is pale and drawn. "Max, this is John. John, this is Max."

Suddenly it makes sense, but yet it doesn't. Now I know why she's so freaked out, but that doesn't explain what he's doing here.

John outstretches his free hand for me to shake. "It's to meet you," he says politely, as I take his hand and shake it quickly. It's cold and clammy. "Would you like to explain why you're fucking my girlfriend?"

forty-four: ...oops

2009-10-28T19:30:00.001-04:00

Soundtrack Song - Lifehouse, First Time

When I wake up in the morning, something's different. The room is the same, and the man beside me hasn't changed. But there is a distinct shift in the atmosphere.

I throw off the covers and try to move over Max, but I wake him up as I try to unpin myself between him and the wall. "And where do you think you're going?" he asks, snaking an arm around my waist and pulling me on top of him. His voice is gruff from sleep and his accent's a little thicker, and I love the way he sounds first thing in the morning.

I put my palms against the flat top of the bed and push myself up so my weight's not crushing him. "I'm getting up."

"And why would you want to do that?" He nuzzles against my neck, and I wonder why I wanted to get up at all. I've suddenly forgotten.

"Mmm, I don't know," I tell him, letting him roll me onto my back and hover over me. I love when he takes control. But he doesn't kiss me or make a move; he just looks down at me, making me squirm a little. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"That's my point," I laugh, trying to duck under his arm and escape from underneath him. Max's weight prevents me from being able to. "Either do something or let me get up."

Still he doesn't make a move. "You look beautiful this morning," he whispers, saying it so low that I have to hold my breath to hear it.

I think that's the first time anyone's ever said those words to me. I've heard "pretty" and "cute," but never beautiful. Part of me wants to melt and the other part wants to roll my eyes; not when I feel like I've been whacked in the face with a baseball bat. After crying for half the night, I physically feel like shit.

Before I have to a chance to decide how to react, he brings his mouth down to mine. It's soft and gentle, the complete opposite of urgent. It's nice just to kiss him and not feel like it's heading somewhere else or like it's a means to an end. Moments like these often get passed up and overlooked, but I love this basic simplicity. I love the way his facial hair scratches my chin. How our noses rub together when we tilt our heads in different positions. The way he plants kisses over my closed eyelids so I can catch my breath before our lips touch again. Even how I'm tempted to let go of his shoulders and move my hands lower, but I'm hesitant to do so, because I want to make this moment last forever.

I figure out what feels so different. It's me. I feel calm and relaxed, like after a tough week of finals when I've studied and prepared, did my best, and now I sit back and wait for the results. The ton of rocks has been removed from my chest, and my lungs can work again. I haven't felt this way in years; it's been so long, in fact, that I've forgotten what this feels like. I'm free, untethered, unfettered—evidenced by the fact that I'm willing to look forward, beyond today, and look toward tomorrow, because now I'm released from my past.

Max was so great to me last night. Being able to reach this point in my life was only made possible by him. How am I supposed to put my thanks, my undying gratitude, and my bottomless debt to him into words? And Max was unbelievable throughout it all. Maybe I thought he'd run away or realize that it wasn't worth it to try to stick with me while I crazily worked all this out. When I opened myself up and revealed my old scars, I expected fresh pain. Instead, he reassured me that his feelings hadn't changed and he wasn't going anywhere, reinforcing my conviction that is the most amazing person on this planet. I didn't think God made men like this, and not just because I feel jaded; because even saints pale in comparison to Maxime Talbot. I'll have to thank his mother.

Wow, I can't believe I just thought about that. Meeting his mother. I must be crazy: crazy about this man.

"So, if we're not going to stay in bed all day, what do you propose we do?" Max asks, resting his forehead against mine and looking into my eyes. I love those mesmerizing and captivating blue pools.

My brain is mush. His kisses do that to me, and after the past... forty-eight hours, it will take a miracle to get the synapses in my brain to start firing properly again. I have to wait a few moments to come back to Earth to answer him properly, because my mind is somewhere else completely. "Watch the parade. Eat turkey and pie. Scan the advertisements for really good Black Friday shopping deals."

When Max laughs, the whole bed shakes a little. "That is what you want to do today, instead of stay in bed?"

"Yeah," I chuckle, rubbing his bicep. I love his arms. "We Americans are heavily steeped in tradition, especially when it involves food and overindulgence and gluttony and materialism."

"Maybe we need to start a new tradition," he mumbles, his lips centimeters from mine.

I giggle at his idea of a new tradition as he nibbles on my bottom lip. I love his kisses. Can I hire a doctor to surgically attach my lips to his? I don't want to do anything other than this for the rest of my life—screw eating and breathing. My brain liquefies again, which is probably why I let slip without thinking, "I love you."

