He lifts me into his arms and carries me to his couch, and then he sits there like that, with me breaking into a thousand pieces on his lap, for hours. He stays there long after I stop crying. He stays there even when my body starts sinking into his and my eyes flutter closed. Yes, my husband stays with me until finally I fall into an exhausted, broken sleep.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THEN – ANABELLE
I’m staring at Max, just staring.
He’s sitting on the couch, looking out the window. He hasn’t said a word to me for three days. Not since he came home that night with one of his security friends from the club. They said he broke down. I don’t know what happened. They don’t know what happened. He just lost his shit and now he’s sitting there, staring blankly.
I don’t know what snapped in his brain. He’s been fine; everything seemed normal. Everyone that’s called through told me they didn’t know if something had happened before he arrived at the club that night, because he did show up late. I’ve asked him, but he simply grunts at me and gives me no answers. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what it is.
Maybe he just needs time.
I’ve been continually giving him food and drink, none of which he touches. His skin looks pale and his big body is slumping over. I’ve grown desperate on more than one occasion in the last few days, asking what’s wrong, begging that he tell me, but he just keeps answering with the same thing. “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine.”
Clearly that’s not so.
What did he see? Did someone hurt him? Did something happen on his way to the club? He’s not close with his family, and they live a good eight hours away, but I called them anyway. His mother had no idea, so there were no answers there. Everyone at the club said he just came in, and something was off. He was beside himself and lost his shit at a staff member.
It’s as if someone isn’t telling me something. I’m most suspicious of the security guard, Peter, who said he controlled him and calmed him down. He was vague when he was answering my questions, saying that he thinks Max’s just under stress and needs some time off. Maybe he’s right, but there’s got to be more to it. Max doesn’t just shut down like this. It’s not normal.
“Hey,” I say, walking over and putting my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. “You okay?”
He nods. “Fine, Blue Belle.”
“You haven’t moved a lot in the past few days. Are you sick, Max?”
“I’m fine, Blue Belle.”
His words are so empty, emotionless and broken.
“Max, please. You’re scaring me.”
He shrugs my hand off his shoulder. “I’m stressed, I need a break. It’s fine.”
He stands then, finally moving from his spot.
“Max, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” he snaps, his face full of rage.
As if he realizes what he just did, his expressionless mask comes back. “I just need rest.”
“Please,” I beg. “I feel so helpless. I need to help you, but I don’t know how. Max please.”
He ignores me. He just turns and walks up the stairs and I hear the door slam.
A tear trickles down my cheek.
MAX
There’s nothing left.
I feel nothing.
I want to die.
THEN – ANA – TWO WEEKS LATER
He hasn’t come home for three days. Three days. He’s been at the club, and no matter how many times I call, he doesn’t answer. He sent a vague text assuring me he’s fine and that he’s just working, but it’s not like him to behave like this. I’m frantic with worry, and I’ve asked him so many times what’s going on, but he just keeps brushing me off. Eventually he stopped answering and just glared at me, as if my questions were stupid.
I’m pacing my living room, contemplating going down to the club and demanding that he come home. I don’t like going down there, and I don’t like pushing him when he doesn’t want to be pushed, but something has got to give. He’s clearly struggling with something. I just don’t know what it is. Every time I ask, he just shrugs it off. He doesn’t want me to know. He’s pushing me away.
The door swings open, stopping me in my tracks. I turn and see Max stumble through. He’s wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a black shirt, with a leather jacket thrown on. He looks a mess, and his hair is scruffy and overgrown. His face needs a good shave. I watch in horror as he fumbles with the lock, and I realize that he’s drunk.
Max hates drinking. He never does it, and if he does it’s so light you wouldn’t even know he’d been doing it.
I’ve never seen him drunk. Never.
“Are you drunk?” I whisper, pain shooting through my heart.
He spins around, as if just noticing me, and then laughs loudly. “Had a few.”
Ice runs up my spine and I storm forward, slamming the door closed and locking it. “You never drink. What the hell is going on, Max?”
