sixty-five: very surprised

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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."