Oh, no. Please tell me I didn't just say that. By the way Max's eyes widen and how he repositions himself to straddle me and rest his weight on his knees, I know I said what I think I said. And I can't believe I just did that.

Max just continues to look at me. His eyes quickly move back and forth, like they would during REM sleep, almost as if he was trying to read me like a hockey play on the ice and he's trying to determine his next move. His mouth is ajar, and I keep waiting to hear him say something, anything, because he always has something to say, but he's speechless. I do the only thing I can think of to offset my utter humiliation: I grab the pillow behind my head and cover my face. I'm not an infant, and I know that I don't disappear just because I can't see him, but I really really hope this bed will just swallow me whole and save me from this.

Why did I just say that?! It was like a knee-jerk reaction. Why did I have to take the perfect moment and ruin it? I always do this! My mouth always says things it shouldn't, and it seems like I'm powerless to prevent this from happening.

"Baby," Max says softly. "Don't do that." I can feel as he tries to remove the pillow, but I hold on for dear life, even if it means I'll suffocate. When he next talks, he sounds annoyed. "Come on, Charlotte. Let go."

"No," I tell him, my voice sounding muffled by the cotton.

He stops trying to pull. "Did you mean it? Or are you freaking out because you said it by accident?"

Was it an accident? Absolutely. Those three special words, or special three words, came out of nowhere. Wasn't there supposed to be a defining moment when I realized it prior to saying it? Wasn't I supposed to have this overwhelming epiphany? I didn't know that I loved him when those words popped out of my mouth. On the contrary, I didn't want to love him at all. I didn't think I was ready, and I didn't think I ever wanted to give my heart away to someone who could destroy it again.

But did I mean it? Absolutely. I don't know the how or the why I said it before I was aware that I did, but I absolutely love Max. I'm not sure when it happened or how or why, but maybe this is my defining moment. Once the words left my mouth, it felt so natural and right. "Yes," I admit through the additional layers of fabric. "I meant it."

"Then why are you hiding?" He tries to pull the pillow away again, but I don't relent my grip. "Let go, Charlotte."

"No. I'm embarrassed."

"Merde. Why are you embarrassed? Don't be," he coaxes.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I didn't even want to fall in love with you, let alone tell you this way."

"What? You didn't want to?" Max sounds hurt, and that's what makes me release my hold and surrender.

I cast aside the pillow and cup his face in my hands. His jaw's clenched, signifying he's mad and upset. "Max, listen to me. I came to Pittsburgh to get over my past. You know that. I didn't expect to meet someone like you. Hell, I didn't want to meet someone like you. I was actively trying to be alone. I thought I needed to get myself right, and I thought I needed to do it on my own. I didn't think meeting someone else was going to help, and I didn't think it could have helped. Maybe if I had met anyone else, that would have been the case, but it wasn't. This is all on you. You came into my life like a force, and you helped me. Max, you made me feel this way. I never had a choice or a say in the matter."

"Say it again," he orders. His voice is demanding, but he's smiling and his eyes are sparkling.

"Maxime, I love you," I say, and this time I feel the way I think I should feel when I say it: warm and fuzzy, like I've just consumed a mug of hot chocolate with a splash of Bailey's while wrapped in a polar fleece blanket. He tries to use his mouth for kissing instead of for talking. I don't necessarily expect those words back, but I want to hear what he's thinking or how he's feeling. "Max." I place my hand over my lips to deter him. "Well?"

"Well, what?"
______________________________________________________

"Maybe we need to start a new tradition," I suggest, closing in for another kiss. That's all we've done this morning, just kiss and kiss, but I don't mind. I'm showing her that I'm here for her. The best way to show her would be to tell her, but she said she doesn't want promises, and if she doesn't want words or guarantees, then actions will have to do.

I pull back a little so we can get a move on and start our day. I've got to go home, change clothes, and take out my contacts. I guess we have a parade to watch and some food to eat. I'm about to ask her if she wants to go out for a nice dinner, since I doubt she has an entire turkey stored in her freezer, when she interrupts my thoughts. "I love you."

For a second, I'm not sure if I heard her correctly. I place a knee on either side of her body and shift my weight off her so I can peer at her and get a better look. My brain is searching for words and comes up with nothing. She loves me. That was quite possibly the last thing I expected her to say at that moment, and it's caught me a little off-guard, but she really said it. Charlotte loves me.

Before my elation can find a voice, her face falls and she reaches behind her for her pillow, smashing it over her head. "Baby, don't do that." She should be kissing me and touching me, loving me and not burying herself. I grab at the pillow to uncover her, but she's holding on tightly. My mind thinks back to the day I thought she was sick. I'm seeing a pattern. I get a little irritated with her. "Come on, Charlotte. Let go."

