PART SEVENTEEN

The white dress fit perfectly, even though she’d lost some weight in the hospital. Liz ran her palm down the length of it, smoothing the gauzy material beneath her fingertips as she examined herself in the hallway mirror.

It amazed her how similar the sundress was to the one from her dreams, and she wondered if perhaps her subconscious had simply supplied a familiar article of clothing. If so, then Max’s black leather might only have appeared from her memories of his future self, she reflected. But somehow she knew that wasn’t the truth. Max had described their attire as traditional Antarian garb, nothing less.

Liz tugged nervously at the cotton fabric that dipped slightly low in front, outlining the soft rise of her breasts in full detail. She blushed inexplicably, as she imagined Max’s reaction, feeling as if she prepared for a first date with him. And in a strange way, she did. She spun a slow turn in front of the mirror, and time seemed to melt away around her. She became seventeen again, dressing in her room above the Crashdown.

She smiled, remembering the night when Max had gotten drunk and followed her around town on her blind date. He’d been so incredibly determined in his love for her then, such an innocent boy. A harsh wave of melancholy reminded her that he’d ceased to be a boy not long after that night--had become a man with a painful, unavoidable destiny that had led him galaxies away, and then back again. Now she awaited that same man, one who was battered, yet not jaded. Still beautiful, no matter how time had ravaged his heart and body.

Liz shivered, shaking off the painful memories because tonight was about healing. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, examining herself again. Her naturally dark features seemed luminous against the crisp white, creating a surprisingly girlish impression. She wore her hair loose, spilling across her shoulders. It had grown longer while she’d been in the coma, and though it needed a slight trim, she liked the added length. Liz smoothed the tresses over her shoulders, leaning a little closer to the mirror to study her reflection.

The only thing she couldn’t hide were the dark circles that still shadowed her eyes. There seemed no way around those, no amount of makeup to hide that truth. But she’d lit candles all around her living room and entryway, creating the same atmospheric lighting that had bathed Max’s own home. She wanted him to feel relaxed and comfortable around her, not scrutinized. And, hopefully the shimmering lights would obscure the dark marks beneath her eyes.

Perhaps the hardest choice had been her music selection. She’d knelt before the stereo, riffling through her cd’s, tossing dozens aside. Something from ten years before seemed overly pointed, yet she didn’t want anything too contemporary either. Frank Sinatra had been the perfect choice at his house before, and now she couldn’t seem to find anything to rival it. Finally, her gaze fell on an old Carly Simon cd that she’d borrowed from her father’s collection at Christmas. There were no deep memories associated with it for them, not like Gomez or Counting Crows. Yet it was romantic music to the core.

Liz felt her throat go dry as the opening notes of The Spy Who Loved Me filled her living room. This reunion was utterly different than when she’d gone to see David Peyton. It was as thrilling and intimidating as that one had been, yet imbued with an undeniable expectation all its own.

Then she heard the soft knock on her front door, a sound as gentle as the man who awaited her on the other side. She hurried to unlock the door, and felt the white dress billow around her, floating airily upward just as it had in the dreams. She drew in a tight breath, her hands trembling on the edge of the door as she opened it.

And there he stood, dressed in soft khaki paints and a long-sleeved jersey t-shirt, something he might easily have worn ten years before. His hair fell loose on his shoulders, and he leaned slightly forward on his cane.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another, unable to speak, and Liz felt her face burn beneath his steady gaze. She tried to keep her own eyes from sweeping the perfectly sculpted features of his prosthetic, even though she fought tears at the sight of it. She’d been certain he wouldn’t hide himself any longer, not after all they’d shared in the past months.

He was the one to finally break the silence. "Hello…Liz," he said, in his familiar quiet voice, the words slurring softly.

"Max," she finally managed, her voice a near-whisper. For the briefest moment, her gaze wavered, moving over his smooth mask.

