“YOU WHAT?!?!” Max recoiled, before springing to his feet.
Durango remained planted firmly into the soft carpet, looking up into Maxwell’s direction.
Whatever feelings were coursing through his veins just moments prior, quickly turned into confusion. Then rage. So much rage. If what Durango just said was the truth, Max figured he had every right to be royally pissed off. Why hadn’t he told him sooner? When did he find out? Was this some big joke, still? How could it be true? Maxwell Williams grew up on the foundations of seeking for facts, instead of assumptions or hearsay. But in the current moment, Max wanted to wake up from whatever dream he hoped his conscious was succumbed to.
He pinched himself. Nothing.
He slapped his face so hard, it could have left a blood blister. Nothing.
As Maxwell continued to try processing this new bit of intel which Durango Walters was only just now proving him, he quickly grew tired of wandering around in the dark. As he stomped toward the door to switch the lights on, his thoughts continued to drown his mind.
Un-fucking believable.
What? No!
God damn it!
The latter thought made itself audible. “God damn it, Durango!” he wailed.
Max tilted his head around in disgust at the sight of an innocent looking man sank into the floor, eyes like a puppy dog piercing his skin like supercharged ultraviolet radiation permeating below the surface. He spotted the silver tray with the remaining joint, scooped it into his grasp and forcefully chucked it across the room.
“Max, please,” Durango cried out, preparing to stand up.
Sounds from the shattering center window pane resonated against every opposing wall and echoed pristinely when Max stretched out his arm, much like he did when he kicked Trevan out of his Seattle hotel room a few months prior.
Max started to spout off his frustration, while noticing the owl from earlier flee past the wreckage as if he were flying to safety. “Save it,” he began. “You’ve known this since before Thanksgiving and you’re just now telling me this? What the actual fuck, Durango?”
The tears down Durango’s face were pronounced, but they didn’t offer a miniscule bit of comfort to what Max felt.
“And you’ve drank alcohol several times,” he spat off, “with MY HUSBANDS beating organ?”
“I’m in AA forever, how could you possibly have kept drinking with another person’s heart beating in your god forsaken chest? Let alone BROGAN’S?!?!” Maxwell continued his verbal rampage, “and my god, I smoked fucking pot with you and I’m not supposed to even have that!”
“I drank socially, Max,” Durango pleaded, planting his head into both of his open palms. “My doctor gave me the clearance a couple months after the transplant, as long as it was on occasion,” he paused, taking in a deep breath, wiping away the tears showering each side of his face. “It wasn’t even all that much, Max.”
Max shook his head. “Not when you’re carrying my dead husband’s living organ, you don’t even a bit. No,” he threw his right hand in the air, looking to the heavens as if he still couldn’t believe it all was actually happening.
Durango sat at the edge of the bed, head lowered back into his soaking hands.
“I can’t right now. I’ve gotta go,” Max insisted, feeling every bit of necessity to leave and hop on another train to go back home as soon as they boarded for Washington state. “I’ll make sure Melanie knows to have Gage dropped by your brother’s place,” he assured, that much he could promise because no matter what fresh fuckery was ensuing, Gage didn’t need to be placed in the middle of anything. He wasn’t sure of a damn thing, whether eventually he’d be able to speak with Durango again or not. So many uncertainties floated around his mind while he quickly shimmied into his pair of jeans which were draped neatly over the back of a lounge chair.
The older man didn’t move, didn’t appear to have a single ounce of saying another thing. Which to Max in the current moment, sufficed perfectly fine. He bent down to his suitcase, yanking whatever warm and dry top his fingers touched first, still neatly packed from arriving mere hours prior. He glanced into the secured compartment to check that his charging cord was still inside and noticed the small brown package, which was his first little Christmas present to give Durango on their—supposed to be—romantic getaway. Even thinking of the word romance put such a sour taste in his mouth, regardless of whatever it was the past few hours—the mood seemed to have taken a definite wrong turn. In fact, more than one.
Max pushed his arms through the sleeves of his hunter green cashmere sweater and retrieved the small package. He resealed his suitcase and charged toward the door to slip on his pair of black Dansko shoes, whether he was wearing socks at all or not. Fuck it, I don’t need ‘em.
“Merry fuckin’ Christmas,” he exclaimed, hurling the small package in Durango’s direction on the farthest side of the bed, paying no mind that it landed on the floor. “I guess we’ll talk in a few days,” he paused.
Max shook his head yet again while his tongue clicked. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anymore,” he added, turning back toward the door to leave as a tear fell from his right eye.
Once in the hallway, Max finished schlepping toward the elevators. Though however short of distance it actually was—it seemed about the length of a football field. He pressed the light on the elevator panel to descend into the lobby, while glancing back over his shoulder. Max didn’t hold any high expectations of Durango chasing after him, pleading him to not leave. The chirp from the elevator’s arrival confirmed his suspicion, as in fact, he was still the only person in the entire hallway on the third floor of the resort. The pangs of his hurtful words reverberated throughout Max’s gut the entire ride down to the lobby. Whether they were hurtful or not, Max felt justified in his current emotion. Deep inside, he felt betrayed that the person who received Brogan’s heart would consume the poison which shook his own life to the core ten years prior—no matter if it were Durango Walters or Larry fuckin Bird.
As soon as the elevator doors swung open, he charged toward the front circular lobby door while turning his head around, just ironically making eye contact with an older guy of Durango’s age with a shiny silver nametag: Shane.
“Sorry about your window, man. You can charge whatever you need to my AMEX Card.”