PART SIXTEEN
Hold me in your hands like a bunch of flowers,
Set me moving to your sweetest song.
I know what I think I’ve known all along…
Loving you is the right thing to do.
Carly Simon
The airplane banked, slicing effortlessly through a cloud until it emerged high above the frothy white, bathed in sunlight. Liz squinted, leaning her head against the oval windowpane beside her seat. So much had changed since the last time she’d traveled on a plane. Two months had passed, and the season had transitioned from winter to late spring.
And now she was going home.
Her heart quickened in anticipation, as her thoughts moved to Max, to seeing him once she was back in Santa Fe. She was thankful that she was returning alone with Michael, and not her parents. She wasn’t ready to explain Max’s mysterious return to them yet, not when more pressing matters weighed on her mind. Like getting through Max’s stubborn assumptions about her ability to love him. Or figuring out how she was the one who could ultimately heal him, as he’d explained in the dream.
That part perplexed her considerably, but she’d already decided to proceed slowly, and keep it like a carefully guarded confidence. Somehow she knew that the right moment would present itself, but until then she would focus on simply loving him, healing him with her heart.
Michael had assured her parents that he would help her settle back into the house, and ultimately urged them to return separately to Roswell a few days earlier. Still, they’d continued hovering over her until the very last moment, even long after her move to a regular hospital room. Liz had grown impatient, though she’d tried to imagine how she would have felt if her own daughter had nearly died.
Unconsciously, Liz traced a finger across her collarbone. While still in ICU, it had inexplicably improved one night, mystifying her team of doctors. Yet Liz wasn’t bewildered at all. She remembered the way Max had traced his fingers along that fragile place, leaving a fiery trail in the wake of his healing. It didn’t matter that it had been in her dream, because in that moment, their souls had touched. Just as they had on the countless other occasions where they’d met in that in-between place of dreams and wakefulness, the realm where souls brushed together.
Liz closed her eyes and breathed in and out, until she sensed him deep inside of her. That was the thing she’d learned in the coma—and then remembered in the subsequent days after she’d woken. Some part of Max, a latent bit of his soul, lay deeply entwined with her own, ever since he’d healed her in the Crashdown. And nothing could tear that from within her, not death, nor illness, not even a chasm that spanned galaxies.
Their souls were interlaced, like a carefully wrought sculpture, where the beginning melded seamlessly into the end, and back again.
Now she just had to make him understand that a bond like that transcended mere appearances, that despite his scars and slow gait—even his prosthetic—he was breathtakingly beautiful to her. That had never changed.
Liz glanced sideways at Michael, but he was wearing his headphones, watching the movie that had just begun, so she clandestinely reached inside her briefcase and retrieved Max’s letter.
The first time she’d read it, she’d begun sobbing halfway through, and then with every subsequent reading, she’d continued to cry, though more quietly into her hospital pillow. It had reminded her of his letter from so long ago, and how she’d lain in bed for weeks, burying her face against his leather jacket for comfort. If she’d had that familiar jacket in the hospital, she’d have been holding it along with the letter, not just the cool edge of her hospital sheet.
But now, her emotions were shifting. Perhaps it was knowing that she was only a few hours away from seeing Max again, but the tears had finally dried. Instead they were replaced by a keen sense of expectation, her heart thundering as she imagined holding him in her arms again at last.
She sighed as she unfolded the letter and began reading the now familiar words, ones she’d nearly memorized in her heart’s deepest places.
My beautiful Liz,
I’ve stared at this empty page for hours now. If only I understood it as well as the blank canvases I paint upon. If only I knew how to wield a pen as well as a paintbrush, or understood my heart well enough to express it to you in words.
How do I cover the span of ten years in one letter?
How do I tell my beloved that I never wanted to leave her so many years ago, and that I certainly never intended to deceive her when I returned?
I suppose I must begin as I do with every painting, first a stroke, then another. For you’ve always known the quiet language of my soul, Liz. That’s why you responded to my paintings as you did, as if I were making love to you with each piece. Because in a very real way, I was.
I’ve dreamed of you every night for years now. Yet those dreams have changed in recent weeks, becoming more vivid and lifelike while you were in the coma. It was as if we began speaking to one another then, sharing secret things between our souls.
