What scared me was that it had taken almost no time to stop loving Andy; I’d met Max within a week. I suspected that it would be a lot longer before I’d get over this one.
I finally turned my phone back on Thursday morning to find seventeen missed calls from Max, but he hadn’t left a single message. He’d sent me about twenty texts on Monday and Tuesday, as well, and those I read:
Call me.
Sara, I saw the Post. Call me.
More variations on the same thing: call, text, let me know you’re getting these. And, just when I was going to call, I saw the last one and it tripped an instinctive wire caging my heart.
Sara, I know it looks really bad. It isn’t what you’re thinking.
Oh, perfect. How many times had I heard that in a past life? The truth is, if you have to say that, it’s almost always exactly what you’re thinking. It took me forever to learn that lesson, and it wasn’t a program I was going to delete very soon.
I turned off my phone again, this time determined to leave it off for good.
Max returned Friday, I knew, but I still hadn’t called. He didn’t come by my work, and when I turned my phone back on a few days after checking my texts, I realized he’d stopped calling, too.
Which was worse: His clichéd insistence that I misunderstood? Or his silence?
Was I even being fair? I hated the in-between space, where anger met uncertainty. I’d lived in that space for so long with Andy, feeling like something was happening behind my back, but never knowing for sure. I had been caught in a horrible battle between feeling like a guilty nag and being positive he was doing me wrong.
This time my angst was so much worse. Because this time, I’d truly thought Max was a man worth knowing. In comparison, I realized I didn’t know that I’d ever felt that about Andy. Maybe I’d just wanted to make him into a man worth knowing.
What was the story with the other woman? Was she someone he hooked up with once before we were serious? Could I really hold that against him even though we’d agreed to be monogamous? But when had that picture been taken? Was it really only a few days before he spent the night at my house?
“Sare-bear. I can practically hear you thinking in there,” George called from his desk. “It is shrill and growing hysterical. Calm your tits. I put a flask in your desk drawer. It’s pink and sparkly but don’t fall in love; it’s mine.”
I pulled open the drawer. “What’s in it?”
“Scotch.”
Slamming the drawer shut, I groaned. “No go. That’s a Max Stella staple.”
“I know that.”
I glared at the wall, hoping he could feel the burn of my eyes on the back of his neck on the other side. “You’re an ass.”
“You haven’t called him, have you?”
“No. Should I?” I pressed a hand to my face. “Don’t answer that. He has Spanish flavors of the week. Of course I shouldn’t call him.”
I stood up and slammed my door closed, but just as I sat back down, three soft taps landed on the other side.
“You can come in, George,” I growled, defeated. “But I’m not drinking the scotch.”
Bennett walked inside, filling the space as only Bennett Ryan really could fill a space. I sat up straighter, looked down at my desk to instinctively inspect the level of paperwork disorganization.
“Hi, Bennett. I was totally kidding about the scotch. I don’t drink at work.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Okay . . . ,” I said, wondering what he was doing here. We rarely had cause to interact one-on-one at work. He studied me for a beat before saying, “In Chicago, when I’d hit rock bottom, you came into my office and yelled at me.”
“Oh.” Oh shit.
“You gave me perspective, hinted that my feelings for Chloe weren’t a surprise to anyone. You made it clear that everyone knew I was hard on her because I held her in particularly high regard.”
I smiled when I realized he wasn’t going to chew me out. “I remember. You were both such sad sacks.”
“I’m here to return the favor. I’ve known Max a long time.” He sat down in the chair on the other side of my desk. “He’s always been a bit of a playboy. He’s never been in love, I don’t think. Before you,” he added, eyebrow raised.
I knew it wouldn’t matter how long I knew Bennett; I would always feel intimidated by him, especially when he pulled the eyebrow move.
“And he hasn’t told me what’s going on, even though I’ve broken my own unspoken rules and actually asked, but he did say he hasn’t heard from you. And from what I hear from Will, he’s not doing well. If you really felt strongly about him, you owe him the chance to explain.”
I groaned. “Sometimes I think so, and then I remember that he’s a jerk.”
“Look, Sara. The way Andrew treated you was unconscionable. We all saw that, and I regret not speaking up on your behalf. But you have the choice to decide how you grow from it. If you’re going to think every man is like him, you don’t deserve Max. Max isn’t that guy.”
He watched me for a moment and I had no idea how to respond. But the way my heart squeezed painfully at the thought that I didn’t deserve Max told me that Bennett was right.
And that I needed to find a dress for the fund-raiser.
Chloe and Bennett picked me up in a town car and, as I climbed in, I took a second to appreciate Bennett in a tux. Honestly, the man was so pretty it was a little unfair. Beside him, Chloe glowed in a shimmering pearl halter gown. She rolled her eyes at something he whispered in her ear, and she replied, “You’re a pig.”
He laughed quietly, kissing her neck. “That’s why you love me.”
I loved seeing them happy, and wasn’t cynical enough to think that person didn’t exist for me. I just realized, as I stared down at my dress, that I’d spent more than an hour getting ready for this. I had really wanted my person to be Max.