He bowed his head instantly, the long hair obscuring his features as he glanced downward in seeming uncertainty. And she knew that despite her efforts, her face had betrayed her shock that he’d worn the prosthetic.

She reached quickly toward him with her hand, beckoning him inside the house.

"Max, please," she urged hoarsely, forcing a smile. "Please come in." All she’d wanted was for this moment to be a perfect reunion, and it seemed to be disintegrating before it had even begun.

He shifted his weight momentarily on the cane, as he fumbled with a small bouquet of white roses that he clutched tightly in his other hand. Tears nearly blurred her vision as she spied the lovely blossoms. But then he glanced upward again, and she caught an unfettered glimpse of his golden eyes beneath her porch light, their amber hues familiar and hauntingly beautiful. Her heart lurched at the undisguised anguish she spied in their depths, at the fear he couldn’t possibly express, as for a brief moment his unsteady gaze locked with hers. She willed her own eyes to reveal all the love in her heart, to reassure him more than her words ever could.

And then he averted his face from her again, moving past her, and inside the house. He remained stiffly beside her there, as she closed the door, aching for him to sweep her into his arms. Yet his stance remained formal, as he leaned heavily on his cane for support.

"You…so lovely," he finally said, studying her shyly, still just clutching the bouquet of roses in his other hand. "Tonight."

She blushed at the quiet compliment, toying nervously with a strand of her hair. "Thank you, Max." She yearned to say thousands of other words, to put voice to every emotion pounding within her heart. Yet they only stood there, awkward and silent, unsure of one another. She finally gestured toward the white roses, "You remembered." It seemed such a lame remark, that she instantly wished she could rush after it, and retrieve it from the quiet space between them.

Max nodded, extending them to her gingerly. "Never…forget," he assured her softly. "White favorite."

Their fingers brushed together with a momentary explosion of fire, as she gathered the flowers into her hands. She drew them to her face, closing her eyes and suddenly flashed on the night he’d serenaded her. The night of Future Max. Unbelievable, that all these years, he’d never known her secret.

"Beautiful," she smiled, cradling them against her chest. "I’m surprised they weren’t red, though," she teased, taking a chance by pushing the emotional boundaries between them. "I think red tulips might just be my new favorite."

Max nodded, brushing at his hair nervously. "None at…florist," he laughed, and she sensed that he smiled broadly beneath the mask.

"Maybe I’ll just insist on the original painting," she countered flirtatiously, tilting her chin upward.

"Artist difficult," he advised in mock-seriousness, with a knowing shake of his head. "Temperamental."

"Oh, I can tame a moody artist in a heartbeat," she giggled. "Lots of practice with that one, Max."

"Tame?" he questioned pointedly, meeting her steady gaze with an undeniably suggestive one of his own.

Liz’s face flamed even hotter at his comment, and he laughed quietly at her clear discomfort. And then she began laughing too, as she realized that the moment had grown suddenly easy between them. They were flirting and sparring and all the tension had dissipated. The nervous tension, at least. The physical and emotional tension remained immense.

"Embarrassed?" he teased, shifting his weight on the cane momentarily.

"No, not one bit," she denied playfully, drawing the flowers close to her face again. "I’ll just…go put these in water. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do," she giggled nervously. She moved away from him, quickly toward her kitchen, feeling her face with the back of her hand. Her cheeks were blazing hot.

She fumbled awkwardly with the bouquet of small sweetheart roses, her hands shaking as she unwrapped the delicately gathered buds. How very like Max, she reflected as she arranged them in a vase, positioning them on the windowsill of her kitchen.

The soft thudding of Max’s cane betrayed his movements through her living room, and she smiled, realizing he was studying her paintings. She was certain of his position, just by the slow rhythm that moved around the periphery of her living room. His own small panel of Windows of the Soul hung beside her desk, where she could glance at it as many times as she wanted while working. She wondered if he’d spied it yet, if he’d gauged its utter importance to her from its key positioning.

