Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Chapter Twenty-Two
MAX
My condo is a strange place. In every external way, it's the same space. The wide windows still let in the white morning light and the blistering afternoon sun. The hardwood floors still squeak. The counters still shine.
And my bed, the just-firm-enough foam memory mattress, still invites me. I settle into my cotton sheets late. Wake early.
Still on East Coast time.
Still unsettled.
This isn't home. But it is home too.
It's the space Cassie and I shared.
The space where I started this business with Raul.
Where I lost him.
Where I lost the sense of safety and home.
One thing is the same, I need coffee this early. I fix a dark roast in my French Press. Drink it black. Think of Opal's reaction.
Would she accept the explanation? There isn't fresh food here yet. No milk of any kind.
But I could have picked it up on the way home. Or asked Cassie to grab something for me. She still has a key.
But who asks their ex-girlfriend to grab almond milk?
After I finish my cup, I dress, take a walk along the path overlooking the beach.
The soft white light fades into a bright blue sky. Waves roll onto the sand. Tourists circle streets, looking for free parking.
It's late May. Early in the season. Most people are locals. Well, Orange County locals. They're coming from Tustin or Irvine or Santa Ana.
But I can already feel the shift in energy. The bikini-clad women and men in board shorts. Beach volleyball and soft boards.
The beach is beautiful and it's perfect. In every state. In every season.
There's nowhere like it.
Not even the engineering marvel of New York City.
Even if everything else was different, that would be there.
Opal belongs in the city.
I don't.
I watch the waves roll into the beach until a text grabs my attention.
Cassie.
Cassie: I hear you got home last night.
Max: I did.
Cassie: Re-christen the bed yet?
Max: How else would I deal with jet lag?
Cassie: A walk on the beach?
Max: Guilty.
Cassie: In all black? You're a New Yorker now.
Max: Because I never wore black before.
Cassie: Are you?
Max: No. I'm in California mode.
Cassie: There's a mode?
Max: Apparently.
Cassie: A neon orange speedo?
Max: So you still have sexual fantasies of me?
Cassie: Honestly?
Max: Don't break my heart.
Cassie: No. I don't. But I appreciate an attractive man.
Max: Brutal.
Cassie: Will you be home in ten?
Max: Don't you have a key?
Cassie: It's officially your place now. I ask permission.
She moved out while I was in New York.
Max: Anytime is fine. What do you need?
Cassie: A few things. I'll bring coffee.
Max: I had coffee.
Cassie: And you don't want more?
Max: Fair.
Cassie: Still drink it black?
Max: Almond milk now.
Cassie: You went to New York to fall behind the trends?
Max: How am I behind the trends?
Cassie: Oat milk is the new thing.
Max: Was the new thing last year.
Cassie: Okay. Dark roast. Almond milk. See you soon.
I slip my phone into my pocket. Take a deep breath. Find no resistance.
My shoulders don't tense. My chest doesn't tighten.
It's easy talking to Cassie now.
Even with how things ended.
Even with the months before that.
Is it the impersonal nature of texts? Or something deeper?
The thought circles my mind as I walk home, shower, dress in jeans and a fresh t-shirt. I barely recognize my reflection. Who is this version of Max? The casual man who isn't hiding behind designer gear?
I haven't seen him in a long, long time.
Cassie either. She knocks, lets herself in, finds me in the bedroom. "Like Narcissus before him, Max Morrison was paralyzed by his own beauty."
"As long as we agree I'm beautiful."
She meets my gaze through the mirror and raises a brow. "This is familiar, isn't it?"
"In a way."
She raises the takeout cup in her right hand. "Did you eat?"
"No."
"I brought sandwiches," she says. "Egg and cheese."
"Avocado?"
"It goes without saying."
I turn to face her.
She smiles, warm, familiar, uncertain. "Hey. You okay?"
"No."
"I figured." She hands me the coffee and leads me into the main room. The kitchen slash dining room slash den. A perfect mix of modern and cozy.
Once upon a time, it was the perfect mix of her and me. Now? I'm not sure. The touches of her are gone, but the space isn't me either.
Whoever that is.
"You look good," she says. "Tired, but handsome."
"Brutal again."
She puts the sandwiches on plates. Brings both to the table. "You cleaned the bed well. After your tryst."
"Of course." I sit. Pick up half my sandwich. "I'm an expert."
"Was there someone?"
"Last night?"
"No. Before." Her voice softens. "Before you left."
"Cassie—"
"I would understand. We hadn't been together in a long time."
"No. Never. Did you…"
"No."
The sandwich is perfect. Crisp bread, warm egg, soft, creamy avocado. "Thank you."
"For not cheating?"
"For breakfast. And not cheating."
"You're welcome. For breakfast. The other… I don't think it merits thanks." She takes a long sip of her coffee. "Was there someone in New York?"
"For a while."
"Now?"
"It was a fling."
"Some moody New Yorker who only wears black?"