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“Max…” Scott’s voice. Way too soft. Way too gentle.
Way too fucking loaded with more pity.
Re-cue the insta-fury.
Max dropped his hand and glowered. “Just call him,” he snapped. And put me out of my misery. Pivoting stiffly, he stalked toward the stairs. “Gotta head out. I’ll be back later.”
* * * * *
Max arrived at his mom’s place almost an hour later. Pulling into the driveway, he put his truck in park—then proceeded to just fucking sit there. As in, not move at all. Like every limb had lost signal. Probably because he didn’t want to get out. Didn’t want to, but had to. Mom needed his muscles.
Or so she said on the phone. Max wasn’t sure he bought it, though. It wasn’t unlike her to make up reasons for him to come visit. Which made him feel like a piece of shit. No mom should have to trick her son into spending time with her.
Max peered up at her house, at his childhood home, already feeling the ominousness descending. All the memories tied to this place, to this neighborhood, to this town. But worst of all, tied to his mom. It wasn’t fair. She didn’t deserve to be skirted just because Max couldn’t resolve his issues. Bury them, yes. Ignore them, absolutely. Find closure with them, though? Not so much.
Which therein lay the problem with visiting his mom. He couldn’t dodge the memories so easily this close to the source. And yet, every blue moon he still found himself back here, unable to avoid the inevitable any longer. Treading so precariously close to hell in order to give his mom some much deserved love. After all, aside from Scott, she was all that he had. The only person he could trust to always be there.
Hands clammy, pulse quickening, he climbed from his ride and willed his two legs to start moving. Past the mailbox, up the driveway, along the concrete walk lined with azalea bushes... He could do this. No problem. Be in and out in ten minutes. Say hello, give Mom a kiss and a great big hug, then help her “rearrange the living room” and be on his way.
He eyed the front door as he neared and sighed. Another new one. She changed them every few years. Never said why but Max was pretty sure he knew. Because his mom wasn’t stupid, knew how much these visits stressed him out, and always tried to make things feel new and different. Different than the place he grew up in. New paint on the walls, new furniture, new carpets. She even swapped out the kitchen countertops and bought new dishware. All in all, an unbelievably caring gesture, but in the end it just made Max feel like shit. To revamp nearly her entire house couldn’t have been cheap. She’d probably gotten a second mortgage to afford it.
Max exhaled heavily and hit the front steps, then tentatively paused at the door. Get in, show some love, then get the fuck out, before the ghosts from his past could latch on. God knew, he didn’t want them hitching a ride back with him.
Max squared his shoulders, set his jaw, then gave a quick knock and stepped inside. Immediately, the aroma of Irish stew enveloped him. His dad’s favorite, a recipe passed down from his mother that Max’s mom adopted wholeheartedly and made her own. Looked like she could only steer so far off memory lane. Probably because the past she tried to leave behind for Max was the same one that her husband existed in. And the father she never wanted Max to forget. Not that Max would. Or even could. A part of Dad was parked in Max’s very DNA. Hot-headed Irish temper and all.
Max headed for the kitchen, toward the source of that all-too-familiar scent. His mom stood at the stove, idly stirring a pot, as if her thoughts were anywhere but on meat and potatoes. Like always, she wore her hair in a long, loose braid, the black plait mingled with more gray than he remembered. Max swallowed, heart thumping, and watched her for a minute, then finally opened his mouth to announce his arrival. But before he could get out a single syllable, she turned around and gasped with a start.
Her face lit up instantly. “Woodatsi! My little bear!”
Max smiled and shook his head. “Hey, Mom.”
“So happy to see you.” She hustled over, but her bright expression faded the closer she got. “My God, baby, your face.” She reached up and touched his brow, then disapprovingly pursed her lips. “Maxim. You’re a grown man. Grown men do not fight.”
“This one does,” Max muttered.
She frowned. “Did you instigate it?”
He shrugged and averted his gaze.
“Woodatsi. You know better.”
He scowled. “I was mad. And Scott was being so effing—”
“Scott?” she interrupted. “You picked a fight with Scott?”
