“Hey, man. I’m back. Just walking into my place right now. Sorry to call so late.” He looked at his watch: 1:14 a.m. Max’s calls had been ignored all day, but this one was justified. “Hopefully you got my messages. Call me tomorrow. Or today, I mean.” He pulled the phone away from his ear to end the call but rushed it back as he thought of one more thing he needed to say. “I’m feeling good. I want to get back to work. Renowned will be great”—he still wasn’t completely sure that was true—“but I can handle more. If the network’s lost interest in To the Max, I’ve got some other ideas.” None of them as good as To the Max, but he didn’t figure it was necessary to include that disclaimer in his pitch. “Let’s talk.” He fumbled around in his mind for what else he needed to say, but with all of that now having been added to the countless thoughts he’d left with Candace throughout the day, he figured there really wasn’t anything else.
That done, he jammed his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled his key from the front pocket. He steeled himself and turned the key, and then walked inside and felt the familiar emotion of . . . nothing.
He set his backpack down by the door and looked around. Everything was the same. Of course it was. Just like it had been the same when he’d walked back in for the first time, a month earlier, after returning from Tranquility Peaks. He’d picked up a few habits at Tranquility Peaks and he’d hopefully kicked a few, but life had not changed.
He closed the door behind him and immediately removed his shoes. There were few things Max loved more than being on the road, but after his two-day round trip to Nashville, he was ready to be home. At least for a little while.
He reached down, picked up his backpack, and hoisted it onto the farmhouse table in the dining room. He wondered, as he often did when he looked around his apartment, how many other people bought homes they didn’t really love, in locations that weren’t the most convenient, simply because they fell in love with a kitchen. Max had never been much of a romantic, but his SoHo kitchen had made him believe that love at first sight was actually possible.
He unzipped and prepared to unload the bag of clothes, but his eyes stopped on the wall of his beloved kitchen, and then everything stopped. Without a doubt, the built-in wine rack and full bar setup had been among the most appealing traits of the apartment. Those, along with the perfectly positioned eight-foot skylight.
He walked to the wall of liquids a bit zombie-like.
At Tranquility Peaks, Buzz had helped him realize he didn’t need alcohol; he only wanted alcohol. Buzz had also taught him that he could avoid a lot of his anger by being okay with other people receiving credit for their accomplishments. Even if their accomplishments were actually Max’s accomplishments. Even if their accomplishments were stupid. Even if their accomplishments weren’t actually accomplishments at all.
So he was okay with giving Buzz credit for helping him realize that he didn’t need alcohol, despite the fact that he’d told everyone—including Buzz—that from the very beginning.
Buzz had advised him to remove all the alcohol from his home—not because Max thought he needed it, but because, at certain times, he knew he’d want it. In four months, he hadn’t had a drink, and he’d been fine. But throughout most of that four months, the most stressful thing about each day had been the relaxation everyone kept trying to force upon him. Once he got back to filming—existing on four hours of sleep a night and losing track of time zones over the course of a week—would he really be okay saying goodbye to a nice relaxing bourbon at the end of a long day?
He didn’t even bother looking at the wine bottles—those were easy enough to dispose of. The midlevel bottles could be served at one of his restaurants, or maybe even just kept on the rack for decoration. Wine had never been his temptation anyway. It was a miracle worker when it came to complementing a meal, but on its own . . . no thanks. The big-ticket wines, kept in climate-controlled (and keypad-protected) storage in his bedroom? Well, those were mostly just investments. Maybe one lucky network executive would receive an 1811 Chateau d’Yquem for Christmas this year. Regardless, he had no plans to ever drink the elite bottles anyway. He’d sooner drink his Apple stocks.
Now the hard liquors were another thing entirely.
He threw down the socks he had just pulled from the backpack and marched over to the bar. He grabbed the bottle of Macallan, quickly removed the top, and in one fluid motion poured the expensive brown whiskey into the sink. He reached up and to the left to grab a bottle of Grey Goose, and soon it was chasing the Macallan down the drain.
Max held the two empty glass bottles in his hands and felt extremely proud of himself. So proud that he figured the twenty-five or so other bottles of liquor could hang out a little longer. He’d emptied enough into the New York sewer system for one day.
He’d also unpacked enough for one day, he decided, looking at the used socks—the only clothing he had removed from the bag—which now lay on his kitchen floor. He dug into the backpack and pulled out the brown leather-bound journal he’d taken away as his one physical memento from Tranquility Peaks. Each of his thirty days there, and then continuing for another two months as he met with Buzz on an outpatient basis, he’d been required to write a journal entry detailing something new he had learned about himself that day.
Today, in my ongoing adventure of discovering who I truly am—the parts I like and should celebrate, as well as the parts I hope to improve—I discovered . . .
He had been strongly encouraged to continue with the daily journal entries once he returned to his normal life, and to find a licensed therapist to discuss them with on a regular basis. He had no idea if he was going to follow through on all of that, but he had intended to keep up with the discovery journal, at the very least. But he hadn’t even cracked the thing open since leaving Malibu. Not because he had stopped caring about improving, but because he hadn’t learned a single new thing about himself.
