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She tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, cutting through every wall I think I still have.
“No,” she says softly. “You’re telling me because you’re safe. Because I’m not her.”
I suck in a breath, my chest tightening, fists curling in my lap.
“You sit here,” she continues, voice low but relentless, “and you bleed all this guilt, all this love, all this regret — but the one person you refuse to give your honesty to is the only one who needs to hear it.”
I shake my head, jaw clenching.
“She doesn’t want to hear it. She can barely look at me.”
“Have you given her thechanceto hear it?”
I stare down at the floor, heart hammering so loud it’s all I can hear.
The therapist leans forward, elbows resting lightly on her knees.
“I’m not going to tell you how to be a better man, Saxon. That’s not my job. But I can tell you this — no amount of penance you pay in this room will change the fact that she’s still out there, wondering why the man who set the world on fire for her won’t come stand in the ashes with her now.”
I feel something break inside me. A breath I didn’t know I was holding shudders out of my chest, ragged, sharp, like it’s scraping its way through old wounds.
“She deserves better,” I whisper. “She deservesmore.”
The therapist’s voice softens. “Maybe she does. But what if the only person keeping you from giving that to her… is you?”
The silence between us stretches, pulsing. And then, quietly, she says the thing that punches straight through my ribs and tears me open:
“Tell her, Saxon. Call her. Show her you’re not done fighting for her. Because right now? She doesn’t need you to be perfect. She just needs you to show up.”
The door clicks shutbehind me. The world outside feels too loud. Too sharp. The sun is blinding after the dim beige quiet of that therapy room.
I shove my hands into my pockets, shoulders tight, head down, heart hammering like it wants to punch through my chest. I walk without a destination in mind— just moving, breathing, trying to process the wreckage I’ve been carrying.
Maxine walks into a room, and I feel like I’ve been standing too close to a fire —one Iwantto burn me. I want it in my skin, under my ribs, etched into my goddamn bones.
She undoes me without even trying. With a glance. With a breath. With the way her mouth pulls tight when she’s trying not to break.
She’s the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive while ripping me apart at the same time. And the worst part? I’d let her do it all over again. I’d let her shatter every piece of me, just for the chance to stand close enough to feel her warmth.
I stop walking. Let the truth settle. Let the weight of it press into my chest until I can’t tell if it’s pain or pleasure I feel.
She’s my end and my beginning. She’s the only thing I’ve never been able to control, and the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.
I want to be better. For her. With her. I want her fury. I want her forgiveness. I want every cracked, imperfect piece of her, and I want her to have every wrecked, bleeding inch of me.
61
MAXINE
“Tell me again why I need to be here for this.”
I sound whiny even to my own ears. Hell, Iamwhiny. Mia just gives me that look — equal parts patience, pity, and the kind of exasperated love only an older sister can wield like a weapon.
“Because, Max,” she says, looping her arm through mine, “you’ve been moping around like a ghost for weeks, and the family needs you.”
I snort softly. “The familyoryou lot?”
Jacklyn pops her head around the corner, grin sharp and unapologetic. “Both.”