Eight hundred and three?
Is that the last one?
Is he here?
Is it a trick of my eye? I can't let the fight go.
Slowly, I lower my uncertain gaze and see Max squatting at the bottom of the staircase. I clasp my hands over my mouth, sobbing relentlessly into them.
It's him; it's really him.
I know this because he's. . . different, beautifully so. A lion in the wild - the king of the fricking jungle. He's wearing jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves bunched up around his biceps 'cause that's his style. His physique is strong and defined, perhaps slightly leaner than when he left, and that cool smile, oh my God. With those deep-set grey eyes and expressive dark brows set into that masculine face. . . he's sheer perfection.
Watching him intently, I wonder if he feels my eyes on him like a tangible caress. I wonder if butterflies are dancing in his belly. They are pirouetting in mine.
Kelly has stopped just a few metres away from him. Her wispy golden-blonde hair is in a pile on top of her head. I show her pictures of him every night, saying "Goodnight, Daddy. We love you." I have told her stories and made him seem almost magical. He's Santa, The Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy combined - he's legendary.
She blinks at him, awestruck by his presence. They stare at each other with matching grey-blue eyes. His mouth moves, saying something to her that isn’t audible from where I'm perched. Kelly shuffles slowly over to him, stopping within an arm's length. They are talking now. She swings her hips nervously from side to side, like she isn’t sure how to act or respond.
I shake my head into my palms, watching the exchange.
Please don’t be asleep.
Fearful I'm in an amazing dream again, I pinch the skin on my forearm, wincing as I do. But my baby girl and my man are still there. . . chatting. She is a talkative little thing when she gets started, reeling off words she learned that day, connecting them in nonsensical ways. He nods as if he understands. When she moves into him and wraps her chubby arms around his neck, he envelops her tightly against him, lovingly, dipping his head into the crook of her neck.
He squeezes his eyes shut, holding them like that for several long beats of my heart. His shoulders move as he tries to control his breaths in and out. The butterflies in my belly are getting dizzy; they really should slow the frick down.
When they release each other, Kelly bands Max's finger with her little hand, ready to show him the house or the yard or her new trampoline, ready to take him on an adventure. But Max. . . he looks emotionally exhausted by the moment. He grips his forehead before briefly dragging his hand down his face and then across his eyes.
No, wait. . .
Is he crying?
Clara moves to sit beside me and the staircase creaks, the sound steeling my spine, knowing it was loud enough for-
Max drops his hand to his side.
I suck a sharp breath in.
Turning towards the sound, he lifts his gaze up to meet me and I. . . I can't. His eyes mist over further when they connect with mine. I jump up and run away from him, back down the hall and into our room. I rush into the bathroom, move into the shower, and desperately turn the faucet on. Sitting down on the tiles in my yoga pants and shirt, I let the water create a kind of white noise, soothing me, buying me time.
I wasn't always brave, Max.
The door opens and I cuddle my knees in tight. Just like the unapologetic menace he is, he walks straight into the shower, clothes and all, and sits down opposite me. His gaze moves like a magnifying glass over me, scorching a trail that feels tangible - traceable. When I finally look up, finding his gaze too hot and distracting to ignore, he's staring at me with such intensity I am surprised that he hasn't scarred me.
Swallowing hard, I try to consider what to say. What to- "You're here." Well, that was stupid and obvious. . . Well done, Cassidy Butcher. . . "You have your clothes on."
Ugh. Just. . . stop it.
"So do you," he says over the noise of the cascading water. My lip trembles in response to his voice - deep and confident with a hint of gravel and danger. The same voice I hear in my dreams. "Look what you made me while I was gone. . . She is fucking incredible. Thank you, little one."
The water rushes off my head, soaking every inch of me, mingling with my tears. "I wasn't always brave, Max."
His brows draw a line above his serious gaze. "Neither was I."
I sob desperately a few times, so very thankful to hear he's still soft, still vulnerable, with me. That was my biggest fear, waiting all this time for him and losing him to the dark anyway. But I haven't. I see My Max sitting across from me. Our eyes dive into one another, gazes drawn together like magnets. He shakes his head as if the sight of me is so mystifying, so unfathomable, I can't possibly be real.
The feeling is mutual.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Cassidy," he says, the break in his raspy voice choking my heart with vicarious agony. I glance down to watch his throat roll, then up again to catch a single tear as it drops from his eye. "I'm sorry, little one. I'm so fucking sorry I wasn't here for you."
Max Butcher.
I leap from my position on the tiles and crawl onto his lap, my hands finding his cheeks, my lips finding his lips, my heart pressing against his heart. His big warm palms massage up my back, gripping me with such need, I whimper, overwhelmed, not having had anyone touch me in such a way