Liz found him staring up at one of Michael’s gorgeous canvases, probably her most favorite of his works, one that he’d painted of the desert near the pod chamber. Max studied it silently, and she wondered what he thought. For the first time, she reflected on just how much he and Michael had in common now, this totally new territory in the realm of their paintings. Both were so gifted, yet utterly different in style.

"What do you think?" she asked, moving close to him. A light shiver passed down her spine as she drew near to him, sensing the incredibly energy of his body. He turned to her momentarily and smiled. She didn’t see it, couldn’t possibly, yet she felt the warmth of it all the way to the center of her being.

"Very talented," he assessed, the words slurring softly. "Proud…him."

"Me, too," she agreed. "He’s worked so hard, Max. Incredibly hard at his gift."

"Clearly. Always made," he hesitated, pausing to rub his jaw before continuing. "Him…happy."

"Yes, it did," she agreed, easing a little closer toward him. She ached to embrace him, to simply throw her arms around his neck, and draw him close against her body. She was keenly aware that they’d yet to even touch. "And you, too, apparently," she observed.

He glanced at her, his eyes widening in surprise. "You think?"

"That it makes you happy? Yes, that’s obvious," she agreed with an eager nod of her head, then suddenly doubted herself. "Doesn’t it?" she asked uncertainly, noting how he stared at her in surprise.

He was silent a long moment, and gazed again at Michael’s painting. "Yes, definitely…you’re right." That was all he said, but she sensed much more beneath the surface, volumes that he ached to speak, but wouldn’t even try.

"Tell me more," she pressed, touching him lightly on the arm. "What you’re not saying, Max. I want to know."

"Painting like…breathing," he explained with a sigh. "Now. Talking."

Painting like breathing and talking now. She wondered what that meant, how it translated in his fractured lexicon.

"It’s how you express yourself?" she asked, easing even closer so that her hand rested in the small of his back. Again, a shiver of electricity shot through her hand at their physical contact. He glanced at her momentarily, then just as quickly away again. He was still averting his face, hiding from her, she was certain.

"First year…after," he paused, and finally gestured toward his face in explanation. "Couldn’t speak. That year."

Liz nodded, feeling tears sting her eyes anew. He hadn’t even been able to speak for the first year after his injuries.

"Painting…only way."

"Is that when you began painting?" she asked quietly, and he nodded, glancing away from her.

"Guard…friend," he offered in simple explanation, and for a moment Liz riddled over the words. But she needed more, had to press for information, to understand this critical piece of Max’s life on Antar.

"There was a guard who was your friend?" she clarified, reaching toward his arm again, only this time he shifted his cane to his other hand, and gathered her hand within his own. He just held it warmly, then slowly drew it against his chest.

"Sympathetic…my family," he finally continued. Liz was keenly aware of the way their hands pressed together over his heart. "Sympathetic me. Brought paints…brushes."

"And that’s how you began painting," Liz finished in a wondrous voice. Max nodded silently, gazing down at the ground in deep reflection.

"No pens…weapon. No writing."

"But they let you have brushes and paints because they were okay. Safe," she finished easily.

"So spoke… with paints," he continued, his thick words growing husky with emotion. "No words, only…" his voice trailed off and he gestured at the painting before them in explanation. "Still easier."

"Yes, I’m sure it’s much easier to express yourself in painting, even now," she assured him, and he squeezed her hand even closer within his. She moved slowly then, until she half-faced him. "But your words are just as beautiful as your paintings, Max."

He glanced at her dubiously, his golden eyes narrowing with emotion. "Frustrating." It was all he said; yet her own mind filled in all the unspoken words. He was frustrated to be with her, so unable to express himself. Frustrated by his own limitations, that wielding his brushes came with such ease, while his spoken words were nearly incomprehensible to most.

"I know," she whispered in reassurance, then reached a tentative hand toward his face, and softly stroked the hair away from his eyes. "But I understand you perfectly, Max. You know that."