"No," she replies, and I can barely hear her.

"Did you mean it?" I ask, now worried that she said those words without truly feeling that way. It sucks if that's the case, but if it was a mistake, I'll understand. I'll be a little heartbroken, but I'll understand. "Or are you freaking out because you said it by accident?"

She pauses. I'm holding my breath as I wait for her answer. Oui. Please let her say yes. "Yes. I meant it."

I'm ridiculously relieved. She meant it. She loves me. "Then why are you hiding?" I ask, laughing at her. She's crazy and irrational and completely frustrating. I like her in spite of that, or despite of that, or maybe I find it interesting and endearing. She still won't release her death-grip on the pillow, even as I'm trying to rip it away. I want her to look me in the eyes and tell me again. "Let go, Charlotte."

"No. I'm embarrassed."

"Merde. Why are you embarrassed? Don't be," I continue to laugh. She's so self-conscious. She should be as happy as I am.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I didn't even want to fall in love with you, let alone tell you this way."

My heart falls through my chest. "What?" How could she say that? What did she think we were doing spending all this time together? What was the point of getting to know each other if she wasn't interested in falling in love with me, if she didn't want to fall in love with me at all? "You didn't want to?" A thousand thoughts continue to buzz around my head, and none of them are pleasant.

Charlotte grabs my face with her hands and makes me look at her. Something in her eyes makes me take heed. "Max, listen to me. I came to Pittsburgh to get over my past. You know that. I didn't expect to meet someone like you. Hell, I didn't want to meet someone like you. I was actively trying to be alone. I thought I needed to get myself right, and I thought I needed to do it on my own. I didn't think meeting someone else was going to help, and I didn't think it could have helped. Maybe if I had met anyone else, that would have been the case, but it wasn't. This is all on you. You came into my life like a force, and you helped me. Max, you made me feel this way. I never had a choice or a say in the matter."

I know what it's like to not go around looking for love. But my mother always said that love finds you, not the other way around. That being said, I did everything I could to make her want me. That was the reason I promised to be friends. It's nice to know my hard work paid off. I want to reap the benefits. "Say it again."

"Maxime, I love you," she whispers. I feel waves of warmth wash over me. So many emotions. I just want to kiss her. "Max." Charlotte has other ideas, and covers her mouth. "Well?"

I know what she's getting at, but I decide to tease her and make her say it. "Well, what?" I ask, trying to look innocent.

"Well, aren't you going to say something after that? I just bared my soul. It would be nice if you said something."

"Thank you for telling me," I quietly whisper, leaning back down.

"Okay. You're welcome. But... Come on, Max." She fidgets, not wanting to say it. Stuff like this makes her uncomfortable. Still, I'm quiet, making her continue. "If you don't feel that way, I mean, it's fine. But just... tell me what you're thinking. Tell me what you're feeling. Anything, please."

"You know how I feel," I explain. "I told you last night. I show you everyday." Charlotte nods, knowing that I'm right but still looking for that reassurance. It makes me laugh. "I'll tell you. Don't worry. But I'd rather wait for the right moment. You may like to blurt things out with your big mouth, but I want to make it special."

"So, you do? You... love me?" she asks, inspecting my face for a trace of the emotion she's looking for. I grin and nod. I can't believe she doesn't know. "But you're not going to tell me?" This time, I shake my head. Charlotte leans back and grunts. "Do you know how frustrating you are?"

That makes me laugh a little too hard. "Now you know how I feel!"

forty-three: uneven

2009-10-27T20:00:00.002-04:00

"You don't know what you're asking me to do. I don't want to do this. Please don't make me," she pleads, so quietly that I have to concentrate to hear what she said. I feel a tug at my heart, and suddenly I don't want to make her do this. It's like I can see her heart breaking in her chest, and I don't want to be responsible to make her hurt anymore.

But I keep my resolve; I have to. If I chicken out, nothing will get fixed. "I know you don't want to. But I need you to tell me, and frankly I think you need to talk about it, too."

"And if I don't?"

I could tell Charlotte that if she doesn't come clean, that I can't do this with her anymore. I could try to threaten her, but I know her well enough to know that won't work. She tries to keep a thick skin, but I know it's really paper thin. There's just no getting out of it this time. We have to do this; she has to talk, open up, and let me in. "That's not an option, Charlotte."

"Fine. Okay," she bites out, succumbing to my request but not sounding pleased about it. She bats my hand away from its place on her knee like she's mad at me. Well, I can't imagine she's happy with me right now, but she shouldn't be mad. Doesn't she know this is just as much as for her own good as much as mine? And did she really think she could avoid this forever? "I can't have you touch me when I think about him," she further explains. I take it for what it's worth and give her a bit of space as she closes her eyes and hides some of her face. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Everything," I tell her. It might be overwhelming, but I want to know it all. "How did you meet him?"