For so long, I’ve wanted you to know the real reason why I left with Tess, and while Michael assures me that you knew I left to save you, nothing will ever erase my regret. Not your forgiveness, not time. Not even countless paintings where I’ve tried to show you how I ached.
And because of that regret, I determined to stay as far from you as possible when I returned from Antar--because I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already had.
So when I arrived here a year ago, I lost myself in New York City, miles from where I knew you lived. I literally forced myself to stay away, and for a very little while it worked. Then I saw Maria on Spring Street one afternoon. She never even knew, yet with that one glimpse, it was as if all the intervening years had just evaporated.
After that I had to come home. To follow my heart where it has always led me, back to you, Liz. No matter where I’ve been in the universe, even in prison all those years, my heart was always with you.
I’m not the same, Liz. I can’t pretend that I am, and surely even with the prosthetic you can see that. I’m a twenty-eight year old man whose body seems to grow more ancient every day. Sometimes the pain in my jaw and knee becomes so unbearable I think I’ll go mad. But that’s what they did to me--drove me mad, bit by bit. By breaking my body, stealing my memories, and marring my soul.
I should not speak of these things. Instead, I should just say that I love you. That all I ever lived for was coming home to you, even though I tried to fight it. But beneath the prosthetic, my face is forever changed, Liz. My jaw is swollen and disfigured. The scars, they're deep and brutal, and there are a lot of them. In my heart I couldn’t imagine that you’d love me like this, yet I couldn’t stop hoping.
Michael tells me that all these years, you were certain that I’d died. But by now, if my recent dreams are true, you understand what really did happen. Because I’ve told you countless times in the past month, over and over. Needed you to know that you did feel me die that night, that you sensed the moment when my spirit left my body. But you drew me back with your promise. "I will never leave you," you said.
And that’s why I had to hope, despite my broken body, despite my ruined face--that you might still love a man who loved you as deeply as I always have.
That’s why I left you the very first painting, and why I couldn’t stay away afterwards.
That unspeakable night eight years ago, Khivar called me to his chambers. He hated me because of my family, my claim to his throne, but it was more than that. He despised my humanity. And knowing that a mere human bore the royal Antarian seal, well let’s just say that he despised that most of all. I was beaten beyond recognition that night, as he watched, then later he mindraped me. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted my face, that mark of humanity that mocked him so forcefully. His guards took it that night, with their weapons, their hands.
And then they left me on the floor of my cell to die. No one returned for nearly six days. Maybe longer, I’m honestly not sure. The only thing I held on for was you, Liz. The six longest days of my life and I clung to you with every breath.
I long for you even now. To have you back in my arms, to touch you, and yet I fear so much. I know you’ve seen me in your dreams. Seen my face. And I know that you’ve not run; yet I can’t silence the fears. But I shall certainly try, Liz. I will do whatever it takes to be ready for you, for when you return to me.
I love you more than you’ll ever know. Yours, Max
***
After reading his letter, Liz had immediately yearned to call Max and dispel every one of his fears about her love for him, scars and all. But as many times as she had reached toward the phone, something had always stopped her. Perhaps it was the knowledge of how difficult it was for him to talk, she wasn’t sure, but replying by letter had seemed the only proper response, especially since she knew their first conversation would be an emotional one.
So once she was transferred to a regular hospital room a few days later, and even though Michael urged her to rest longer, she powered up her laptop and began composing a careful reply.
Max had raised so many issues in his letter, and she ached for him to understand that her love for him had never diminished. That forgiveness was a gift she could easily give, especially when he’d only left to save her life, and had never stopped paying such a terrible price for that one act.
It had been difficult to type with her wrist still bandaged, so she’d worked to formulate words within her mind that day, and then carefully translated them into a brief e-mail. Yet she’d hoped that her simple words would adequately reflect the incredible depths of her feelings for him.
Dear Max,
After so many years, do you not know my heart? Could I ever love you less than I did from the beginning? In my dreams you told me that you left part of your soul inside my own that day you healed me. And I have no doubt that somehow a part of mine is hidden deeply inside of you, as well.
I’m coming home to you, Max. But until then, know that I fell in love with you all over again as David Peyton, because my heart would recognize you anywhere. Like I said then, no one has ever made me feel the way Max Evans did—until that night.