“Get off my back,” he mutters, taking a shaky step forward. “I’m allowed to have fun.”
“Yeah, you are, but this isn’t just fun. You’re suffering. Something is wrong, but you won’t tell me what it is. Is it the club? Is there a problem?”
He glares at me. “Maybe the fucking problem is you. Stop nagging.”
It feels as if someone’s slapped me. “Nagging?” I whisper. “You think I’m nagging? I’m trying to help you, Max.”
“Don’t want your fuckin’ help, ’cause nothin’ is wrong.”
“Then why are you drinking?”
“Because I’m having fun!” he roars. “Maybe you should try it once in a fucking while.”
Tears burn under my eyelids. “Is that the problem? You don’t think I’m fun enough because I don’t come down to the club? I thought that didn’t matter. I thought . . . I thought it’s how you wanted it to be.”
“Nothing is how I fuckin’ wanted it to be, Anabelle. Fuckin’ nothing.”
With that he stumbles up the stairs.
I stand in stunned shock.
He’s never spoken to me like that before, and it hurts like hell.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NOW – ANABELLE
I wake on the couch in the middle of the night, alone but tucked in with a blanket. I sit up and rub my eyes, staring around the room. My heart aches as I realize where I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this house. God, I loved it so much. I push to my feet and the floorboards squeak as I walk into the kitchen. I get a glass of water and then tiptoe towards the stairs. I need to know Immy is okay.
I go up slowly, and when I reach the room that used to be the spare room, I push the door open. Immy is tucked in the big double bed, surrounded by teddy bears. My heart aches, because Max must have gone and got those for her. She looks happy, comfortable and cared for. That makes tears spring to my already burning eyes. He took care of her. I knew he would, but seeing it makes warmth smother some of the pain.
I step out and gently close the door. I’m about to head back down the stairs but I hesitate when I glance at the old main bedroom door. I find myself turning without being prompted and I walk over, taking the door handle with trembling fingers. I push it open lightly and peer in. The bed is exactly where it used to be, and right in the middle of that bed is Max, sleeping, hands tucked behind his head.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THEN – ANABELLE
I’m staring at Max, just staring.
He’s sitting on the couch, looking out the window. He hasn’t said a word to me for three days. Not since he came home that night with one of his security friends from the club. They said he broke down. I don’t know what happened. They don’t know what happened. He just lost his shit and now he’s sitting there, staring blankly.
I don’t know what snapped in his brain. He’s been fine; everything seemed normal. Everyone that’s called through told me they didn’t know if something had happened before he arrived at the club that night, because he did show up late. I’ve asked him, but he simply grunts at me and gives me no answers. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what it is.
Maybe he just needs time.
I’ve been continually giving him food and drink, none of which he touches. His skin looks pale and his big body is slumping over. I’ve grown desperate on more than one occasion in the last few days, asking what’s wrong, begging that he tell me, but he just keeps answering with the same thing. “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine.”
Clearly that’s not so.
What did he see? Did someone hurt him? Did something happen on his way to the club? He’s not close with his family, and they live a good eight hours away, but I called them anyway. His mother had no idea, so there were no answers there. Everyone at the club said he just came in, and something was off. He was beside himself and lost his shit at a staff member.
It’s as if someone isn’t telling me something. I’m most suspicious of the security guard, Peter, who said he controlled him and calmed him down. He was vague when he was answering my questions, saying that he thinks Max’s just under stress and needs some time off. Maybe he’s right, but there’s got to be more to it. Max doesn’t just shut down like this. It’s not normal.
“Hey,” I say, walking over and putting my hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. “You okay?”
He nods. “Fine, Blue Belle.”
“You haven’t moved a lot in the past few days. Are you sick, Max?”
“I’m fine, Blue Belle.”
His words are so empty, emotionless and broken.
“Max, please. You’re scaring me.”
He shrugs my hand off his shoulder. “I’m stressed, I need a break. It’s fine.”
