A Little Story About Love

Part 20

Chance

Max stayed in a fairly good mood over the next few weeks, refusing to let his injury get to him. He couldn't bear to sit in on dance as was planned, it was pure torture for him to be unable to dance along with everyone else. The first time he walked out of class I found him in the gym awkwardly trying to do pull ups while holding his leg off the ground in its heavy boot. I managed to talk my dance instructor into letting me help Max stay in shape and practice my dance moves in the gym for the remainder of Max's recovery. We fell into the rhythm of working together in the nearly empty gym. With my help Max could work harder without worrying about hurting his leg, in turn, Max gave me pointers and helped me improve my form.

Max's ankle healed quickly and he was able to ditch the crutches and hobble around in his clunky boot. This small amount of freedom made a world of difference to Max, and he began practicing the simplest dance moves, working his leg slowly. He worked with a physical therapist several times a week and continued to improve very quickly.

Each evening we would return to Max and Elle's room, exhausted but happy. The three of us would flop around and watch movies, slowly trying to get school work done. Max's sleepless lifestyle had returned, along with the dark shadows under his eyes, but Max was used to this, and persevered through his sleep deprivation.

Although Max seemed to grow more and more comfortable around me, something still seemed off about his actions. He was just as cuddly as I was, and enjoyed simply being affectionate- holding hands, an arm around the shoulder, simple basic relationship-like actions. He would reach out to me, he would initiate our contact, everything was normal and loving, I lived for these moments, they filled me with happiness, a warmth radiating through me from his touch. But then there were the times when I would touch him and he would jump, when his body would tense visibly. The times when, in a particularly happy gesture, I moved my arm to fast, and he would shy away, wincing slightly. He was skittish and seemed frightened of me; each time I touched him without him seeing me reach out in advance, he would seem to panic for a moment before realizing it was me and relaxing. His actions nagged constantly at the back of my mind. It hurt to see Max so jumpy and scared of me. Something was causing his fear, and I needed to know what it was. His actions had been off as long as I had known him, but he had never given me a reason as to why. I made an effort not to move too quickly, and to make sure he could see me before touching him. I loved sneaking up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist, but I stopped, noticing that every time I did, he seemed to tense and crumble, sometimes even crying out or fighting to break free of my embrace. It worried me immensely, and I was utterly lost as to what to do about it.

*~*~*

It was a night no different than most, Max and I lay sprawled out across his bed, my head resting softly on his chest, his left arm draped limply across my torso. We were both exhausted from the day's work. Max's breathing was slow, his eyes closed. I ran my fingers across his arm, closing my own eyes. We lay that way for a long time, taking in the quiet calm. Max moved his arm to brush some hair out of his face, and lightly placed it back on my chest. I ran my finger along the soft skin of his inner arm, but where there should have been smooth, pale skin, I felt tiny ridges. Still running my finger across his skin, I opened my eyes. At first, his arm looked normal, but then I saw them, tiny white lines, paler than the skin around them and raised just the tiniest bit. Scars. My stomach flipped and I stopped stroking Max's arm. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath until I let it out to speak.

"Max...?" I said softly.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, inhaling deeply.

"Are these...?" I whispered, hoping they weren't what I already knew they were.