Maxwell took two steps around the corner into his hotel suite from the sitting area to see the reminder which haunted him from two nights prior when he chucked his iPad toward the wall, causing reason for the hotel to charge his card for incidentals. Shame overcame him as he realized that he acted out of rage, but he was certainly happy that he didn’t end up falling off the wagon and becoming a victim to the drink once again. Especially if he was going to have to endure a custody battle with Brogan’s parents. How fucking dare they think that he’s an unfit parent, when he’s not consumed a single drop of alcohol in nearly ten years?
As he rummaged through his luggage, he retrieved a clean, plain white tee and a pair of black cashmere lounge pants. The other thing he remembered was the string of text messages from Melanie which surely wouldn’t have escaped his mind for too long. Whatever she had to say was certainly important enough to call for an entire texted novel, broken up with each pause and breath as chapters— as if she were speaking it instead.
Max finished dabbing his face in front of the bathroom mirror before shimmying into his attire to relax in. On his way out into the bedroom, he scooped his phone off the bedspread and traipsed into the sitting area. He tapped open his text message screen as his tired, aching body fell into the cushions.
He figured he didn’t have much energy to read through the pile of texts and decided he’d call Mel to catch up with her, the news she had and tell her about the amazing place he found earlier that day with the help of his realtor, Pam. His attention veered off into the direction of the mini-bar with each miniature sized liquor bottle glistening underneath the bar’s special lighting overhead. This was how the hotel chain attracted their guests to indulge in the poison to begin with. But Max knew he wouldn’t fall into that trap again. Before dialing his twin sister, Max lifted the receiver on a hardwired phone, next to the arm of the sofa.
He pressed the button which dialed downstairs to the front desk. It rang once before a gentleman’s voice answered.
“Yes, this is room 117. Can I have someone remove the contents of my mini-bar, please? I forgot to request this in advance,” he asked, placing his head into the open palm of his left hand. “Yes, sir. Thank you, 117, yes.”
Shortly after he hung up the hotel phone, he scrambled his thumbs through his phone call history to find Melanie’s entry. This obviously wasn’t a long process, given he talked to his sister so frequently it was the third listed from the top.
“Max, my god. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day,” Melanie was heard gasping from the other end of the call.
“Oh I know, I’m sorry. I have got to send you pictures of this place I saw today. But shit, I’m on my phone.”
“Send them from your iPad, silly.”
Max rolled his eyes. He forgot to tell Melanie about his fit of rage. Or it was his brain’s way of omitting information on purpose, out of shame for his recent behavior.
“Actually, my iPad isn’t working,” Max lied, full well knowing she’d find out the truth eventually. But much like a six-year-old who intentionally lies to get away with murder, he didn’t care. Afterall, it was more out of shame than it was anything else. He’s a grown man, Melanie was not their mother—no matter how hard she tried.
The raps of knocks on the outside of his suite’s door would be the indication that someone had arrived to remove the booze.
“Come in,” Max called out, holding his hand over the phone.
“Expecting company tonight?” Melanie inquired, sounding curious.
“No, I just forgot to ask for my minibar to be taken out. That’s all,” he shrugged, smiling at the hotel man pacing into his room with a service cart in front of him.
“Maaaxxxx…”
“I know, I know,” Max interjected. “I didn’t have a single drop, I promise. I even went to a meeting the same evening I arrived.”
His emotions began to surmount a level of heat and intensity through his veins, just thinking about the guy, Trevan Donoghue, who literally made him feel like such a naïve, horny piece of ass on the inside.
“Well that’s something,” Melanie offered.
Max cleared his throat, trying to pull his attention back to the present. He couldn’t let his recent indiscretion ruin the start of a new chapter in his life he was about to begin. And certainly, he didn’t want to think about anyone else other than the loss of Brogan. On the other hand, there was the psychologist, Durango Walters. That man had a spark to him which seemed to catch Maxwell’s interests. But maybe it was just because Durango appeared to be the same kind of person Brogan was—a nurturer.
“Umm, hello? Max?” Melanie was heard snapping her fingers through the phone.
“Sorry, Sis,” Max apologized. He realized this phone conversation surely didn’t rank among the best ones he’s had with her. “My mind is just racing with a bajillion different thoughts and emotions. It’ll be okay,” he assured.
“It seems like you are very pre-occupied, for sure,” she said.
“So what was this news you had earlier while I was looking at new homes?”
“Well, are you sitting down?” she asked.
“Obviously,” he began. “But you asked me if I was sitting down a couple days ago and you can clearly tell how that time went.”
“No sweetheart, this is truly interesting.” Melanie paused briefly as it sounded like she was thumbing through some papers of sorts. “K, so I just opened the letter from your lawyer, which is a copy of what he sent the Baxter’s.”
Max sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “Ohh?”
“It basically says they don’t have a chance at custody of Lily and that he’d rather settle with them outside of court and come to some sort of amicable arrangement where they could have Lily during the summers each year, at their own travel expense, on their own dime.”
“That great, I knew I had a shot at keeping her. I mean, for Christ’s sake they haven’t hardly seen her since she was two. And that was only because Brogan’s Uncle Mort was hosting their kid’s Bar Mitzvah in New York.”