I’ll never forget the way just being in your bungalow electrified me. How just gazing at your paintings set my soul afire. Or even how your simplest emails set me blushing like a seventeen-year old girl. God, who else could ever move me like that, Max? The answer is simple. Only you.
There is much more to say, but Maria is scowling at me, and I think Michael will join her next if I do not rest. So, I will save the words to whisper in your ear very soon, Max. Until then, know that I yearn for you as never before, and that the years have only magnified those feelings inside my heart.
All my love,
Liz
And so had begun the exchange of a series of loving e-mails between them, traded approximately once a day for the past week. Each letter had only intensified her need to see him, to touch his face, more acutely than the last. Liz closed her eyes and reached inside her soul again, breathing in and out, and tried to calm her rapidly thundering heart.
Only a few more hours, she promised herself, clutching his letter against her chest.
****
"Okay, so you’ve got groceries in the fridge, and your stuff’s unloaded from the car," Michael announced, giving her living room a cursory glance. He’d insisted on settling her on the sofa with pillows and a blanket, before actually going home himself.
While Liz felt a bit hovered over, she couldn’t fight the sense that he and Max had arrived at some kind of undisclosed agreement. The two of them seemed far too insistent that she rest after her long travels, rather than see Max. She didn’t have trouble guessing who the chief conspirator probably was, as Michael moved around her living room, giving everything one final inspection before he left her.
"Michael, I’m fine," she assured him with an embarrassed laugh, leaning back against her pillows. "I promise."
"It was a long trip, Liz," he reminded her seriously, folding his arms across his chest as if he dared her to challenge him.
"You carted me to and from the gates in a wheelchair," she complained, staring up into his brown eyes.
"Because you were only released from the hospital yesterday, Liz."
"I haven’t done anything all day but sit on an airplane."
"Is this an argument for going to Max’s?" he questioned, his eyes narrowing seriously, though she saw them dance with a bit of playful mischief.
"No, because Max won’t hear of it," she sighed in frustration. "We already discussed it by email. He’s insisting I rest tonight, just like you are."
"Well, he’s right."
"I’ve waited ten years to see him again and I’m going crazy."
"Too bad," Michael laughed, tossing her the television remote control, which landed on her lap. "So is he. But he knows you need the rest, Liz."
"And you know this because?" she waved her hand in the air, wondering just how often he’d been communicating with Max in the past few weeks.
"Because he told me on the phone last night," Michael supplied with a boyish grin.
"You’re saying that just to infuriate me," Liz huffed. "You know how badly I want to talk to him."
Michael turned toward her kitchen counter, retrieved her cordless telephone, and then tossed it to her as easily as he’d just flung the remote. "Then call him."
Liz stared down at the receiver where it rested against her legs. "I don’t want to," she admitted softly.
"God, would you just give him a call already?" Michael cried in exasperation. "The two of you are driving me insane."
"It’s so hard for him to speak," she explained, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as she stared up at Michael. "When we talk the first time, I want it to be in person."
"You have talked before," Michael countered gently, sitting on the arm of the sofa. "Only you thought he was David Peyton."
"That was different," she answered, dropping her gaze to her lap.
"And it’s not that hard for him, Liz. He actually does pretty well on the phone."
"I think I’m afraid," she admitted, her voice tremulous. "I just don’t know what of."
"Of course you’re afraid, Liz," Michael nodded, reaching to rub her foot in reassurance. "But just call him and tell him to get his ass over here."
"I thought you wanted me to rest?" Liz asked in confusion.
"I do," he agreed, moving close to where she lay on the couch. "But I know you too damn well, Liz. You’re only going to lie here and fret." He bent low and kissed her softly on the temple. "So call him already."
"Maybe," she answered, cradling the phone within her hand.
Michael moved toward her foyer to leave, then turned back to her. "You know the number?" he called.
"He gave it to me in an e-mail." And I memorized it instantly, she added silently.
Michael just smiled at her, shaking his head as he left. "Talk to you tomorrow, Liz," he called over his shoulder with a wave of his hand, disappearing out her front door. Liz heard his key turn in the deadbolt, and leaned back into the pillows he’d arranged behind her. The truth was, she was tired, though not nearly as much as she’d expected. But she knew that the plan she’d formulated with Max was best—that she would take this first night to recuperate from her journey home, then see him the next day.