I listen as she begins to talk. And basically, it becomes a one-way conversation. At one point, I want to ask a question, but she stops me before I can get out a word. She's anxious to get all this off her chest, and she seems to be in another world as she spills forth her guts. It's not eloquent or smooth; her speech is emotional and raw. Charlotte almost seems like a fragile China doll as she relays all this information, and not at all like the strong woman who pushed me aside at first, made me wait for her, made me work for her.

I wasn't sure how I was going to feel when she finally told me all this stuff—mostly, I think, because I didn't know what she was going to say. And now that it's happening, I'm still not sure how I feel. I'm jealous that she loved someone who isn't me. I'm mad at him, and I'm sad for her. I feel her pain and frustration, and I want to take all that away and erase it. I want to kill the coward that broke her heart and left her like this.

But then again, I don't wish that things had worked out between them, even if it meant she wouldn't be so upset. Then she wouldn't be mine. I just wish that this whole thing could be easier.

She speaks her peace. I ask her what happened that made her finally decide to leave him. For how much pain he's caused her and how uncomfortable this whole situation has been, Charlotte has told her story with composure. That is, until the very end of her speech. "...I was trying to forget all about him, just like Gina told me I should, but I wasn't sure if I could or if it was worth it. And then... I met you."

At this point, she starts to cry. And not just gets a little teary-eyed; I mean she begins to sob. I'm so clueless as to why. Oh shit. I mean, why is she crying now, once I come into the story? Did I do something that I don't realize I did? Did I make things worse? Because I thought before she said that liked that I didn't know. Does she need me to comfort her? I have no idea what to do. I grew up with two brothers; I don't know how to act in these kind of situations. All I know is that I want to hold her and absorb some of that hurt, so that's what I do: I reach out for her.

Initially, she pushes me away as she begins to take steady breaths again. "I hate you for doing this to me."

"What did I do?" I ask, so confused and a little offended.

"You turned me into this emotional wreck. Don't you get it, Max? John was my everything, and when I left him, I thought I was nothing. But you saved me. I seriously think you rescued me from drowning in my own despair. I couldn't have been able to do it on my own. When I was around you, I forgot about him and got to see the good side of life again. You made me realize that I didn't deserve that." She breaks down into sobs again. "I didn't deserve that."

"No, baby. You didn't," I whisper, and this time, she lets me hold her. I pull Charlotte against my chest and rock her as she cries. What I want to do is find the perfect thing to say that will make her feel better, but nothing comes to mind. "You didn't," I repeat.

Finally, she stills and pulls back a little. I wipe away her tears, which smears her make-up; I know Charlotte well enough to know that if she could see herself now, she'd freak out for not looking presentable. But I don't care. I don't care about her make-up. "I'm sorry. I thought I could get through it without crying. I mean, I did. I'm done crying over him. Apparently, though, I've moved on to crying over you."

"Charlotte, I never want to make you cry," I tell her. I don't know what in the world I did that upset her. Man, I really wish I had a sister. "Whatever I did to make you cry, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Maxime." I love when she uses my full first name. Usually, she does it during very intimate times, when we talk in whispers at night or going at it in bed. "It's not a bad thing. I never really understood when people said they cried happy tears. Maybe it's more like relief."

"Relief?"

"Yeah." I feel her body shake again. My heart palpitates with worry, thinking she's weeping again, but when I bring her face toward mine to examine it, I see that she's laughing. "You must think I'm crazy, but I am feeling relieved. Would you believe me if I said I feel a little better? That now it's out in the open?"

"I'm glad," I tell her. I am glad she feels better now, even though I feel worse.

"I'm glad that you made me tell you, even though I was kicking and screaming all the while. Thank you, Max. For everything."

Since I don't know what to say, I don't bother with responding to that. Instead, I ask another question. "I'm still a little confused. You say you weren't happy with him before you left. And you're the one who left him—"

"So why was I so hung up on him?" she continues, asking my question for me. I nod, letting her know that is indeed what I want to know. "That's the million dollar question, isn't it? For the longest time, I thought he was going to go back to the way he was when we first met. I wanted to believe that that's the person he was, that charming guy, and not the manipulative little asshole he turned out to be. I thought that he would just wake up one day and be that wonderful person again. I knew the love that he was capable of giving, even if he couldn't give it to me anymore. Does that make sense?"

I nod. Sometimes, you want to see the good in people and overlook their mistakes and changes in behavior. Tanger comes to mind. But, then again, sometimes you have to accept that you can't get back to good.

