Chapter Ten

The next few days settled into a routine that wasn't really a routine at all.

No one spoke about the arguments.

No one mentioned the aspirin.

No one acknowledged that something, however small, had shifted between Nate and Max.

Instead, life continued in the careful, exhausting way it often did inside grieving families.

Everyone pretended they were fine.

Everyone knew they weren't.

----------------------

Nate had expected to spend his visit avoiding Max.

Instead, he found himself watching him.

Not intentionally.

It simply... happened.

As someone training to become a doctor, observation had become second nature.

He noticed details most people overlooked.

The slight limp of a patient with hip pain.

The tremor in an elderly man's hand before the Parkinson's diagnosis.

The yellow tint in someone's eyes that hinted at liver disease.

He had been trained to notice.

Now...

He was noticing Max.

The dark circles beneath his eyes.

The way he rarely finished a meal.

The restless tapping of his fingers whenever the house became too quiet.

The fact that he almost never smiled.

And when he did...

It disappeared before anyone else could see it.

It wasn't just teenage rebellion.

There was something else.

Something buried beneath all that anger.

----------------------

Late Tuesday afternoon, Nate found Sarah folding laundry in the living room.

"Need a hand?" he asked.

She looked pleasantly surprised.

"I thought you hated folding clothes."

"I do."

She laughed.

"You haven't changed."

"I've changed plenty."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Sarah's smile faded slightly.

She handed him a pile of towels.

"You know..."

"I'm glad you're here."

Nate looked down at the neatly folded towel in his hands.

"Are you?"

"Very."

"I've caused nothing but trouble."

"You've caused worry."

She corrected him gently.

"There's a difference."

He nodded slowly.

"I suppose."

She studied him for a moment.

"You look better."

"I feel better."

It wasn't entirely true.

But it wasn't entirely a lie either.

----------------------

A loud bang echoed from upstairs.

Followed by another.

Sarah sighed.

"That'll be Max."

Nate frowned.

"What's he doing?"

"I honestly don't know."

----------------------

He climbed the stairs intending only to check that nothing had fallen on the floor.

Instead, he found Max's bedroom door open.

The room looked as though a storm had passed through it.

Clothes covered the floor.

Books were stacked haphazardly on the desk.

Empty soda cans sat beside untouched homework.

Max stood on a chair trying to force a loose shelf back onto the wall.

It wasn't going well.

"What happened?"

Max looked over his shoulder.

His expression immediately darkened.

"What do you want?"

"I heard a noise."

"No kidding."

The shelf slipped again.

Max caught it before it hit the floor.

Nate watched for another second.

"You're using the wrong screws."

"I didn't ask."

"No."

"You didn't."

Another loud thud.

Nate sighed.

"Move."

"I'm handling it."

"No, you're fighting a piece of furniture."

"I'm winning."

The shelf chose that exact moment to fall again.

Nate couldn't help it.

A small laugh escaped.

Max glared at him.

"You think that's funny?"

"A little."

"Get out."

"You'll hurt yourself."

"I said—"

Before Max could finish, Nate walked over, picked up a screwdriver from the floor, and examined the wall.

"The anchors are loose."

"I know."

"So why are you using the same holes?"

Max folded his arms.

"I don't need your help."

"I'm aware."

Nate grabbed a different drill bit from the toolbox.

"But you do need a better approach."

For several moments, Max simply watched.

Despite himself.

Nate worked with practiced efficiency.

Within five minutes, the shelf was secure.

He stepped back.

"There."

Max cautiously pushed against it.

It didn't move.

"...Thanks."

The word came so quietly Nate almost missed it.

"You're welcome."

Silence settled over the room.

Nate glanced around.

His gaze landed on a framed photograph sitting on the desk.

Simon.

Max.

Micah.

Sarah.

Christmas.

Everyone smiling.

His chest tightened.

Simon had looked exactly the way Nate remembered.

Warm.

Steady.

Safe.

He looked back at Max.

"You miss him."

The room instantly changed.

Max's shoulders stiffened.

"What?"

"Your dad."

Max's expression shut down.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

"I said I don't know what you're talking about."

Nate leaned against the desk.

"I lost my parents."

"So?"

"So I know what grief looks like."

Something flashed across Max's face.

Then anger slammed into place.

"You don't know anything."

"I know more than you think."

"No." Max took a step forward. "You don't."

"I do."

"You lost your parents years ago." The words came out sharper than intended. "You got over it."

Nate stared at him.

"...Got over it?"

"You moved on."

Nate let out a short, bitter laugh.

"No... I just became good at hiding it."

Max frowned.

Nate looked toward the photograph.

"There are days I still reach for my phone because I want to call my mom."

His voice remained calm.

"There are days I still hear my dad's laugh in crowds."

He swallowed.

"I still remember what it felt like standing in my house after they died."

Silence.

"I never got over them."

The room remained painfully still.

For one heartbeat...

Max almost believed him.

Almost.

Then another thought surfaced.

If Nate understood...

Why hadn't he come back?

Why hadn't he been here?

His jaw tightened.

"If you understand so much..."

Nate looked at him.

"...where were you?"

The question hit harder than any insult Max had thrown before.

Nate blinked.

"What?"

"When Dad died."

Max's breathing quickened.

"Where were you?"

"I..."

"You weren't here."

"Max—"

"You missed the funeral."

Nate's face paled.

"I know."

"You missed everything."

"I couldn't—"

"You could."

The anger was back.

Stronger than ever.

"You just didn't."

Nate opened his mouth.

No words came.

Because there was no explanation that could undo six years of absence.

Max laughed bitterly.

"Don't stand there acting like you understand me."

"You left all of us."

The sentence hung in the room.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

"You left all of me."

Nate's heart lurched.

All this time...

He had thought Max hated him because he was meddling.

Because he'd criticized him.

Because he'd interfered.

He had been wrong.

This wasn't about the present.

It was about six years of silence.

Six years of birthdays missed.

Six years of empty promises that had never actually been made.

Six years of a little boy waiting for someone who never came home.

Nate's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Max..."

"I don't want to hear it."

Max walked to the bedroom door and pulled it open.

"Get out."

Nate didn't move.

"Please."

This time the word wasn't angry.

It was tired.

Broken.

"I said get out."

Nate lowered his eyes.

Without another word, he walked into the hallway.

The door closed quietly behind him.

No slam.

No shouting.

Just a soft click that somehow hurt even more.

----------------------

That evening, Nate sat alone on the back porch as the sun disappeared behind the trees.

He couldn't stop hearing Max's question.

"Where were you?"

He had answers.

Medical school.

Exams.

Clinical rotations.

His own grief.

The terror of coming home and reopening old wounds.

But sitting there in the fading light, none of those reasons felt big enough.

Inside the house, Max stood behind the curtain in his bedroom, watching Nate through the window.

He didn't realize he was doing it.

He only knew he couldn't look away.

Down below, Nate sensed eyes on him.

He looked up.

The curtain moved.

Just enough.

Neither of them waved.

Neither of them spoke.

Two silent watchers.

Each carrying wounds the other was only beginning to understand.

And for the first time since Nate had returned home, he realized that earning Max's forgiveness might be far more difficult than surviving his own heartbreak.