****
Liz ran down the darkened beach, the long white dress flowing around her, whipping in the ocean breeze. Max laughed behind her, catching hold of her arm, then spinning her easily into his warm embrace.
It was the first time she’d glimpsed his face that night, and he was stunning. The twin moons caused his eyes to nearly burn, flashing darkly in the pale golden light. But that wasn’t the only thing that struck her. His face was etched with countless scars, dark even in the moonlight, and his left eye was partially closed. They gave his face a rugged appeal that he’d never possessed before.
And she’d never wanted him more.
They tumbled easily onto the sand in one another’s arms, unable to stop the passion quickly unfurling between their two bodies.
As in the field of red flowers, Max wore a white linen shirt that fell open revealing the smooth skin of his chest. Only this time, she glimpsed a jagged scar that slashed over his heart, puckered and angry. "No way to dress on the beach," she teased, as he drew her flush against himself, where he lay on his side. She traced her fingertips along his chest, outlining the scar.
"How would you have me dress?" he laughed, combing his fingers through her long tresses, as they settled on the sand.
Her hand wandered along the waistband of his leather pants, her fingers dipping easily inside the edge. She teased with her fingertips, aching for so much more.
Yet this was all that had ever existed between them. There was only the two of them, together in their dreams, as in love as they’d been as mere children. He was always her beautiful Antarian lover, clad in the traditional wardrobe of a prince, and she his young bride, ready for their wedding night.
As Max bent his head low, capturing her lips for a kiss, she sensed how controlled his passion was. That he wanted much more of her, yet the sweetest kisses were all he claimed.
"Tell me why," he whispered softly in her ear, his voice surprisingly serious. She pulled back and gazed at him, still surprised to see how his face was etched with jagged scars.
"Why, what?" she asked, her heart quickening its pace.
"Kyle," he answered, rolling onto his back. This was how it always seemed to end. Whether in the field of flowers, or here on the beach, the kisses always ended. Became secrets shared between their two hearts.
"You’ve asked about him once before," she clarified. His voice had grown indescribably quiet and her heart ached. "Long ago."
"I don’t remember the answer," he said, propping his head atop his arm, as he stared up at the darkened sky. "I know I saw you in bed with him," he answered softly. "But I don’t feel like you slept with him. I never have."
"Oh, Max," she whispered, rolling onto her side to stare down at him. She traced her fingertip across his cheek, outlining the harsh marks that lined it. "I’m so sorry."
"You’re wearing white," he observed, glancing sideways at her. "You always are in these dreams. An Antarian Princess or Queen can’t wear this white dress unless she’s saved herself for her husband."
"Max, I did save myself for you. Always."
"All these years I’ve tried to remember, to understand," he continued, raking his fingers through his long, dark hair. "I think I did at least a little before…that night."
"What night?" Liz asked, leaning closer toward him.
"When Khivar mindraped me," he explained, his voice growing weary and distant. "He stole my memories then, and some things have never made sense again."
"But Max, the reason you don’t understand is because I never had the chance to explain. You’re missing some memories, but that’s not why you’re confused."
"But why?" he asked, glancing at her. "Why would you have lied to me about that? I don’t remember…don’t understand," he explained, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He sounded so vulnerable and lost, that Liz instantly felt tears sting her eyes. "I’m just trying to make sense of the memories I do have, Liz."
"I know," she soothed, pressing gentle kisses against his cheek. "Of course, sweetheart."
It had never occurred to her that in their years apart, he might have wondered if she’d actually slept with Kyle. Not when she’d told him that much of the truth before he left. Her heart broke silently as she realized that he’d remained unsure about the facts, always riddling over the disjointed and remembered pieces that he did possess. Yet he seemed equally certain that she remained untouched because of the white dress she wore in so many of his dreams.
"Max, trust me when I tell you that nothing happened with Kyle," she promised solemnly, stroking his long hair away from his face. He closed his eyes, a faint smile playing at his lips. For a moment, he reminded her of a cat, the way he nearly purred beneath her loving caresses. "It’s such a long story, but your dreams have all been true. No one has ever touched me, not in all these years apart."
"Me neither," he admitted, the smile broadening. "But you probably guessed that I’m still a virgin."