I'm done asking the big, emotional questions. I think we've both had enough. My next question is if she wants to get some sleep, and she agrees. I lie down and bring her with me, waiting to take my cue from her. She's got to be exhausted. I'm exhausted, and I only had to listen to her. Charlotte doesn't make a move to change her clothes, so I help her out and pull off her jeans for her. Then I strip out of my dress clothes, which are now wrinkled. By the time I get myself down to my boxers, Charlotte's already fast asleep. I curl up around her and pull the covers over our bodies.

At some point during the night, I wake up alone. I rub my eyes and blink, focusing my sight. Really, I should stop sleeping in my contacts. It's a good thing there's no game today, and I can wear my glasses for a while. The clock reads 3:47. I toss back the blanket and head out of her room. The television's on and casting a bluish glow from the living room, where Charlotte's sitting on the couch with a half-eaten pint of Ben & Jerry's. Her face is freshly scrubbed and free of the streaky black marks that painted her cheeks, but I can tell she had been crying again.

"What are you doing up?" I ask, sitting beside her. She's put on flannel pajama bottoms and took off the hoodie, now in a tee shirt.

"Was tossing and turning, and I didn't want to disturb you. Ice cream?"

I shake my head. If she can't sleep and she's eating junk food, I know something's up. "What's bothering you?"

Charlotte sighs. Usually, she'd make up some bull-shit answer, because she doesn't talk openly about stuff like this. I'm surprised she was as free with the information she gave me earlier. But she shocks me by being honest. "So now you know. You know everything I didn't want you to know, and somehow our relationship is going to change because of it. I don't know how, and that worries me."

There's a question in there, somewhere; she didn't ask it, but it's there. "My opinion of you and my attitude toward you doesn't change. You're still the person you were before. I still like you, and I still want to be with you. Charlotte, I—"

"No, Max. That's all I needed to hear. What you want in the present is enough. I don't want either of us to make any promises for the future, or for you to say whatever you think I want to hear. This.... This is enough," she says, gesturing between us, like all that matters is that I'm here with her now.

If she's not going to let me say what I want to, I'm going to act on it instead. I sit beside her and lean toward her to kiss her. I'm not sure what she'll allow me to do, seeing as though she's obviously still upset, but when she kisses back, I take every inch she gives me. Reaching up for her face, I cup her chin and gently push so she'll open her mouth for me. Her tongue tastes of chocolate and is cold as it flicks against mine, sending a rush of blood below the belt.

Reading my mind, she scoots closer to me as I open my arms to her and slide my hands under her shirt to her back, pulling her against me as I lean back. A sudden sensation of cold makes me jerk back; in our jumble of action, her container tilted and spilled liquid, melted ice cream on my bare chest. I look for something to wipe it away with, until Charlotte places her mouth right below my pec and licks it up.

"I don't want to be wasteful," she says, and I can feel her warm breath against my skin.

The differences in hot and cold and the rough feel of her taste buds is too much. I close my eyes and groan. "Oh, Charlotte."

"Oh, Maxime," she mocks me, a little teasingly, a little seriously. "You've been so amazing in how you've dealt with how crazy I am. Will you let me make it up to you? Pay you back and even out the score?"

I know what she's hinting at; it's so obvious, and I would love to take her up on her offer. And I intend to, but I've got to clear something up first. "You will never have to make up anything to me, Charlotte. You don't owe me anything, and I'll never make you feel like you need to. Everything I've done, I did it because I wanted to, not so you would want to balance it out by doing something for me. Okay?"

"See how wonderful you are?" she asks, running her hands down my chest and placing a few kisses along my jaw. "Fine. No paying you back. How about I simply show you my appreciation?"

Her hands slip under the elastic band of my boxers before I can reply, and then no words come to mind at all. She says I saved her. Well, I think I'm the one who needs rescuing now. But if this is drowning, I'll gladly give up breathing.

forty-two: skeleton

2009-10-26T19:45:00.002-04:00

Soundtrack Song - Goo Goo Dolls, Black Balloon

I type back my message to Max, letting him know that I'll definitely be waiting after the game to see him. I always do anyway, but I especially can because tomorrow's Thanksgiving and I don't have to work.

"What are you smiling about?" Gina asks me, stepping into the living room. She sees me grinning at my phone.

"I'm going to Max's game tonight," I tell her. "He just invited me."

"Of course he did. He's head over heels for you, you know."

"He's amazing," I sigh, looking back at my phone, as if it's Max's face. For a second, I debate with myself about telling Gina about my horrible gaffe last night and how wonderful he was about it, but I decide not to. She'll only yell at me for it, and I still feel bad about it anyway. "He really is."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I heard all about that last night. You know, Char, I was good about respecting the house rules this summer when you were all moody and bitchy and sullen. And now all of a sudden you've got yourself a boy toy, and the house rules go out the window."

