“Can we…” I paused, took a breath. “Can you just get to L.A., and then we can keep talking from there? I know it’s not ideal. I know it’s going to be hard. But please, Max.”
He looked like he was about to cry. “That’s only going to make it worse,” he said. “I don’t want to draw this out. I don’t want to be the reason you have hope when none exists. I…” His voice cracked. “I care about you too much. You have to know that this is killing me, Fiona. I’ve never felt this way before about anyone. I didn’t even know it was possible.”
“Me neither,” I said—too brightly. “That’s why we have to fight for what’s possible. I’m with you, I’m ready.”
“I’m not.”
Those two words slammed into my gut like a gale-force wind.
Talk about a hurricane.
“Thank you for helping Pop,” he said. “Thank you for saving The Red Room with me. Thank you for… for being open and honest with me. I’ll never forget you, princess. You have been the best, the most beautiful thing, about coming home.”
“Please. Max, please don’t do this.” I wiped my eyes. I was crying, big tears falling down my cheeks, and I hadn’t even realized it. “I think we’re making a mistake. The biggest mistake.”
He shook his head. “I have to get to the airport. I’m so sorry… I… I’m sorry, I can’t.”
I watched him walk to the front door in slow motion. Say something! Convince him! I was grasping for anything to get him to stay, to miss his flight, to take a risk with me.
He stopped, one hand on the doorknob. He didn’t turn around to face me, but I heard his words just the same. “You will find your soul mate, Fiona. And believe me. He’ll be the lucky one.”
45
Fiona
Two weeks later
I couldn’t believe I’d once been so cavalier about never having a broken heart before.
Because my heart was currently shattered into a million fucking pieces, and I was certain it would never heal. A deep, unyielding ache had settled into that space to the left of my sternum. It never, ever abated.
And I’d heard that breakups were something everyone eventually got over. I was getting worse every day though, like a cold I couldn’t shake.
I had called and texted Max a number of times.
All had gone unanswered. Which meant my regret—at how I handled things, at how I communicated—grew more and more intense until it was basically part of my everyday life now.
I walked up to my parents’ door, overnight bag in hand. With the help of Roxy, they’d managed to convince me to stay over for the weekend. Edward would be there too, along with Matilda, Busy Bee, Apple, and Cucumber. They’d promised movies and good whiskey and too much pizza.
I’d caved and said yes. Even though I’d spent the past fourteen days throwing myself into work with a dedication bordering on unhealthy. My body was breaking down in every single way—not just my bruised and broken heart. I was exhausted. Dehydrated from crying. Raw and impossibly tender.
I knocked, and Roxy opened the door immediately, holding a cat. “Prepare for a weekend of animal therapy plus alcohol.”
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” I said.
Actually, that wasn’t true. I wanted Max more.
She pulled me in for a long hug. My sister had dutifully taken care of me since I was no longer taking care of myself. She supplied meals and water and checked on me to make sure I was bathing semi-regularly. We had re-hashed the breakup to death, and she had listened, kindly, every time I wanted to go over the details again.
“How many spreadsheets have you made today?” she asked.
“None.”
“Fiona Lennox Quinn.”
I relented. “Okay six, but that’s not bad.”
I may have started a whole new category of spreadsheets concerning my future husband. Who I really, really believed to be Max. But two weeks without hearing from him was helping me understand just what our breakup had truly meant.
He wasn’t going to be that guy who commits. I really did need to move on now. Luckily, given my experience with Max, I now knew what I wanted on a first date.
I just needed to summon up the enthusiasm to put my new systems and processes to work.
“We’ll talk about this spreadsheet addiction later,” she said. “For now, let’s drink on the couch and have Mom and Dad order takeout.”
I walked into our living room to find Edward, sprawled sleeping on the couch with a dozing Matilda. My parents were watching an old Katherine Hepburn movie I loved.
“Wait,” I said. “You’re not making us watch documentaries about war crimes?”
Movies, for my parents, meant documentaries about political activism or biopics about musicians. Anything else wasn’t allowed.
“We are not,” my dad said. “Did you know this woman was in all of these great movies, Fi?”
“Katherine Hepburn?”
“Yes! A national treasure, and I had no idea.”
Roxy and I shared an amused look. “I thought it could be a Fiona-themed weekend. We could do things that you enjoy.” She left off the unspoken part: for once.
“That would be really nice,” I admitted. My mom patted the spot next to her on the couch. Roxy and I piled in under a giant blanket and passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth.
“Roxy made us call one of those phone numbers on the fridge too,” Mom said somberly. “As part of the Fiona weekend.”
“You made your doctor’s appointments?” I was stunned.
“Yes, after all of these months.”
“Years,” I corrected.
My mom patted my arm. “It doesn’t matter, dear. Our healthcare system in this country is- built on a system of money-making lies.”
I stifled a laugh. Exchanged another look with my sister. “Yeah, but you still need to get your flu shots.”
“If you insist.”
I snuggled under the blanket and felt the most like myself in these past two weeks. The heartbreak wasn’t gone—it stayed, persistent, even as I laughed with my parents and dozed lazily on the couch before eating pizza.
But it was the reminder I’d needed that there were people here to catch me when I fell.
And I’d fallen.
Big time.
46
Max
The bike I was working on was—technically—a thing of fucking beauty. A miracle of a machine. So rare, and expensive, I’d had to sign an NDA just to touch it. Its owner was a local billionaire with too much time on his hands and not enough motorcycles, in his opinion.
For any mechanic, working on this machine would be an honor.
Except for me, apparently. It was nearing lunch, and I hadn’t slept, again. I was staring at my hands while thinking about Fiona’s smile, spacey and unfocused. My head throbbed. My chest hurt. My eyes were red and itchy from lack of sleep and crying.
It had not been a good two weeks here in California.
“Devlin.”