It had been a gradual building of emotion that I recognized even without ever having experienced it before.

It was love. Pure and total love.

But for some reason, the words stuck in my throat. I stood there gaping like a fish as Maxx stared down at me, his eyes beseeching, pleading with me to reciprocate.

And I did.

So why couldn’t I say the words he needed to hear? The words I wanted to say?

The silence stretched and lengthened, and still I said nothing.

Finally Maxx let out an awkward laugh and looked away. I felt horrible. I had held back from him when he needed something from me so desperately. I hadn’t been able to give it to him.

And why?

I couldn’t explain why I was so hesitant to verbalize the feelings inside me. Perhaps it was the lingering mistrust or the mounting fear of failure.

I was furious with myself for ruining a perfect day with my insecurities.

Maxx lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. He smiled, but his eyes, which had been happy and content minutes before, were now tinged with sadness.

“Let’s get back to my place. I think I still owe you a fettuccine Alfredo,” he said, threading his fingers through mine as we made our way back to his car.

“Maxx,” I began, but he shook his head before I could continue.

“Don’t say anything, Aubrey. Let’s go home, and I’ll make you the best damned Alfredo you’ve ever eaten,” he stated, his voice hard even as he tried to act unaffected.

I blinked away the tears that were building, and I gave him a shaky smile.

“Sounds great.”

Chapter twenty-five

aubrey

after our day in the snow, I thought we had hit a turning point in our relationship. Even after my inability to verbalize my feelings, we had a wonderful evening together.

We had gone back to Maxx’s apartment, and he had made me dinner. He had obviously taken the time to straighten up his small apartment and had even vacuumed the carpet.

He had put a lot of effort into making the night special. I had helped him mix the sauce and make the salad. Then we had eaten his overcooked pasta and slightly burned garlic bread by the light of a dozen candles.

After cleaning up, Maxx had suggested we watch a movie. He had been careful in his selection, choosing The Doom Generation as an homage to our first date. I had misted up at his romantic sentiment.

Without bothering to watch the movie, I had dragged him back to his room and made quick work of removing our clothing. We made love until the early hours of the morning.

Everything had been so beautiful in its ease and simplicity. And I clutched at those moments greedily, scared that they would slip through my fingers.

Because the nature of our relationship wasn’t one of quiet happiness. And the weeks following our one amazing day together had shown me that we were destined for something much darker.

Because Maxx kept disappearing. He would slip away without my realizing it, and I would be left in a dark torment, worrying about what he was doing, what drugs he was taking, what ways he was destroying himself.

When we were together and he was touching me, I tried to ignore the anxious awareness that this was temporary, that when our breathing had slowed and the sweat had dried he’d leave me again. But I kept coming back for more.

Maxx overtook me.

He overwhelmed me.

I was drowning.

The moments of happiness when we were together felt bittersweet because they never lasted long enough.

I knew where he was going, I wasn’t stupid. But Maxx deftly evaded my questions when I asked them. But I never pushed too hard. I never grilled too much.

If I was being honest with myself, I simply didn’t want the confirmation that he was still selling, still using, still screwing up his life in the worst way imaginable. I was terrified that if my suspicions were confirmed beyond a doubt, I’d be forced to make a decision about our relationship. And I was worried that my choice would make me hate myself.

I was worried that I’d follow him wherever he wanted to lead me.

A strong part of me still wanted to go back to Compulsion. Even though I now knew the reality of what that place was and its role in Maxx’s world, I could still remember the thrill I felt when I was inside. The temptation was tantalizing.

So I stuck my head in the sand and tried to carry on as though this dark hole in his life didn’t exist.

Some days Maxx was the perfect boyfriend. He was romantic. He was doting. He loved me with all that he had. We laughed and talked together and lived in stolen moments of pure joy. He tried so hard to give me everything I needed.

But not the only thing that I would ever really want: for him to stop—the drugs, the club, all of it.

I knew he wouldn’t. So I never asked him to, knowing his answer would break my heart. There were times when he was lucid, his blue eyes clear. He didn’t shake or sweat or double over from the nausea of withdrawal. I could almost convince myself that the beast had been slain, that the worries in the back of my mind were unfounded.

But the worries were there nonetheless, rooted in a painful reality that was never far from the bubble we were trying to survive in.

Maxx wouldn’t talk to me about the club or anything that had to do with that part of his life. I hated it. I didn’t want Maxx to hide things from me, even the ugly parts that I wished weren’t real.

And while he kept so much of himself shrouded in secrecy, I knew that he loved me. And even though I had yet to verbally return the sentiment, Maxx never wasted a moment to tell me how he felt.