I turned and looked out the window, trying not to remember the last time I’d been to his building, and how safe I’d felt with him in the shower. But to my tangled horror and relief, when we arrived the security guard remembered me, and smiled.
“Good evening, Miss Dillon.” He escorted us to the elevator and pressed the button for the penthouse before stepping back to leave us to ourselves. “Enjoy your night.”
I thanked him as the doors closed, and I felt like I might fall over.
“I’m legitimately worried I’m going to have a stroke,” I hissed. “Remind me why I’m here?”
“Breathe,” Chloe whispered to me.
Bennett leaned forward to look at me. “You’re here to show him how beautiful you look and that he didn’t break you. If that’s the only thing that happens tonight, it’s fine.”
I was swooning so hard at what he’d said that I’d completely forgotten to prepare myself to see Max’s living room. When the elevator doors opened, the sight of his place hit me like a wood plank to the chest, and I actually stumbled back a few steps.
The section that had been replicated in Johnny’s club was a minuscule portion of the room—a small area set back in a recessed corner and obviously meant for smaller gatherings. But to me it stood out like a beacon. Even with the vast open space and what felt like miles of marble floor between me and that memory, I could barely look away. A couple of men lingered there, sipping drinks and looking out the window. It felt invasive somehow, as if they were on the wrong side of the glass.
Without skipping a beat, Chloe slipped her arm through mine and pulled me forward as a tall, older gentleman led us from the foyer to the main living areas.
“You okay?” Chloe asked.
“I’m not sure this was a good idea.”
I heard her inhale a sharp breath and then she said, “Actually, that may be true.”
I looked up and followed her attention across the room to where Max had walked in, just behind Will.
He wore a tux, similar to the one he wore at the gala weeks ago. But tonight t
he vest beneath his jacket was white and his eyes were flat. His mouth smiled in greeting to everyone in the room. But the smile never made it into his eyes.
There were maybe a hundred other people looking at his art, wandering into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine, or standing in the center of the room, talking. But I felt frozen near the wall.
Why had I worn red? I felt like a wannabe siren among the muted creams and blacks. What was I hoping to accomplish? Did I want him to see me?
Whether or not I wanted him to, he didn’t. At least, he didn’t seem to. Max walked around the room, talking to his guests, thanking them for coming. I tried to pretend I wasn’t staring at his every move but it was useless.
I missed him.
I didn’t know what he felt, what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t know what we had really been.
“Sara.”
I turned at the sound of Will’s uniquely deep voice.
“Hi, Will.” I hated seeing him so serious. I’d rarely seen either Max or Will unsmiling. This looked all wrong.
He studied me for a beat, and then murmured, “Does he know you’re here?”
I looked across the room at where Max stood, speaking to two older women. “I don’t know.”
“Should I tell him?”
I shook my head and he sighed. “He’s been such a useless bastard. I’m really glad you came.”
Laughing a little, I admitted, “I’m still undecided.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said quietly.
I met his eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for Max’s indiscretions.”
His brow furrowed and he shook his head once. “He never told you?”
My heart fell and then immediately began thundering. “Told me what?”
But Will took a step back, seeming to reconsider saying anything else. “Oh, you really haven’t talked to him yet.”
I shook my head and he looked over my shoulder, to where Max stood. Will put his hand on my arm. “Don’t leave without talking to him, okay?”
I nodded and looked back to Max, who was standing with a beautiful brunette. She had her hand on his arm and was laughing at something he said. Laughing too much, trying too hard.
When I turned back around, Will was gone.
Suddenly needing air, I turned and walked down the closest hall. Down here, there were no caterers carting trays of food, no guests mingling. Just a wide hallway lined with closed doors. Between each were beautiful photographs of trees and snow, lips and hands and spines.
Where was I going? Was there more Max to discover here? Would I stumble into a room filled with a woman’s things? Was the reason he’d always been so amenable to staying away from his place the fact that it allowed him to have a private space for someone else?
Why was I even here?
Hearing footsteps, I quickly ducked into a room at the end of the hall.
Inside, away from the crowd, it was so quiet I could hear my pulse whooshing in my ears.
And then, I looked around.
I was in an enormous bedroom, with a huge bed in the middle. On the bedside table, which held the only lit lamp in the room, was a framed photograph of me.
In it, I stood, staring at the camera, with my fingers poised on the button of my shirt, lips parted. I looked at once surprised and relieved.
I remembered that exact moment. He’d just told me he loved me.
Whipping around, I looked at the wall behind me. More photos: My back as I reached behind me to take off my bra. My face as I looked down to unzip my skirt; smiling. My face looking up at him in the morning sun.
I stumbled forward, wanting to escape the realization that I had messed up, hugely. That there was more here for me to understand. But past another door was an expansive dressing room, and if possible, it was worse.
The room was exploding with intimacy. There were probably thirty pictures of us, all black-and-white, all different sizes, artfully tiered and layered across the simple cream paint.
