Page 44 of Smooth Sailing
The aroma of his past filled the air, and she hoped he’d open up more and tell her the stories behind the recipe and the memories it held. A warmth spread through her chest, different from the cozy heat of the kitchen. He was sharing a piece of himself. The gesture touched her more than she’d expected.
Resting her elbows on the island, she watched him work. The view was sweet and seductive. “Did someone teach you to cook? Or are you self-taught?”
“Both my parents love to cook, but my dad was a chef. Owned a restaurant back in Chicago.”
“Were you close?” she asked.
His expression softened, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes. “As close as a teenage troublemaker could be to his dad, I guess.”
Her heart ached for him. She moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. “Losing a parent is always hard, but during those years . . . it must have been especially tough. I’m so sorry, Max.”
He stirred the sauce, his gaze turning distant. “It was.” He paused, swallowing hard. “And the worst part is, it was my fault.”
A knot formed in her stomach. She couldn’t fathom how Max could blame himself for what seemed like a medical issue. “Why would you think that?” she asked gently.
He sighed, set the spoon down, and leaning against the counter, his body language spoke volumes. His shoulders were hunched as if he were carrying an invisible weight.
“Max,” Paloma said gently, stepping closer and touching his arm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m here to listen, not to judge.” Heaven knows she was no saint.
He met her eyes, and the pain she saw there made her heart ache. “I was a bit of a troublemaker. I loved the thrill of risk,” he began hesitantly. “Anyway, my friends and I . . . we broke into this rich guy’s house. It was stupid. Jack, my best friend back then, his mom worked for the guy. She mentioned one time that he never used his alarm. We thought it’d be fun to break in and swim in his indoor pool.” He ran a hand through his hair, a rueful smile contrasting with his sad eyes. “We waited until it was late and scaled the fence. I remember my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest. But we made it inside the house without any issues. The thrill was unbelievable.”
Paloma listened intently, her hand resting on Max’s arm in silent support. Her heart picked up its pace a little, sensing things were about to go south in his story.
“We were having a grand time in the pool. Well, all of us except Danny, who’d been snooping through the house. He found this ornate book in one of the rooms. I can still feel the carving under my fingers,” he muttered, his expression darkening. “Inside was cocaine. A lot of it.”
Imagining teenage Max in such a dangerous situation made her heart skip and tumble, but she kept silent. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze, silently encouraging him to continue.
“We were such idiots. Thought we’d hit the jackpot. Snorted a few lines like we’d seen in movies.” His voice was thick with regret. “We’re lucky one of our dumb asses didn’t OD. Anyway, that’s when the lights came on. The owner was there, caught us red-handed.”
“The guy gave us two choices: the cops or our parents.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I realized later he was probably bluffing. He was a TV anchorman. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to find out about his little stash. Anyway, parents were called. My dad lost his shit.” Max let out the saddest laugh she’d ever heard. Her eyes filled with tears. “If he were alive today, I’d still be grounded.”
His gaze met her, and it was filled with a mix of shame and regret. “Instead, the next day, he was rushed to the hospital.”
“Max,” she said softly, her heart aching for the scared, guilty teenager he’d been. “That must have been awful. But you have to know, your dad’s heart failure wasn’t because of that night.”
Max shrugged. “The stress I put him through. All the trouble I caused. It couldn’t have helped.”
She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he’d been a kid who made a stupid mistake, like most teenagers. But platitudes wouldn’t erase years of guilt. Instead, she tightened her arms around him, hoping her embrace could convey what words couldn’t.
“A few days later, my dad died.” His voice cracked. “We had to move to Michigan after that so my mom’s family could help.”
She listened, holding him in silent support. She could feel the heaviness of the past bearing down on him.
“My mom never says anything outright,” he continued, his voice low, “but I always feel it. This . . . expectation. Like she’s holding her breath. Waiting for me to fuck up again.”
Her heart ached for him. She could almost see the teenage Max, grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, trying to navigate a new life under the burden of unspoken accusations.
“Max,” she said softly, choosing her words carefully. “That must have been incredibly difficult to deal with, especially while you were grieving.”
He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he exhaled. He shifted slightly, his arms loosening their hold on her. With a gentleness that beliedhis strength, he eased back, his fingers trailing lightly down her arms as he created a small space between them. His eyes met hers, a mix of vulnerability and gratitude in his gaze.
“Anyway,” he said, his tone lighter but with a slight roughness that betrayed his lingering emotions, “enough about the past. Let’s eat.”
He turned to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon, and stirred the sauce. The familiar motion seemed to ground him, bringing him back to the present.
She was touched that he had shared such a personal, painful part of his past with her. A part of her wanted to delve deeper, to offer more comfort or understanding, but she recognized his need to step back from the heavy conversation. So, instead, she murmured, “It smells amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”
His smile grew a bit more genuine as he glanced at her. “Actually, yeah. Could you find the plates?”