I blush ferociously. "I'm sorry, Gina."

She shakes her head and laughs. "Don't worry. I'll get you back with Kevin sometime. Speaking of, I'm staying over his place tonight before we make our holiday rounds tomorrow. Just letting you know."

I laugh at her earlier comments. "Okay. Anyway, so, can you drop me off at the arena? I'm sure I can ride back with Max."

Gina nods and leaves me with my thoughts as I flip through the channels. I've got about an hour to kill before I grab a quick bite, change into jeans and the Lemieux jersey, and have Gina drive me to the Mellon. I say hello to all the girls and settle in to watch the game between Véro and Erin; however, the game quickly becomes painful to watch. The guys aren't clicking, and something seems off.

I'm worried because I don't know what to say or do when I see Max. I always congratulated him on the wins after the games I was there to watch, but what do I do after a loss? Should I console him? Pretend like it never happened? The girls all seem somber, so I don't ask them. Max doesn't give me a chance to say anything though, because once he emerges from the dressing room, he wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me toward the door before I can even mutter goodbyes to the girls.

"So, don't you celebrate Thanksgiving?" he asks me as he navigates his way through the arena, almost accusatory in his tone.

I think about tomorrow. My mother practically begged me to come home, but I fed her the excuse that I just couldn't afford it. Really, I couldn't face my family this year; not after taking John home to meet them. I'd never hear the end of how I screwed things up with such a great man and how I can never do anything right. That's old news. It's so much easier to avoid the entire situation. "Of course I celebrate it, I'm just not making a big deal out of this year. It's not worth it to go home, and my grandparents are in Virginia to visit my aunt and her family. Gina invited me out to spend the day with her family because I know them all, but I didn't want to intrude since she's introducing Kevin to them. So I'm just going to enjoy the mini-vacation by myself."

"Oh," he says.

When he doesn't say anything else, I add, "That was kinda random."

"Well, I thought Americans make a big deal of this holiday. I figured you'd be going back to Chicago."

I shrug under the weight of his arm. "Nope. I'm staying here. Why ya so curious?" I giggle and poke him in the ribs, changing the subject to a lighter mood. "Do you wanna be American for the day, and eat cold turkey sandwiches and pumpkin pie with me?"

"Maybe," he replies, very cryptically. I'm puzzled, because he's not usually this... quiet and subdued or terse. I don't know if I should ask what's wrong or if something's bugging him, but I figure it's the loss that's weighing on his mind and therefore stay silent.

When we leave the lot, Max leaves the windows up and doesn't stop to sign autographs. I hate to see it bother him so much. "I'm sorry about the game, Max-A-Million, but don't worry. You guys will bounce back, though. Don't be too upset about it," I say, trying to soothe his mood. I reach out and place my hand over his on the stick shift.

"Is it okay that we go back to your place?" he asks, ignoring everything I've just said, including my awesome new nickname for him.

"I kinda like your place better because it feels more open. It's bigger. Why don't we go to your house?"

"No, I think it's best if we go to yours. Charlotte," he says, taking his eyes off the road and turning to look at me, "we need to talk."

I feel like someone just pushed pause on my life. I pull back my hand and cross my arms over my chest. If Max wants to talk, it can only be about one thing: what I called him yesterday. I thought he was over it, that he forgave me and moved on. That's how he acted this morning.

But what did we have to talk about? Nothing. Because Max was going to tell me that we were over. It's obvious to me now that he's still upset, and I did think that he seemed to get over it quickly—too quickly, in fact. I should have known that this wasn't going to be done with so easily. But I apologized, and if that's not enough, then it isn't enough. There's nothing else I can say that's going to make it better. And it makes a lot more sense for him to take me to my place where he can leave of his own volition, rather than for us to go over to his house and then have him drive me home once he breaks my heart.

I spend the rest of the short drive staring out the window, wishing that this trip were longer. Because once we get to my apartment, he's going to tell me he's done with me. God, I'm so stupid for thinking we were done with this. When he parks along the curb, I get out of the bar before he can even turn it off.

Max follows me as I take the stairs up to my apartment, unlock the door, and let us in. He closes the door behind us, and I feel trapped. If he wanted to do this in my apartment where I would feel more comfortable and less like I was being attacked, it's not working. "So, you wanna talk?" I say, toeing out of my shoes. I'm trying to be nonchalant about it, but I'm shaking.

"No. I want you to talk. I want to hear this John guy. Your ex."

"Why?" I stop what I'm doing. I thought he was going to want to do the talking, and I certainly didn't expect this question.