“What assholes!” Melanie exclaimed. “I’m sorry they weren’t ever really inclusive of you.”
Maxwell had a tear fall from his eyes. “You know, I’m sure they’re probably good people otherwise. But for some rhyme or reason, they did not like me. I don’t think they’re like this to everyone. I guess we just didn’t see eye-to-eye.”
Melanie could be heard sighing. “Clearly.”
As Maxwell wiped his eyes free, the hotel employee waved on his way out the door with the cart of alcohol. There were several moments of pure silence between Max and Melanie before his sister broke the seemingly awkwardness.
“So, what’s this place like?” she asked.
Finally, Maxwell felt the happiness return to the surface of his being. All he wanted to talk about was this for-all-intents-and-purposes… McMansion.
“Oh, you have no idea how much I want to put in an offer on the place. It’s like three times the size of that place in Denver.”
Max could tell Melanie was smiling through the phone in her response. “My gosh, Lily would love a bigger place, as if this isn’t large enough as it is.”
“For sure,” Max replied, half of his attention looking in the direction of the hallway where he tossed his iPad against the wall, then felt his device vibrating against his ear.
“Well, I want to see those pictures. You’re going to have to send them to me.”
“Yeah, I will. Hey, thanks for letting me know about the letter he sent to the Baxter’s. Can I call you back later? I gotta do something really quick.”
“Umm, okay. Yeah, you don’t want to say goodnight to your daughter?”
His daughter? It was very sporadic for him or anyone else to just automatically refer to Lily as his daughter. But formalities aside, she was in every sense of the word. Though Brogan was gone for a few months already, Maxwell still had a hint of hesitation outright calling her, his daughter. It wasn’t out of avoidance as much as it was a respect for Brogan, since she continued to refer to him as Uncle Max—or Maxie.
“Well yeah, of course I want to tell her Goodnight,” Max sighed, scrubbing the itch from his forehead with his wrist. “Switch it to FaceTime so she can see me.”
***
For the second night in a row where Maxwell thought he’d be able to relax in his hotel room, yet another last-minute arrangement required his presence elsewhere. He didn’t want to seem rude, but it had better of been worth his while because he’d expected to chill that night. Almost in true Autism fashion—if Maxwell were graced with the disorder himself—he snarled at the thought of his plans and expectations not being met.
The text message on his screen certainly surprised him, provided that it was at a sort of unconventional hour.
Hi, Max. Would you want to meet up and have a drink tonight? I can’t seem to stop thinking about you and Lily tonight for some reason.
First and foremost, Max couldn’t believe the universe was sending him such ridiculous temptations right after just having had his mini bar removed from his hotel suite— especially when it should have been taken out from the get-go. Secondly, there was a small level of intrigue in this offer, even coming from a man he thought would might be providing therapy to the spunky Duchess in which he acquired full time. But meeting in a more casual capacity seemed like it would be putting a questionable, ethical relationship to a wonky start. But there was something about Durango which practically begged and pleaded for Maxwell to throw out rhetoric and explore this hunch further.
Max tilted his head and began to press his thumbs in the reply box as a smile washed over his face.
Yes, absolutely. I’d love to meet up.
Thinking that sounded way desperate for human attention, Max immediately deleted it and started over.
Well, I’d be happy to do coffee. I don’t drink at all…
Again, the right response wasn’t coming out as he wanted it to. That would give the wrong first impression of a second interaction with someone who was ultimately supposed to be a professional contact to begin with. If the fact Max was a fairly recent widower of sorts didn’t scream ‘I’ve got emotional baggage,’ then certainly professing his alcoholism would be enough to shout ‘I’m un-fuckable’ from the rooftops. So the backspace came in handy for that unsent reply as well.
Sure. I’m more hungry than anything. I’m at the Hyatt on Pine Street. Would you want to grab a bite to eat in the hotel restaurant here?
Maxwell stared at his phone for a handful of minutes, only to realize Durango probably hadn’t seen his response quite yet. This was the type of anticipation which drove him bananas. Especially since Durango didn’t seem to have an iPhone, where he could see the other person typing. For all he knew, Durango just wanted to meet up one last time before Max found himself on a plane back to Denver again. Finalizing some sort of professional detail on his end. Perhaps he was reading too much into this whole mess about wanting to learn more about Durango Walters, esteemed child psychologist. Either way, there was no doubting his real hunger. Toting across the entire state of Washington— or at least it felt like the entire state— really worked up an appetite.
He leapt up from the sofa and paced towards the bed where he tossed his phone, landing screen side down. On purpose, of course. Though he was about to change back into presentable clothing, a watched pot never boils. Max knew inside him that he was maybe falling for the psych guy a little too soon, but something felt so right about wanting to open up to him. He didn’t really think it even had anything related to the profession and being approachable by default. Not only was Durango the exact type he usually went for in a man, something just seemed to “click” inside him for some metaphysical or strange reason which Max figured would take months—possibly even years—for him to place a finger on just exactly what it could be. As he pushed his arms through a jade green Armani shirt, he heard his text message notification from the iPhone.
Sure. That’s ok with me.