Page 3 of Shattered Hearts

I am deathly afraid Zane’s right, that I caused Zarah to snap. That our intimacy turned into something ugly in her mind and my touch pushed her over an edge I couldn’t see. Couldn’t protect her from.

I don’t want to make it worse. Especially if during these two weeks she’s been able to find some stability.

After a few more hours at the office, I drive to a U-Haul and buy a bunch of sturdy boxes. They also manage self-storage units and I rent the largest one they offer. I can clean out Max’s apartment and avoid looking through his things. Never said I couldn’t be a coward if I wanted to be. The storage unit can’t fit everything he owned, but it’s a better plan than paying rent.

On the drive to his apartment, Baby lays on the bench whining and missing Zarah. I scratch her head and catalogue the things to give away and the things I want to keep. His clothes can go. We’re not the same size, and even if we were, our styles are very different. His kitchen items. Unless there’s a pan or something I might find useful, I won’t need anything out of that room. I can donate his furniture. What’s left are his personal things and books. His books alone can fill a storage unit.

I should ask Zane for the information (or Stella might be preferable to talk to at this point) and check on Max’s cat. See if that Denton guy still wants to keep him, and if he doesn’t, I’ll have to.

There isn’t decent street parking in the part of the city where Max lived, and my brother paid a mint for a pass to park in a ramp a couple of blocks away. I don’t have the luxury of a pass, and I park on the street. The best I can do is a tight spot in front of his building and pray I don’t get towed. An inch of bumper juts out in front of a fire hydrant, but I should be okay. I’m not going to spend too much time here, and I doubt I’ll get much done. I just wanted to start since I decided to. Besides, it keeps my mind off Zarah and how fucking terrified I was finding her at the bottom of the stairs.

Shivering in the hallway, curled into a ball. The blank stare when she looked at me.

I’ve never wanted answers so badly in my life.

Or been so scared of them.

The last time I was here, I turned the heat down to save on electricity (yep, I’ve been paying that too). It’s cold in his apartment, but I don’t turn it up. I won’t be staying that long.

Baby sniffs around and then settles on the couch to watch me, her eyes sad. I’ll start with his bookshelf and pack up the things I want first and maybe hire movers to box up the rest for donation and storage.

Max loved reading mysteries, one of the few things we had in common that I conveniently forgot about to avoid keeping in touch. Anything from Sue Grafton to John Grisham. He has a few signed copies from various authors including two by Dan Brown, and I set them aside to add to my own collection. The boxes will be heavy, and I think twice about keeping all of them. Mom might want some. She hasn’t had a particularly difficult time getting over his death. Maybe on some level, she knew it would happen.

Because of his line of work.

I wonder if she has similar thoughts about me, or if she trusts Pop to keep me out of trouble. The shooting aside—which was totally my fault—he’s done a good job. Another thing Max and I have in common now.

There are several photo albums on the shelves, family photos taken at Mom and Rourke’s. I’m not in many, but how could I be? I seldom visited.

He looks happy, and he resembles Rourke. They have the same hair style, the same smile, and their eyes squint in the exact same way when they laugh.

What kind of plans did Rourke have for Max since he disliked Zarah so much? It wasn’t what Rourke thought of her, well, that’s a huge part of it, but there was something else, too. Maybe he’d wanted Max to marry someone of his choosing, another senator’s daughter, perhaps. He wouldn’t want rumors floatingaround that his son had dated dirty Zarah Maddox. It would taint Max’s stellar reputation.

Paging through the pictures is bittersweet. I could have done so much more, been a bigger part of the family. I thought Pop was all I needed, now he’s all I have.

Max stacked his books three deep, and I fill two large and impossible-to-carry boxes before I clean off one shelf. I drop to the floor and pull out another album.

This one isn’t full of photos, but a scrapbook of sorts, and here Max kept several of his bylines. Cut out with precise scissor strokes, they’re glued neatly onto the creamy pages. I flip a page and a stack of articles slides into my lap. These don’t have his byline, but they’re about the same person.

Republican senator Rourke Cook met with leading officials today regarding the trade bill President Williams presented to Congress over the weekend. If passed, this law will tightly control trade to and from China. In an interview last week, President Williams is quoted saying that jobs should be created at home. Whether or not President Williams will find support remains to be seen.

The article is dated four months before Max passed away. I skim through the other articles, and they’re all about the same thing—the United States and our trade with the Chinese. If I remember correctly, under extreme pressure, the president withdrew the bill. I wonder whose side Rourke was on. Why was Max so interested?

I set the scrapbook aside. I’ll look at it more at home.

In the end, I box up five cartons of books I decide to keep. I didn’t make much progress, not if you consider I have an entire two-bedroom apartment to go through. I’ll ask Mom to help me. We could talk while we pack, and maybe she’ll spill some secrets. She’s not a bad person, my mom. At least, I never thought so. Is she a bad person for turning a blind eye to her husband’scheating? Or simply too trusting? Naïve? No, after all this time, she would know he’s cheating. Maybe money hungry, though she never seemed that way. She enjoys the lifestyle, but there are few who wouldn’t.

The fact that she didn’t defend Zarah bothers me, and that brings me back full circle to my own actions. I should tell Zane to fuck off, demand he let me see her. Let me show her I haven’t gone anywhere, though in these two weeks, I’ve had one foot out the door.

Her life doesn’t need to be any harder than it already is, and I don’t want to cause her any more trouble. She’s got enough without me adding to it, but fuck. I miss her. The scent of her hair, the glow of her skin. Her wide brown eyes. The way she would wrap her hot little body around mine.

I should have let her make love to me. She was so close, so wet. All I would have needed to say was yes, and I could have guided her body over mine, pushed my way inside her. We would have fit together, perfectly. I already know that. I would have sucked on her nipples and made her come on my cock. I could have spurted inside her. Claimed her. Erase what those nasty fucks did to her.

Maybe then she wouldn’t have done what she did.

My truck didn’t get towed, and I let it warm up while I make several trips and shove the boxes in the back. When I’m finished, my hands are numb, and shivering, I hold them to the heating vents.

At home, I do the same thing, only in reverse, and dump the boxes in front of my shelves. I’ll unpack them later. I’m not in the mood to do it now.

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