Suddenly, it seemed they were utterly transfixed that way, her hand stroking his hair, his head inclined toward her. Yet neither was able to move, to speak. To even breathe. The need between them surged unexpectedly, becoming something tangible and palpable in the air between them. The silence was charged with electricity, moving like electrons in the short span between their bodies.

"Liz," he finally whispered huskily, reaching his own hand toward her. And then the tension ruptured, and before she could think, she’d flung herself against his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. She felt him stagger slightly at the sudden impact, but only embraced him harder, drawing him flush against her own body. She needed to hold him in her arms so badly, needed it more than maintaining her composure, more than whatever strange dance had been in play between them.

"I can’t stay away, Max," she murmured, holding him close. "Can’t pretend that I don’t want to touch you like this."

As in her dreams, she felt his hands fold around her back, tentative yet filled with love. "Wanted this…so long," he whispered against the top of her head. "Ached for you…so long."

"Then hold me," she urged quietly. "Just like this. Hold me all night long, Max." She pulled back, and gazed up into his eyes, saw the utter vulnerability in them. It wasn’t disguised now, the countless emotions that flickered in his shimmering depths.

"Take it off, Max," she urged in a whisper, and his eyes widened. "Please."

He shook his head forcefully, his gaze growing panicked, as he bowed his head away from her.

"Please," she begged again, reaching to cup his face within her palms, as she slowly turned it toward her again. "I want to see your face so badly."

"Can’t," he managed and she saw tears fill his eyes.

"But it’s me, Max," she reminded him, and slowly stroked his face beneath her fingertips, feeling the rough material of his prosthetic. "I will always love you. I love you no matter what."

He broke away from her then, shrugging off her hands, and spun his back toward her. Slowly, he thudded to the other side of the room, and she saw his shoulders heave as if beneath a great weight.

"Liz," he began and she heard his voice waver uncertainly. He hesitated, raking a hand through his hair, as slowly he moved around her living room. She let him distance himself, step away, even though she yearned to match his every step. "Too much."

"No, it’s not," she countered without hesitation. "I’m not asking too much at all."

"No, injuries…too much."

"For what, Max?" she cried, clutching her chest with her hands. "My love? My acceptance? How are they possibly too much?"

"Because they are," he shouted with sudden force, spinning to face her. "Told you…in letter," he cried, his voice growing much quieter. Yet the anguished intensity remained in his words.

"I’ve seen the scars, Max, countless times," she reminded him, her voice equally intent as she stepped closer toward him. "I’ve seen them in my dreams, and I haven’t run. You said that in your letter, too," she reminded him, becoming suddenly angry. Angry that he was such a stubborn man, that he’d always made these decisions for her. "It’s my choice whether they’re too much, Max," she said, her throat tightening painfully as tears began to spill down her cheeks. "And I choose you. I’ve always chosen you. That has never changed!"

Suddenly, he bowed his head, a soft cry of pain escaping his lips. His shoulders slumped forward and he buried his face in his hands, and then another soft sob followed the first cry. Liz ran to him, as he sank onto her sofa, his shoulders shaking slightly. And they weren’t faint tears that he cried. They were deep, heart-wrenching ones that needed to find release.

She mirrored his action, settling just beside him on the sofa, as he hid his face in his hands. "Why choose…me?" he asked suddenly, gazing up at her through his tears, his long hair tangling across his features.

"Do you even need to ask?" she whispered in awe, reaching to gently cradle his face within her palms. "After everything we’ve shared these months? After our letters?" She hesitated a moment, brushing his hair away from his smooth featured face. "With as much as I’ve always loved you?"

He stared down at his hands, silent for such a long time, Liz wondered if he’d ever answer. Until finally, he met her piercing gaze with his own steady one, whispering, "How love…me? Like this?"

