Unperfect

Mia

“Oh my God. Kill me.”

I blinked open my eyes. On the pillow next to me all I could see was a mass of curly hair above the duvet that was pulled over Yaz’s face. The low, constant groan from underneath sounded like an animal in pain. I lifted my head off the pillow and pushed up onto my elbows. Yaz’s hand came up and pulled the duvet down so she could look at me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin tone decidedly green.

“What happened?” she groaned, rubbing her hands down her face. “And why am I at my brother’s house?”

I sat up bolt upright with a start and my mouth fell open as a stream of images from last night filtered back into my consciousness.

“Oh no,” I whispered. Max had carried me. It was bad enough that he had to support me so I could walk out of the pub but I knew, I just knew, that when we got to his house he carried me. I could still smell his aftershave. Bloody hell! I’d told him I liked him. Really, really liked him. Why didn’t I have the ability to forget drunken behaviour like Yaz?

“Hey, you okay?” Yaz asked, sitting up next to me and reaching out to touch my forearm. Like always her touch was calming. It helped me breath through my panicky thoughts. There was a sort of peaceful, warm energy about Yaz (even hungover Yaz) that settled my mind.

“I’m good,” I said, giving her a shaky smile. “I mean, apart from the badger mouth and nausea.”

“Jesus,” Yaz sighed, flopping back down onto the mattress again. “How did Max get us both home?’

“Heath carried you. Don’t you remember?”

“What?” Yaz shot bolt upright again only to have her face drain of all colour. Her hand went to her mouth and she scrambled off the bed to lurch towards the bathroom. I heard her retching and then groan like an animal again before the bathroom tap went on. She emerged five minutes later looking pale and very small, her hair a crazy mass of curls sticking up in all directions. “Okay, be honest. Was I sick on him?”

I bit my lip. “You weren’t sick on him exactly.’

“Mia,” she said in a warning tone.

“Well, you were sick in Max’s geraniums. Heath may or may not have held your hair back while you chundered.” She groaned and leaned over to put her head in her hands.

“Why do I always have to make such a dick out of myself in front of Heath? This is the first time I’ve been drunk for ages, but it always seems to happen when he’s around. He always sees me at my worst.”

“Oh Yaz,” I said softly, crawling over the bed to where she was sitting so I could rub her back. “I’m sorry, hun. I thought you might have a bit of a crush on him but-”

‘What!” she said in a horrified voice, taking her head out of her hands to stare at me with wide eyes. “I hate his guts, Mia.’

“Oh, right. Yes.” I suddenly regretted mentioning her thing for Heath. She looked humiliated. But how could she not realise it was obvious? “Of course you do.” I crossed my fingers behind my back as Yaz let out a shaky sigh.

“Hey,” Max’s voiced sounded from behind the door, making me start on the bed. “You ladies alive yet?”

“No,” said Yaz in a dejected voice. I scrambled off the bed and went to the door as she flopped back down again.

“Sorry I –” My voice cut off as I flung open the door to be confronted by a freshly showered Max in jeans and bare feet. Don’t ask me how a man’s bare feet can be sexy but Max’s were gorgeous. I felt like I couldn’t breath for a minute, he looked so utterly and effortlessly handsome. I was suddenly very aware of the fact I was still wearing the oversized Sandbaggers’ top and leggings. One of my hands went up to my head and yes, yes of course half of my short hair was bunched up in a tangle at the side. I cleared my throat. “I’m so sorry about last night. You must think that-”

“I think that I organised a lock-in at the Pig and Whistle and my sister got you pissed on rhubarb gin,” he said, taking in my dishevelled appearance with half smile and a twinkle in his eye. “You have nothing to be sorry about.” He turned to Yaz. “You on the other hand owe Heath another pair of shoes. Fancy ones too.”

“Bugger off and die,” Yaz said, bending her arm at the elbow and shaking it at him. In return he bit his thumb and flicked it towards her. 

“Okay well, I’ll be out of your hair in a sec. I just need to-”

“Feed. Me.” Yaz shouted and Max bit his thumb at her again.

“You can feed yourself, Midge. I’m feeding this one.” Then, to my surprise, he reached forward and took my hand in his warm, dry one, tugging me out of the bedroom. I shook my head.

“You don’t have to feed me,” I told him.

“Quit yer mitherin. It’s Sunday. Every bugger gets bacon on a Sunday. Well, apart from Yaz – she’ll have a mushroom or something.” He shuddered. “House rules. You need to eat.”

“Really Max. I–”

“Mia,” he cut me off and turned to face me, one of his hands going to the back of my neck and curving around below my hairline. It should have felt intrusive, provoked anxiety, but for some reason all his touch did was make me feel safe, and warm, and triggered a strong wave of awareness to spread down from my neck to my toes. I let out a shaky breath and looked up into his intense gaze. “You’re going to eat some bacon and then I’m going to take you to see a physiotherapist.”