Some were chaste and simply beautiful. A picture I’d taken of his lips pressed against the top of my foot. His thumb sweeping across a small exposed strip of my abdomen as he pushed my shirt up my torso.
Some were erotic but restrained, suggestive of a moment where we were lost in each other, but not showing how. My teeth biting his earlobe, only mouth and jaw visible against his skin but with me clearly gasping, close to climax. Or my torso, beneath him. My fingernails dug into his shoulders and my thighs were pulled up high to my sides.
A few were downright filthy. My hand wrapped around his erection. A blurry shot of him moving in me from behind, in the warehouse.
But the one that stopped me dead in my tracks was the one taken from the side the night at my apartment. I didn’t even realize Max had set his camera on a timer but it was an awkward angle, with the camera sitting on my bedside table. In the picture, Max was over me, his hips flexed as he pushed inside. One of my legs wound around his thigh. He was propped above me on his forearms, leaning down over me as we kissed. Our eyes were closed, faces devoid of any tension whatsoever.
It was us, making love, caught in a single perfect image.
And, beside it, a picture of his lips open around my breast, his eyes gazing up at me with naked adoration.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“No one is meant to be in here.”
I jumped, pressing my hand to my chest at the sound of his voice. Closing my eyes, I asked, “Not even me?”
“Especially not you.”
I turned around to look at him but it was a mistake. I should have taken a bigger breath, prepared myself somehow for how he would look up close: crisp, put-together, unbelievably gorgeous.
But at the edges: broken. Dark lines circled his unsmiling eyes. His lips were tight and pale.
“I was having a hard time out there,” I admitted. “The room, the couch . . .”
He looked up at me, eyes hard. “It was like that for me when I came home from San Francisco, you know. I wanted to buy all new furniture.”
We drowned in a heavy silence after that until he finally looked away. I didn’t know where to start. I had to remember that his phone had pictures of other women on it, ones more recent than those of me. But here in this room, he seemed more hurt than I did.
“I don’t understand what’s going on right now,” I admitted.
“I don’t need my humiliation put so plainly before me,” he said, motioning to the pictures on the wall. “Believe me, Sara, I feel pathetic enough without you coming in here uninvited.” He glanced up at a picture of my lips on his hipbone. “I made a deal with myself. I was going to leave them up for two weeks, and then put them away.”
“Max—”
“You told me you loved me.” His calm exterior cracked slightly; I’d never heard him sound angry before.
I had no idea what to say. He’d phrased it in past tense. But nothing felt more immediate than my feelings for him, particularly in his room, surrounded by the evidence of what we’d become that night. “You had photos of other wo—”
“But if you loved me how I love you,” he said, cutting me off, “you would have given me a chance to explain what you saw in the Post.”
“By the time explanation is needed, it’s usually too late.”
“You’ve made that clear. But why do you assume I’ve done something wrong? Have I ever lied to you, or kept anything from you? I trusted you. You assume I’ve never been hurt and that trust comes easily to me. You’re too busy guarding your own heart to realize that maybe I’m not the arsehole people expect me to be.”
Any response dissipated when he’d said this. He was right. After he’d told me about Cecily, and his romantic life after, I’d assumed it had been easy for him, and that he had no experience with the harsher side of love.
“You could have let me explain,” he said.
“I’m here. Explain now.”
His scowl deepened but he blinked away, nodding. “Whoever stole m
y bag sold the pictures as their own. The good folks at Celebritini found a hundred and ninety-eight pictures of you in my briefcase. On my SD card, my phone, and a thumb drive. Had they been able to decode the password on my laptop, they would have found another couple hundred. And yet, they chose to post a picture of your hip, and the picture of a woman I’ve never met before.”
I felt my brow furrow in confusion; my heart hammered wildly beneath my ribs. “You mean they just put her in there? It wasn’t yours?”
“It was on my phone,” he said, looking back at me. “But I don’t know who she is. It was a picture Will had texted me that morning, just before my bag was taken. It was some woman he’d seen a few times a couple of years ago.”
I shook my head, not following. “Why would he send you that?”
“I told him about the art I had of you, how it was all new for me. And, as is the way with us, he joked that of course he’d already done that before. Taken photographs of lovers, tasteful ones. It was all a game, that’s old sport, been there done that. He was taking the piss. He could tell I was sincere and loved you.” He stepped back and leaned against the wall. “But we’d been joking about it the day before my trip. He asked me if I’d stocked my phone with Sara porn. He sent just that one because he’s a twat and was having a laugh. The timing was just really, really poor.”
“The story said you had photos of a lot of women.”
“A lie.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that? Leave a voice mail, or text the truth?”
“Well, one because I thought being adults we’d talk face-to-face. Everything we’ve done together required a great deal of trust, Sara. I gathered I deserved the benefit of the doubt. But also”—he ran his hand through his hair, cursing—“it would mean admitting that I’d told Will about how you let me photograph you. It would mean admitting I’d betrayed our secret. It would mean revealing that he’d sent me a private picture of a woman who had presumably trusted him. I’ve had my lawyers handle the containment issue, but honestly, it made us both look like pricks.”