"So I know why you called me by his name. What he did to you that makes you so scared of me."

"I'm not scared of you," I sigh, wondering if that's true. I want to keep this particular skeleton in my closet. I head into my room to pull off this jersey and replace it with a hoodie. "I just don't like talking about him, or what happened. Gina thinks it's best if I just ignore him and forget all about it."

"Well, I think Gina's wrong. You're obviously still hung up on him for some reason. I think I have a right to know."

"You really want to do this?" I ask, my hands on my hips in defiance. He's pushing the issue and pushing his luck, because I can feel my temper rising. "You really want to listen to me talk about my ex and all the sordid details and how it's fucked me up? You want me to go through all that again?"

"Yeah. I think you owe it to me to tell me," Max says.

"Owe it to you? Owe it to you?! What do I possible owe you?" I spit back, very exasperated.

Max comes back at me with just as much attitude. "I've been patient for you. I've waited for you to come around and give me a chance, which you were hesitant to do because of your past with this jerk. And then we have one fight, our first real fight, and you call me by his name. Charlotte, yes, you owe it to me to give me a full explanation."

When he puts it like that, I feel my anger leave me. Have things really been this one-sided all along? I sit on my bed and scoot over to the corner so my back is against the wall and pull my knees up to my chest. Max sits in front of me and rests a hand on my leg and coos, "Come on, baby. Talk to me." His eyes are softly pleading with me.

He's right. I know it; it isn't fair to keep this from him yet make him pay for something he never did. There's just something wrong about having to have this discussion, and talk about one old boyfriend to the guy taking his place. "You don't know what you're asking me to do. I don't want to do this. Please don't make me." I'm backed into a corner, physically and metaphorically.

"I know you don't want to. But I need you to tell me, and frankly I think you need to talk about it, too."

"And if I don't?" I ask. Immediately, I wish I could take that back. I'm asking for an ultimatum, and I don't think I'll like what he has to say.

"That's not an option, Charlotte."

"Fine. Okay." I concede, mostly to get him off my case, and then I push his hand away. Max gives me a pained look. "I can't have you touch me when I think about him," I explain, and he nods and gives me just the right amount of space.

I place the palms of my hands over my closed eyes. I've never told someone the whole story before, from start to finish. The only people that know about John are the ones who have known about him since the beginning of our relationship and heard about what happened as it happened; I've never talked about it after the fact to someone who wasn't already informed. I wait a couple seconds and let all those memories that I've worked so hard to suppress wash over me. Tears already threaten to erupt, and I wonder how I'm supposed to do this.

"So, what do you want to know?"

"Everything," he says, so matter-of-factly. I don't reply, because I don't even know where to start if I have to tell him everything. Max intuitively picks up on this and clarifies, "How did you meet him?"

No better place to start than the beginning. I smile briefly, remembering the initial giddiness I felt that night. "I went out with a couple of my classmates after my public speaking class one night, to this restaurant. I was only twenty at the time, so I couldn't have alcohol, but my friend Lesley spilled her drink and we needed extra napkins, so I went to the bar. And this guy was there. John. He was dressed in a suit and had a briefcase and everything. He looked so professional and mature, and he offered to buy me a drink.

"I was just smitten from the get-go. I definitely wasn't the prettiest girl there, or the hottest, but he wanted to buy me a drink. It was so flattering, and I couldn't believe it. I told him no, that I couldn't drink, and he just said, 'Not even pop?' Like he really, really wanted to have the chance to spend some time with me. So I sat up at the bar with him, drank a diet soda, and just talked to him. He asked for my number before he left, and I was... ecstatic."

"Pardon me, but that doesn't sound like that big of a deal."

I sigh and shake my head. "You don't understand. I was heavier back then, and pretty much a mess. It was toward the end of my sophomore year of college, and no one was interested in me. I hadn't been hit on since my boyfriend in high school, and he was captain of the chess team. To finally have that kind of attention was almost like a relief, and the fact that it was a real man instead of just a stupid college boy was thrilling.

"He was so eloquent, charming, and suave. John knew all the right things to say, and I was naïve enough to believe all the nice things he said. Well, you can believe me now when I tell you I learned my lesson. It's just that he was older, and I thought that that meant he knew what he wanted out of life and was ready to settle down instead of the guys my age that just wanted to fuck around. I bought into every one of his lies.

"The first six months were, like, amazing. He called when he said he would, was never late for a date, paid for everything, and made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. Like I was a goddess in the mortal realm. After two months, he told me he loved me. He said it was love at first sight, and he felt it the moment I walked through the door of that restaurant. Those words, they were like pure poetry! It was like hearing the gospel straight from the Lord's mouth.