“Wh-what are you on about?” My head was throbbing now as I sat down at the kitchen island. As he turned to the kettle Yaz pulled out the stool next to me.

“I wouldn’t bother arguing with him,” she said, slumping forward onto the counter once she made it up on the stool. She rested her head on her hands and her puffy bloodshot eyes looked up at me. “He’s a bossy bastard. I should know. I grew up with him.”

“Hey, you’re alive.”

Yaz’s eyes shot open when she heard Heath’s voice accompanied by his heavy footfalls as he walked into the kitchen.

“Kudos both of you for not choking on your own vom. Hashtag winning.” He held his hand up to me and I gave him a weak high five. Yaz’s face flushed a deep red colour. One of her hands went to her out-of-control curls, which, after a night of drunken sleep, looked way more Side Show Bob than ruffled surfer chick. 

“Why aren’t you working?” she asked accusingly, searching her wrists for a hair band, which wasn’t there. “You’re always working.”

“I do get the occasional day off, Midge, and it is a Sunday,” he said, moving towards the kettle after it was clear Yaz was going to leave him hanging. A plate landed in front of me loaded with bacon, sausage, bean, toast, even black pudding was on there. I blinked.

“I’m not a massive breakfast eater,” I told Max something he knew and he shrugged.

“You can’t afford to carry on missing meals, Mia.”

“See,” muttered Yaz. “Bossy.”

Max faced me across the counter, lifted one eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. The bacon did actually smell pretty good. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the fork. I felt anger trickle through me, strengthening my spine.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” My voice didn’t even sound like my own. It was cold and harsh. Max’s face lost the arrogant expression and he frowned, uncrossing his arms to rest his hands on the counter. I pushed off the stool and took a step away from the kitchen island.

“Mia,” Max said slowly, the rest of the kitchen was silent. “It’s okay if you don’t want to eat that breakfast. I just think you should have something. You’re hungover. The only thing that will make you feel better is food. I’m not telling you to do owt, I’m asking. I’m sorry if it sounded like an order but the truth is I bark out orders all day long to these buggers, most of which get completely ignored. It just becomes a habit. I’ll be more … careful in future.”

The tension drained from my body and I felt my shoulders relax. My cheeks felt heated as I took back my position on the kitchen stool.

“I may have overreacted,” I muttered into the plate. “You’re right. I do need to eat.” I lifted one of the rashers of bacon off the plate and took a small bite. Max pushed a cup of tea tentatively across the kitchen island towards me as if he was offering it to an angry badger. I wished now that I could claw back my words. The last thing I wanted was for Max to be careful with me – to treat me differently. Despite my churning stomach, after a few mouthfuls and a few sips of tea (half a sugar and lots of milk – just the way I liked it) I started to feel better. Funny, but in all the years I was with Nate, he never learned how I took my tea. I offered Yaz a slice of bacon but she groaned and shook her head.

“I’m gonna make a smoothie,” she said, slipping off the stool and grabbing some fruit on the way to Max’s Nutribullet. Instead Heath snatched it out of my hands and shoved it into his mouth.

“Nothing you can Nutribullet is going to cure your hangover like bacon, Midge,” Heath told Yaz. “Whilst you’re crying about the poor piggy wiggies the rest of us are feeling bloody brilliant, having restored the required salts and protein needed for alcohol poisoning recovery.”

“Bugger off, Heath,” Yaz mumbled, her face still a bright shade of red as she ducked her head to make her smoothie.

“Well, aren’t you a delight the morning after the night before. You should go and stand outside over Max’s raspberries – scare off all the birds.”

“Ha, or provide them with a ready-made nest,” Max chipped in. Yaz stopped what she was doing, turned on her heel, and power walked out of the room. I didn’t think I’d ever seen Yaz do more than just amble, when she wasn’t on the rugby pitch that is, so her power walking was vaguely alarming.

“What was that about?” Heath asked in a bewildered voice after Yaz had made her exit.

“I think you hurt her feelings,” I told him, keeping my eyes on my breakfast.

“But I always take the piss. That’s what little sisters are for.”

I was about to tell Heath that Yaz wasn’t his little sister, and that maybe he should be a little less clueless and open his bloody eyes to see the way she looked at him, worshipped him. But I bit my lip. Yaz would be humiliated if anyone pointed out how she felt about Heath to Heath himself.

“Well, I don’t know what’s crawled up her arse this morning,” Max said, sipping his coffee. “Yaz can normally take a joke.”

I bit my lip again. I was sure that Yaz could take a joke in normal circumstances, but after having vomited (for the second time) on the shoes of the man that I was now convinced she was secretly in love with, then seeing that man the morning after when she looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards, in those circumstances, a little teasing – the type that was good natured but had just an edge of cruelty – that type of teasing would be tough to take.

