“That’s what I’m doing!” she cries out in frustration.

“But I’m not included in that small circle of things you’re focusing on,” I point out.

She almost growls in annoyance at me. “Max . . . I feel like someone’s tied lead weights to my feet and then went and dumped me in the ocean. I’m getting pulled down and I can’t fight my way back up because the weight is too fucking heavy.”

I huff out a breath of frustration, jam my hands down into my pockets. “I’ve tried to help you cut that rope repeatedly, Jules, but you won’t let me. I’m strong enough to pull you back up but you won’t let me.”

“I know. I get that—” she says, but I cut her off.

“More importantly, your little analogy about the weight and the rope . . . well you pretty much are saying I’m dragging you down. Clearly I can’t help take the weight off if I’m the one adding to it.”

She opens her mouth to argue against that but then just as quickly shuts it. Her eyes drop to the floor and her shoulders slump further. She gives me no further argument and that’s fine.

I don’t have it in me to keep going around in circles with her.

“I’m going to head out,” I say softly, turning toward the door. When I reach it, I hesitate just a moment. I don’t look back at her but I leave the ball in her court. “If you change your mind and figure there’s room for me in your life, let me know.”

“Max, there is room,” she says desperately.

“Not enough,” I say as I open the door and step through it, pulling it shut quietly behind me.

Chapter 26

Jules

I push open the door to Fleurish with my hip, struggling with the three canvases under one arm and two under the other. A merry chime of bells greets me and I hear Stevie yell from somewhere in the back of the store, “Be right out.”

Stepping in, I squat to release my hold on the paintings before they fall and then carefully restack them to lean against an open armoire standing up against the near wall. It’s filled with a variety of knickknacks that appear to be for sale.

“Jules?” I hear Stevie’s surprised voice and turn around to face him. “What are you doing here? You weren’t supposed to come until Monday.”

I shrug. “I got more paintings done than I figured I would so I thought I’d go ahead and bring them by.”

Yup. Got twice as many paintings done this past week because my time has been freed up yet again by the fact I haven’t seen Max since our—um, argument?—a week ago to the day. Turns out, although we may have not seen each other every day before said argument due to his travel schedule, he was still very much a daily presence in my life with long telephone calls, FaceTime, or text chats. Without those taking up my time, and thus feeling the keen loss of his presence, I channeled my resulting miseries into my art.

It made me quite productive.

That’s not to say it’s been pure radio silence between me and Max. He’s been gone most of this week with away games in Ottawa and Montreal but we have shared a few texts. Well, I texted him after each game—one win and one loss—and he texted back.

The texts were short.

They were impersonal.

It fucking hurt that he wouldn’t engage with me.

“Well, let me see them,” Stevie says, and I blink away my dark thoughts before they make me cry. I watch as he turns to where I’d displayed the paintings and he walks down the line of them, hand to his chin as he evaluates them with a critical eye.

“These are really different than your other stuff,” he says casually.

“I know,” I say with a low murmur. They’re all moody, bordering on depressing, which is exactly how I’ve felt this week while I let my feelings out onto the canvases.

“But I like them,” he adds, and turns to face me with a smile. “I’m going to keep two here for the shop and I think it’s time we up the price on them a little. I’ll send the others out to some of the local retailers.”

“Awesome,” I say, feeling someone heartened by the fact he thinks my work can get an even better price. I’m making a steady income now from my art, and even have a nice savings account started. I look past Stevie to the back. “Olivia working today?”

“Nope,” he says and then looks at his watch. “She’s getting ready for the gala tonight, and speaking of which . . . why aren’t you doing the same? It starts in a few hours.”

My body goes stiff at the mention of the gala even as my stomach pitches at the thought of Max going there without me. It’s a fundraiser hosted by the Cold Fury organization, with the proceeds to go to funding after school activities to the underprivileged who can’t afford such things. It’s a great cause, and one that is and should be very personal to me, as I understand all about not being able to afford things for my niece and nephews.

“I’m not going,” I say in a whisper of a voice.

“Why not?” Stevie exclaims. “These parties are always so much fun and who doesn’t love getting all glammed up?”

“Me,” I admit, although that’s somewhat of a lie. I’m a girl. I like those things. I just don’t have the ability to carry off the deception that I’m nothing but a poor girl being dragged into the celebrity lifestyle, and it’s so painfully obvious I don’t belong there. “I told Max I wasn’t going because I just don’t like that spotlight on me. I also told him I wanted to slow things down. Things have been a little strained between us.”

“I straight up call bullshit on you,” Stevie says dramatically with a wave of his hand. “Now what’s really going on?”

Stevie stares at me critically, almost as if he’s looking for nuance in my expression or voice to get to the truth. His look scares me because it tells me his bullshit meter is turned on and is finely tuned in. Ordinarily, I might still lie to him or even put him off with some excuse as to why I have to leave, but honestly . . . I want to tell him. I want someone to hear my side of the story and tell me if I’m crazy to be acting this way.

I suspect I am, but I won’t admit it to myself, so I decide to just go ahead and lay it all out there.

“I’m scared of Max’s world,” I tell him by way of simple explanation.