LITMIR.BIZ

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have been clear on his face, for all Heather said when she walked onto to the dock was “I’m sorry.”

      Max grunted. It was a better choice than the nasty language currently running in his head.

      “I’ve been on the phone with Brian Williams, trying to convince him Simon would be safe, but—”

      “But hooligans like Max Jones can’t be trusted with his precious son—oh, I can just hear the speech.”

      She set down the loudly patterned tote bag she was carrying and eased onto the dock’s little bench. “It’s not about you.”

      “Oh, not all about me, but I can just imagine what Simon’s dad thinks of someone like me.” He flipped open the equipment locker’s lid and tossed the third life jacket back inside.

      He was picking up the second one when she put out a hand to stop him. “So I guess we’re not going, huh?” Disappointment tinged her words.

      Max looked up, life jacket still in his hand, surprised. “No, we can still go.” He’d just assumed she’d ditch the day with Simon not coming. Sail alone, just with her? He’d have to go so slow and be so nice.

      “I sort of want to know how this whole rigging works.” She gestured toward the specially modified sailboat, covering her tracks with a “professional curiosity” that didn’t quite pass muster. She frowned and crossed her arms when she reached the back of the boat. “Sea Legs? Really?”

      “I thought that was particularly clever, actually. Much better than my first choice.”

      Her brows knotted together. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

      “The Crip Ship. JJ thought that a bit confrontational.”

      Heather laughed. “Max Jones? Confrontational? Imagine my surprise.”

      Max spread his arms. “Got me where I am today.” He tossed her the life jacket. “Hop in. I’ll hand over your bag and cast us off.” Wheeling over to the bag, he picked it up. It weighed a ton. “There had better be decent snacks in here.”

      “Homemade brownies, watermelon and some of the firehouse root beer.”

      Max handed over the bag as he rolled on board after her. “Someone ought to call Simon and tell him what he’s missing.” He pulled the ramp up and stowed it in its special spot alongside the keel.

      “I think he knows.” Heather’s voice sounded like he felt. Disappointed and not a little miffed. “This would have been so good for him.”

      Max liked the way that sounded. Ever since he’d wheeled into Heather’s office, he’d gotten the vibe from her that he was a poor substitute for whatever mentor she’d had in mind. It bugged him that Heather hadn’t judged him capable of helping someone. Then again, no one was more surprised than him that he’d even cared to take the whole thing on.

      He pointed to the bowline. “Undo that knot and pull the line aboard, will you?”

      While she climbed up to the front of the boat, Max transferred himself from his chair and into the swiveling seat on rails that allowed him to move freely about the boat. It wasn’t a particularly graceful maneuver, and he preferred having her attention diverted elsewhere. Once settled, he collapsed his wheelchair and stowed it in a compartment. Pulling the jib tight, Max felt the singular, blissful sensation of the boat under way. Even before his injury, nothing felt like pulling out onto the river. Now that gravity was often his enemy, the river gave him even more freedom to unwind his nerves. Sea Legs may be a mildly tacky joke to some, but it was actually close to how he saw the boat. Anything that gave Max speed and movement gave him life. They counterbalanced all the parts of his life that had become slow and cumbersome since falling from that cliff a little over a year ago.

      In a matter of minutes, Sea Legs was under way, slicing her way through the Gordon River and catching the perfect breeze that blew through the warm September afternoon. Heading upriver and upwind, he angled the boat toward the opposite shore, ready to “tack” back and forth as the craft moved against the current and into the wind. He watched Heather settle into one of the seats closer to the bow, the breeze tumbling through her hair.

      “You’re different here than at school,” he offered, liking how she angled her face up toward the sunshine. “Not so serious.”

      She shot him a look. “I take my job seriously. Don’t you?”

      Max shrugged and tightened up a line. “I don’t have a serious job. I’m...enthusiastic about it, but Adventure Access is about making fun, so it’s not the kind of job you ought to take seriously.”

      Heather brought her knees up and hugged them. He found himself staring at her bright pink toenails peeking out of the blue thong sandals she wore. Funny the details that don’t come out at the office. Max spent a lot of time noticing feet—now that his weren’t much use—and she had ridiculously cute toes that wiggled when she realized he was staring at them.

      “Are you serious about anything?” she asked, shifting to tuck her legs underneath her and blushing. Some part of Max was highly entertained that he’d made her blush. What kind of woman wore sensible clear polish on her nails but bright pink on her hidden toes?

      “I’ve been seriously injured. Been listed in ‘serious condition’ at Lincoln General.” He tied off the line. “And I’ve been in serious trouble lots of times.”

      She looked more disappointed than annoyed. “What does it take to get a straight answer out of you?”

      That was a loaded question. His boss and now brother-in-law, Alex Cushman, had asked pretty much the same thing before bringing him on board at Adventure Access. Nobody seemed willing to take a smart aleck at his word these days—they all wanted to see some deep and serious version of him, as if what he’d been through didn’t supply enough credentials. “It takes a straight question. Duck, by the way—we’re coming about and the boom is going to come across the boat.”

      “Okay,” she said as she ducked. “Straight question. What did it feel like?”

      It was obvious what she meant by “it.” “When you cut to the chase, you really cut to the chase, huh?” He had a couple of stock answers to insensitive questions like that—mostly asked by curious kids who didn’t know better or adults who only wanted gory, tragic details—but opted against using them. He’d asked her for a straight question, after all. He just hadn’t counted on “straight” going to “serious.”

      “You don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.”

      “No.” Max was surprised to find he didn’t feel any of the irritation that kind of question generally raised. He actually wanted to tell her. It must be some kind of empathetic-counselor trick. “It’s okay. But it’s not especially pretty.”

      She didn’t reply, just leaned one elbow on the bow behind her and looked ready to listen. So he told her.

      “I wanted to die.”

      * * *

      Heather swallowed hard. Max said it so matter-of-factly. As if I wanted to die was like my left shoulder hurt. All her counselor training left her no response to his casual attitude.

      He actually laughed—a dark half laugh, but still, it sounded wildly inappropriate to her—and she cringed at the sound. “That’s horrible,” she said, not exactly sure if she meant his feelings that night or his disturbing attitude now.

      “Horrible, tragic, devastating—pick your sad word. I’ve heard them all. Everybody was being so kind and vague and optimistic, but it didn’t fool me. People get that look in their eyes, you know? The one they cover up in a second but you still catch it?”

      She did know, but she didn’t say anything.

      “I think I knew right when I fell that something really serious had happened, but I don’t remember hardly anything from that night. I don’t remember the helicopter ride—which

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