"John was so keen on meeting my family right away, too. It seemed like it was happening kind of fast, but I didn't know any better and I thought things were progressing really well. And my family all loved him. My friends adored him, and they called us that perfect, sugar-coated couple, the one that never fights or even disagrees. Everyone was practically planning our wedding already. And I thought all those things, too. I couldn't believe how lucky I was to know him, that I was the lucky girl that got to be with him, the one that he chose. I fully expected that we were going to be together forever."

Max tries to say something. "Don't stop me," I tell him, holding up my hand to cut him off before he even starts. "You wanted me to talk, so let me talk and you can ask questions later." He nods and lets me continue my roundabout, disjointed, stream-of-consciousness explanation.

"So when things started to cool down at first, I just figured that it was because everything happened so quickly. We stopped talking everyday. He didn't want to hold hands in public or even under the table when we went out to dinner. Complained about how he was spending so much money, even though I offered to pay at least my share when we went out.

"He stopped wanting to go out completely. Well, with me anyway. He'd go out with his friends and drink all night with them. You know, one Friday night, he went out with his buddies and told me that he'd call me at the end of the night and stop over to see me. I waited up until three in the morning, calling and texting him to see if he was okay, because I thought something happened to him. I didn't hear from him all weekend. On Monday, he calls and apologizes, telling me that he spent too much money on drinks on Friday, and that pissed him off all weekend so he wasn't in the mood to come see me. But he didn't explain why he couldn't at least call to tell me that so I wouldn't worry about him.

"We didn't see each other for about three weeks after that, because he was wishy-washy about going out or coming over or inviting me to his place. He gave me some lame excuse about wanting to be in the right 'mood' when he saw me, and I got pissed off and then I went out with some friends, got drunk, and made out with some frat boy. I felt so guilty, and I'm ashamed that I ever did that, but when I confessed to John, you'd think I slept with the entire frat house. He just couldn't believe I would do something like that to him, let alone that I did it because I was mad at him. Heaven forbid anyone gets mad at him.

"I tried so hard to make it up to him. I mean, I already would have done anything for him anyway. But suddenly it wasn't enough. I apologized, cried, begged for forgiveness. Just when I thought he was going to wash his hands of me, he said he'd give me another chance. I swore to him that I would never do anything to screw it up again, that I'd never make him regret that decision.

"Then he took me out to this really fancy dinner. And he pointed to a family sitting a few tables away from us and said how nice it would be to have a family like that. I melted all over again and put up with him when he was being distant, because he'd always make up for it somehow by being really sweet again. It was a roller coaster, but the good times with him made it worth it, I thought. I just couldn't guarantee he'd be that way all the time, or that he wouldn't get moody and wall off and disappear again.

"Until he started getting... angry and demanding, like he was suddenly this other person. I know that he was getting a lot of pressure at work with the economy turning bad, and he was worried about losing his job. He wanted to start impressing his bosses, so he brought a lot of work home with him, and I just started helping him with it. In fact, I neglected my classes to help read reports and do research for his company and put together presentations. When I told him I had papers to write, he would say that I was being selfish and that I didn't care about him because I didn't want to help. He'd remind me of what I did, and how I told him I'd do anything.

"He said that it was for us. He needed to do well at his job so he could get a promotion, because he couldn't think about settling down until he was in a better position, making more money. I was such a fool. I thought that it was going to be the answer to everything. Once he got the promotion, he'd go back to his old self. But it just never happened.

"And meanwhile, I gave up everything for him. I completely lost myself in him and surrendered who I was in order to make him happy. But none of it made him happy, and eventually, I realized that it didn't make me happy, either. So, well, I left." I take a deep breath. It all came out in a sticky blob of words, and I'm not even sure that I said what I needed to or conveyed what I wanted.

"So, what made you leave?" Max asks. "I mean, what finally snapped to make you walk away?"

"It was time for me to graduate, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with my life. I thought maybe I could go to grad school, but I still wasn't sure what major I wanted to pick or what I wanted to go into. But John didn't want me to. I don't know what he wanted me to do, but apparently it needed to involve placing my focus on him. But he didn't want to get married yet, he wasn't even ready to propose, and suddenly it hit me that I was the one going the distance, and he wasn't. I gave him an inch, and he took miles. And took and took and took, and he never gave me anything. He wasn't ever going to be ready, and I couldn't wait around anymore for him.

"So I packed my bags and caught a Greyhound. He drove me to the station, kissed my cheek, and waved goodbye as the bus pulled out. And he laughed when I told him goodbye, because he didn't understand how I could possibly want to leave him. At first, I thought maybe we could be friends, but I couldn't do it. I was trying to forget all about him, just like Gina told me I should, but I wasn't sure if I could or if it was worth it. And then... I met you."