She leaned low over him then, drawing her lips right against his ear. "Wake up and make love to me," she coaxed, surprised by how husky her voice grew with the words.
"Open my eyes?" he smiled, dimples appearing, as his eyes fluttered open.
"Yes, and make me your lover. Forever," she breathed against his cheek. "I’ve waited so long."
"We both have," he agreed huskily, cupping her face within his palms. "But I would have waited forever to hold you again like this."
He leaned upwards, pressing light kisses against each of her eyelids. "Let’s both wake up, sweetheart," he murmured and Liz felt her dreams give way to reality.
****
Liz’s hands were shaking as she dialed Max’s phone number, but she could wait no longer. Carefully, she pressed each button and heard the phone ring on the other end, as she leaned back into her pillows.
"Liz?" Max’s soft voice called from the other end of the receiver. Not hello, just her name.
Liz laughed nervously, swallowing hard. "You must have caller i.d.," she joked, her voice sounded strained even to herself.
"Very handy," he laughed, sounding a bit breathless as he spoke. "Home?"
Liz’s heart instantly found a saner pace, as his familiar broken syntax comforted her. It amazed her how easily she understood him, no matter how nonsensically his words might arrange themselves.
"A while ago," she explained, glancing at the clock. It was just past ten-thirty. "I’ve been napping," she said, then added significantly. "Dreaming."
"Oh," was all he answered, but she heard his smile in the slurred words as he added. "Nice dreams…hope?"
"Wonderful ones," she blushed, leaning deep into the pillow behind her. For a moment they both fell silent, yet it wasn’t awkward, as she’d thought it might be. It was perfect and beautiful, like when she’d still thought him David Peyton, and had sat just watching him paint. Finally she spoke again, tugging on the edge of her crocheted comforter. "The thing is, Max, they made me want to see you. Tonight."
She heard his soft exhalation of breath, sensed how he considered that option. "Should rest…Liz," he encouraged, yet she knew what he really wanted. Felt the silent words his heart longed to whisper.
"I did," she argued. "I feel great and I was thinking that I could just throw on some fresh clothes and come see you. Unless…well, you’re tired…or…or," her words trailed off, and she felt her cheeks flame hot with embarrassment. Suddenly, she felt inexplicably shy for pressing him about getting together. But then she heard him laugh softly on the other end.
"Liz Parker…want to see…you," he explained, instantly allaying all her fears. "Just worried…you."
"I’m fine, Max. I’m absolutely fine," she answered in a rush. "Please don’t worry."
"Too late."
She cradled the phone closer to her ear; nearly whispering as the moment suddenly seemed utterly intimate. "But you don’t need to worry anymore."
"Hard…to believe," he confessed, his voice growing just as quiet as her own.
"Then see me, and it won’t be," she urged.
"I come… there." It was a statement, not a question.
"Okay," she nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. "Come here, then. Great…I’ll just change." She tried to breathe, tried to prevent her heart from slamming so forcefully within her chest.
"Messy." It was all he said, and she wondered exactly what he meant. Some of his one-word assessments were endearing at times, in how open-ended they seemed.
"You?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.
"Me," he laughed easily. "Been…painting."
"Painting what exactly?" she flirted, suddenly suspicious that it was a gift for her.
"Surprise, Liz," he countered, pausing a moment. "You wait…few days."
"I will," she promised breathlessly. "But I don’t want to wait anymore for you, so hurry over, okay?"
"There…soon…Bye."
"Bye, Max," she smiled, and leapt from the couch, hurrying toward her bedroom to choose the perfect outfit.
She flung open her closet door, nearly panicked with indecision. What did you wear when you saw the love of your life for practically the first time in ten years? Anything at all? she laughed to herself.
And then she spied it, dangling right in the back of the closet. A dress her mother had bought her last spring, and which she’d never even worn because it seemed so naïve and girlish. A white sundress that flowed well below her knees, airy and innocent, yet oddly seductive in the way it formed around her curves.
Liz pulled it from the rack, drawing a tight breath as she gathered the soft cotton within her hand. She had to smile, as she wondered what Max would be wearing tonight, if he’d appear magically clad in black leather pants.
Because one thing was certain, no matter what Max chose to wear tonight. The white sundress was straight out of her Antarian dreams.
Part 17