He stands then, finally moving from his spot.
“Max, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” he snaps, his face full of rage.
As if he realizes what he just did, his expressionless mask comes back. “I just need rest.”
“Please,” I beg. “I feel so helpless. I need to help you, but I don’t know how. Max please.”
He ignores me. He just turns and walks up the stairs and I hear the door slam.
A tear trickles down my cheek.
MAX
There’s nothing left.
I feel nothing.
I want to die.
THEN – ANA – TWO WEEKS LATER
He hasn’t come home for three days. Three days. He’s been at the club, and no matter how many times I call, he doesn’t answer. He sent a vague text assuring me he’s fine and that he’s just working, but it’s not like him to behave like this. I’m frantic with worry, and I’ve asked him so many times what’s going on, but he just keeps brushing me off. Eventually he stopped answering and just glared at me, as if my questions were stupid.
I’m pacing my living room, contemplating going down to the club and demanding that he come home. I don’t like going down there, and I don’t like pushing him when he doesn’t want to be pushed, but something has got to give. He’s clearly struggling with something. I just don’t know what it is. Every time I ask, he just shrugs it off. He doesn’t want me to know. He’s pushing me away.
The door swings open, stopping me in my tracks. I turn and see Max stumble through. He’s wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a black shirt, with a leather jacket thrown on. He looks a mess, and his hair is scruffy and overgrown. His face needs a good shave. I watch in horror as he fumbles with the lock, and I realize that he’s drunk.
Max hates drinking. He never does it, and if he does it’s so light you wouldn’t even know he’d been doing it.
I’ve never seen him drunk. Never.
“Are you drunk?” I whisper, pain shooting through my heart.
He spins around, as if just noticing me, and then laughs loudly. “Had a few.”
Ice runs up my spine and I storm forward, slamming the door closed and locking it. “You never drink. What the hell is going on, Max?”
“Get off my back,” he mutters, taking a shaky step forward. “I’m allowed to have fun.”
“Yeah, you are, but this isn’t just fun. You’re suffering. Something is wrong, but you won’t tell me what it is. Is it the club? Is there a problem?”
He glares at me. “Maybe the fucking problem is you. Stop nagging.”
It feels as if someone’s slapped me. “Nagging?” I whisper. “You think I’m nagging? I’m trying to help you, Max.”
“Don’t want your fuckin’ help, ’cause nothin’ is wrong.”
“Then why are you drinking?”
“Because I’m having fun!” he roars. “Maybe you should try it once in a fucking while.”
Tears burn under my eyelids. “Is that the problem? You don’t think I’m fun enough because I don’t come down to the club? I thought that didn’t matter. I thought . . . I thought it’s how you wanted it to be.”
“Nothing is how I fuckin’ wanted it to be, Anabelle. Fuckin’ nothing.”
With that he stumbles up the stairs.
I stand in stunned shock.
He’s never spoken to me like that before, and it hurts like hell.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NOW – ANABELLE
I wake on the couch in the middle of the night, alone but tucked in with a blanket. I sit up and rub my eyes, staring around the room. My heart aches as I realize where I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this house. God, I loved it so much. I push to my feet and the floorboards squeak as I walk into the kitchen. I get a glass of water and then tiptoe towards the stairs. I need to know Immy is okay.
I go up slowly, and when I reach the room that used to be the spare room, I push the door open. Immy is tucked in the big double bed, surrounded by teddy bears. My heart aches, because Max must have gone and got those for her. She looks happy, comfortable and cared for. That makes tears spring to my already burning eyes. He took care of her. I knew he would, but seeing it makes warmth smother some of the pain.
I step out and gently close the door. I’m about to head back down the stairs but I hesitate when I glance at the old main bedroom door. I find myself turning without being prompted and I walk over, taking the door handle with trembling fingers. I push it open lightly and peer in. The bed is exactly where it used to be, and right in the middle of that bed is Max, sleeping, hands tucked behind his head.