"Because soul mates love forever, Max," she murmured softly, drawing her lips right against his cheek. She knew he wouldn’t feel the kiss, not really, not with the thick material shrouding his skin. But slowly, she parted her lips and kissed him there, long and tender. "I will love you forever, Max," she sighed against his cheek, nuzzling him with her mouth. "Let me kiss you," she finally urged on a sigh, as her fingers gingerly explored the edge of the prosthetic, the place where it met his hairline. "I need to kiss you so badly." Liz held her breath a long moment, expecting his protests. Yet he didn’t fight her, just remained still as a statue beneath her exploratory touch.

So, she eased closer, leaning halfway into his lap, and again, kissed him on the face, ignoring the synthetic material that separated them. She focused on Max, on the man just beneath the mask. Tenderly, she reached behind his head, slowly unfastening the band that affixed the prosthetic, so that it fell loose within her hand. She faced him completely now, almost in his lap, and with her fingers, she delicately began prying loose the mask.

The first thing she saw was a jagged red scar, running the length of his face, nearly from his hairline, down to his jaw. Then more scars appeared as the prosthetic crumpled within her fingers. Yet Max remained stoic and still, his eyes closed. It was almost as if he were bracing himself, the way his facial muscles had tensed. Almost as if he expected her to cry out at what she saw.

Yet she saw only her beloved. A beautiful face scored with countless dark scars and lines, yet rugged and handsome as never before. Slowly, she outlined the longest one with her fingertip. She drew her lips close against it and pressed loving, searing kisses along the length of the mark. She willed Max to feel her adoration of him, as her lips trailed fire across his face. Literally, she wanted him to know he was bathed in her love, as she moved her lips to the other side of his face. To the one that was so badly swollen and disfigured along the jaw. She pressed her mouth against the bone, the place that was painfully misshapen, and she heard a quiet cry escape his lips.

But then he did the most unexpected thing. He cupped her hips firmly within his palms and pulled her straight onto his lap. So easily, in fact, it was as if she were the most delicate thing in the world. As if his knee wouldn’t hurt beneath the weight of her body at all.

She pulled back and stared down into his eyes. They were so open and eager, shimmering with tears. He stroked the length of her hair with his fingers, threading them through like a trail of fire. Until his hand rested tentatively on her waist, feeling the white material of her dress. He stared down at it, tugging softly on the folds that spilled across his lap.

"Seen…this," he acknowledged, smiling gently. "Many times."

"I wondered if you’d recognize it," she laughed breathlessly, slipping her arms around his neck. He drew her closer against his chest, settling her more neatly on his lap.

"Princess…Liz," he beamed, and Liz literally felt her heart thunder at the radiant smile on his face. He had no idea, and that was what amazed her the most. He literally had no idea that he was still a strikingly handsome man, just more rugged than before. And seeing his beautiful features for the first time in ten years moved her in places she hadn’t known still existed.

"What?" he asked softly, raising his eyebrows in question.

"You’re simply…beautiful," she sighed, shaking her head in deep pleasure. He cupped her face within his own palms now, drawing it near his own. She began trembling against his touch, her whole body shaking with light tremors. "I forgot the way you move me, that it feels like this to be in your arms."

He blinked beneath her steady gaze, then drew her mouth down, capturing it in the softest of kisses. Like warm velvet, their lips met. For the first time in ten years, she kissed this man, the one she’d never stopped loving. Had been unable to relinquish within her heart.

His fingers threaded through the folds of her white dress, as she explored the long soft tresses that spilled to his shoulders. Liz couldn’t say where he ended and she began at that moment, as sensations began cresting through her body, images and motion swirling as one. As she bathed him in her love, determined that each of her gentle kisses would heal him just a bit more.

All she knew was that she lost herself in him. Right then and there, the important divisions melted away, and her soul became one with his for those moments. But not just then, she realized as flashes shimmered like gold dust between them, reflecting all their shared memories and dreams.

No, their souls would always be one, for the rest of eternity.