“It’s not a good idea, Max. I’ll be fine. Just give me a”—I hiccup—“give me a second and I’ll be out.”
“Baby, you’re crying. Let me help.”
“How can you help, Max? I fucked this up all by myself.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he’s talking to someone else. “We just need a minute, okay?” he tells the person. “She’s having a menstrual crisis.”
I probably misheard him. “Did you just say I’m having a mental crisis?”
“No, I’d never joke about that. I said menstrual. I only have a vague idea what that could entail, but she seemed to understand and backed away.”
I snort. Even when I’m having a “menstrual crisis” he makes me laugh.
“Did you just laugh?” he asks. “See? I’m helping already.”
Several seconds of silence pass, and my stomach churns when I consider the possibility that he’s gone. “Max? Are you still there?”
“I’m here, Lina. Will you let me in? Please?”
The urgency in his tone suggests that he’s asking for more than just my permission to enter this restroom. But if he sees me like this and doesn’t judge or pity me, what then? I’ll probably fall in love with him, that’s what. Because he’ll be the only man who’s seen my truest self and doesn’t think less of me for it. Andrew never saw the real me. And because of that, I was able to handle my breakup with him like a boss. Didn’t cry, or yell, or make a fuss. I held on to my dignity in the face of Andrew’s abandonment—because I never gave him my heart. Even when I asked him to reconsider his decision, I did it calmly and logically, pointing out the reasons we made sense. And when he declined to change his mind, I moved on.
So why should I ever give someone the power to make me feel weak again? That would be the very definition of self-sabotage. Plus, I’ve already got that covered; considering what just happened out there, I think it would be wise to impose a moratorium on undermining myself.
“Hey, Lina,” Max says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m just going to talk, okay? I figure it might help.”
I hiccup again. “Okay.”
“So here’s the thing. I wish Andrew and I were closer. But we just aren’t. From an early age, my parents encouraged competition between us. They think sibling rivalry can be a good thing. We push each other, they say. To a certain extent, that’s true. But it also means we don’t know how to engage with each other unless we’re trying to outsmart, out-succeed, out-everything each other. And I’m just so fucking tired of it.”
This is eye-opening. Andrew barely talked about Max when we dated. Now I understand why. When I think about what I knew about Max then—Andrew’s younger brother in New York—and what I know now, the difference is laughable. The man at the door is vibrant and sweet and funny and sexy and so much more than Andrew’s younger brother.
“I’m not exactly sure,” he says. “The toilet overflowed, so they’re cleaning it up.”
I frown. “What?”
“I’m explaining why this person can’t enter the restroom,” he says to me.
“Oh.”
“Anyway, this assignment with Rebecca,” he continues. “I know I told you it’s my chance to break away from Andrew at work. Distinguish myself so I don’t have to be attached to him at every turn. But it’s more than that. I just want to be my own person. Live my own life. Without reference to Andrew. Be Rebecca’s first choice for no other reason than I’m good at what I do. Maybe then Andrew and I could learn to like each other.” He’s silent for a moment, then his voice fills the air again, though it’s weaker than it was before. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. I just thought you should know that what went down tonight affects me, too. This client could help me stand on my own. And I think we can fix the situation together—if you let me in, that is.”
Somehow Max knows that if he shares a piece of himself, I’ll be inclined to do the same. I can’t keep him out. It would be pointless to try. So I walk to the door, pull on the handle, and peek outside. Max is leaning against the wall to the right of the door, his hands behind his back and his head facing the ceiling.
“Hey,” I say.
Max turns to face me, his body still propped against the wall. “Hi.”
I take his hand and tug him inside the restroom.
Within seconds, he’s sweeping his thumbs under my eyes and drying my tears.
“So brave,” he says softly. After a pause, he adds, “Still a badass, tears and all.”
I roll my eyes and wave a hand up and down my body. “Out there, yes. In here? This is not the look of a badass.”
He stretches his arms out in front of him, and I fall into his body, releasing a shuddering breath as he envelops me in a tight embrace.
“Thing is,” he says, his chin resting on my head, “there’s no single way to be a badass. Your mother and aunts coming here and making new lives for themselves? Badass. My mother running her own firm even after she and my father divorced? Badass. You facing the obstacles in your path and reinventing yourself in the process? Badass. There’s room for different kinds of greatness. Even if you cry doing it. Hell, especially if you cry doing it.”
“It’s not that simple and you know it,” I say into his chest.
“You’re right. I do know it. Or I know it now. Because you made me see that it’s complicated. I just need you to understand that I think you’re amazing and strong and yes, a fucking badass. I can’t control what other people think, but I know what I know.”
And to think I wasn’t going to let him in this restroom. Or in my heart. I can no longer fathom not doing both. I don’t share myself with many people. My family and Jaslene are my only exceptions. But I’m ready to make an exception for Max, too. He gets me. Like no other man ever has.
Someone knocks on the door, and seconds later, a server pokes her head in. “Folks, we’ve got a long line outside. Are you squared away with your menstrual crisis, ma’am?”
Max and I separate, my jaw dropping at her words. How did the night progress to the point that she’s even posing this question with a straight face?
“I’m all set,” I answer. “Thanks.”
I drag Max out of the restroom, my face averted so I can avoid the annoyed gazes of the people waiting their turn for a restroom with only two stalls.
“I need to go home and drink myself to sleep,” I tell Max. “We can talk about the Rebecca problem tomorrow.”
He throws an arm around my shoulder. “We still need to eat, though. How ’bout we get the paella to go?”
I groan. “That sounds good, but it’ll take forever to make.”
“What if I told you I already ordered it?” he asks, his eyebrows waggling.
“I’d thank you from the bottom of my heart and tell you that we’ll both be getting a workout tonight.”
He grimaces. “Shit. That’s a shame.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t order it yet,” he says.
“But I thought . . .” I shake my head. “Never mind.”