At least not until that day. That day had been full of discoveries. For instance, he’d never known just how much he enjoyed really good pancakes—or how slowly his body digested really good pancakes when he did nothing but sit in a vehicle for the rest of the day.
He grabbed a pen from the coffee table and sat down on the couch in his living room—just feet away from the kitchen in his open floor plan apartment.
Today, in my ongoing adventure of discovering who I truly am—the parts I like and should celebrate, as well as the parts I hope to improve—I discovered I’m not always the most important person in the room.
He sat back against the cushions and chuckled—at what he wasn’t exactly sure. The wording, maybe. Possibly just the fact that it had taken him thirty-six years to “discover” something about himself that most people learned from Sesame Street. Most likely, the chuckling was caused by the memory of Hadley storming to her car with her thumbs hoisted in the air.
The chuckle morphed into full-blown laughter for no reason at all, really, except it had been a couple of really long days. He just kept picturing her shouting “Thank you for the pancakes!” And every time he saw it replay in his mind, he laughed harder. It wasn’t funny. Not really. Although there was just the slightest touch of the ridiculous about her which he found incredibly entertaining. All of that—all he had done and all she thought he had done—and she still thanked him for pancakes she had paid for.
The laughter went away with a sigh and a quick swipe of moisture from his eyes. And then another sigh—the second one much weightier than the first. He opened the discovery journal again and ran a line through a few words before scribbling some new ones.
Today, in my ongoing adventure of discovering who I truly am—the parts I like and should celebrate, as well as the parts I hope to improve—I discovered it’s nice to not always be the most important person in the room.
Max took another glance at his watch: 1:36. But only 12:36 in Nashville. “That’s still too late,” he said aloud. He walked back over to the bar, grabbed a bottle of cognac, and attempted to distract himself with the gurgling noise it made as it rushed down the drain. 12:37. A call would be rude, but a text . . . A text wasn’t rude. If a text woke someone up, they needed to learn to turn on their “Do Not Disturb” function. One single late-night text would always be met with the understanding that a reply wasn’t expected until after the sun was up. Everyone knew that.
Hi Hadley. It’s Max. Just wanted to say thanks for taking the time to chat today. Glad you thought of it. I’m looking forward to working with you and getting to know you better. And I wanted to again say how sorry I am for everything.
He studied what he had typed and then let out a disgusted groan as he deleted every word. He thought for a moment and then chuckled again.
Next time, breakfast is on me.
With a satisfied grin he hit send, and then set his phone on the dining room table. He reached down to pick up his backpack—determined to at least get it into his bedroom, even if he got no further anytime soon. He grabbed the socks in the other hand and took a few steps before stopping in his tracks. The vibration of the phone against the table filled the big, silent space.
He dropped everything into a dining room chair and grabbed his phone.
Now would be good. I’m starving.
Max read Hadley’s text at least five times, and then a couple more for good measure. “What?” he asked aloud with a laugh. Maybe he shouldn’t have deleted the “It’s Max” part. He scratched the three-day stubble on his cheek and tried to decide how to respond, while also being fairly certain that if he gave her a few more seconds, he’d receive a “New phone. Who dis?” text.
Don’t think I could get there before lunch. You may succumb to starvation by then.
He hit send but instantly regretted it. That one felt too casual. Yes, she had set the casual tone, but he still wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t sleep-texting. He added:
Sorry to text so late, by the way. I hope I didn’t wake you.
He stared at his phone, but nothing happened. He looked at his watch again. 1:40.
1:41.
1:42.
Either she’d fallen asleep, which would be totally understandable, or she’d realized she was texting with Max Cavanagh, rather than someone who wasn’t her sworn enemy. Either way, he knew his best play was to call it a night and hope that this confusingly friendly and familiar text exchange would result in less awkwardness the next time they saw each other, and not more.
He hadn’t accounted for a third option: she was texting him a book.
It’s my first night in a new house. And that’s great. But weird. It’s bigger than my old place, which was about the size of a canoe. I’ve been hearing every single noise. I’m hearing the water heater right now. I didn’t know water heaters made noise. And worst of all, I didn’t think to buy any groceries. The loudest noise of all is my stomach growling. You are correct . . . by lunch I will be nothing but bones heaped in a corner, where I had been hiding from the water heater.
A smile covered Max’s face, but he was no less bewildered—and, really, still not certain Hadley knew who she was talking to. Well, it was time to make sure.
Are you saying now wouldn’t be the best time to tell you (in excruciatingly appetizing detail) about the dishes I intend to prepare on Renowned?
1:45.
1:46.
1:47.
You’re free to do as you like, Chef.
And then instantly:
At your own risk, of course.
With a laugh, Max dumped his backpack and socks out of the chair, plopped himself down, and settled in for . . . well . . . whatever this was.