“So, Mia,” Max said. “You still love the Pig and Whistle after last night? Got to say I’ve never heard anyone wax lyrical about that shithole and its grumpy old bastard of an owner like you did.”

I laughed and took a sip of my tea. “I stand by everything I said last night.” My smile dropped a little after I caught Max’s eye and remembered how much I’d said. The smile he gave me was smug this time. I’d never seen him so pleased with himself.

“Not a wine bar, Michelin star type girl then?” Heath asked. Images of the bars and restaurants I’d frequented in my former life and the utter desolation and loneliness I’d felt there clashed with my warm memories from last night and I shuddered.

“No, I fucking hate places like that.” The vehemence in my voice caused his eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

‘Er … okaaay,” he said slowly. “Hope you’re taking note Maxy Boy – no nice places for this lady. Strictly sawdust on the floor and no toilet paper in the bogs type of girl. Right up your street, you stingy northern bastard.”

“I’m going to call an Uber,” a slightly less dishevelled Yaz said from the door of the kitchen. She’d managed to find her hair band and controlled her lion’s mane, but a few wayward curls still stuck out at random angles. She turned to Heath. Her face was pale and her eyes a little red rimmed. My heart ached for her. “I’m sorry I threw up on your shoes … again.” Red stains appearing on her pale cheeks before she turned and made a swift exit, pulling her phone out as she went.

“Yaz,” said Heath, jogging around the kitchen island to catch up with her. “Don’t be a div. I’ll drive you home. You don’t have the money for an Uber.”

Max and I listened to them argue all the way to the front door and until it closed behind them.

I took another sip of tea before breathing in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth.

“Max, listen,” I said as I put my cup down on the counter and looked up at him. Holding eye contact wasn’t easy for me, but it was time I stopped being such a wuss. “I know you want to help me and I really appreciate it. But honestly you don’t have to take me to a physio today. My arm is fine, whatever Heath says.”

Max huffed out a frustrated breath and closed his eyes for a moment before making his way around the kitchen island to stand in front of me. The stool was high so my face was more on his level than normal, but I still had to tip my head back as he moved into my space. He lifted his hand to my shoulder then it stilled before making contact.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his eyes flicking down to his hand then back to my face. That was when I realised that I hadn’t tensed at all at his approach. Hadn’t felt even a shiver of apprehension. In the back of my mind, I know I had thought that maybe I’d stay broken forever. That maybe I’d never be normal again. For the first time in a long time I felt hope, unfamiliar but strong, blooming in my chest. I smiled tentatively and gave a quick nod. With hope came bravery. So, as he swept my hair back behind my ear, I reached up to his face. I ran my hand along his strong jaw line – smooth but rough after his shave that morning. The stubble would be back in full force in a few hours. I traced up behind his ear and into his thick hair, my eyes flying to his when he took in a quick draw of air.

“I know I don’t have to, Mia,” he said, his mouth a hair’s breadth from mine. “None of this is about have to. Don’t you see that yet?”

His eyes were burning green fire, his expression was almost fierce. Two slashes of red appeared high on his cheekbones as his pupils dilated. And because I felt brave and hopeful and whole for the first time in years, because I felt like I was burning from the inside out with the need to be close to him, because I trusted him and because it would have been impossible to stop myself, I closed the minuscule gap between our lips and pressed mine against his in a feather-like kiss. He sucked in a sharp breath and his head jerked back just slightly so he could read my expression. After a moment’s pause his lips fell back onto mine.

This kiss wasn’t gentle. It was firm, insistent and accompanied by a low sound from the back of his throat. One of his hands slid under my jaw, the other rested on my hip – not closing me in, not pushing for more. But as I slid my fingers from his hair to the nape of his neck, arching my body into his, and sliding my other hand up his back, I could feel the trembling of his body as he held himself back from me – worried, even now in the grip of his desire, worried that he might crowd me, that he might overwhelm me.

I loved that this big, abrasive, gruff man cared about me so much that he tried to contain all that fierceness so as not to scare me or push me too far. But at the same time I hated that he felt he had to do that. That he thought I was so fragile. I wanted unedited, disinhibited Max. The rough, unapologetic Max. I didn’t want him to be careful with me, not now. So I opened my mouth under his, allowing his tongue to sweep inside. Still he didn’t let his big body to relax into mine, still I felt the tension in the muscles under my hands. I pulled back enough to whisper against his lips.

“I’m fine. You won’t scare me. I want the real Max. My Max. Be real with me, please.”

“Your Max,” he whispered back before scooping me up off the stool and lifting me so that my legs went around his hips. His hard body finally falling into mine and that low growl back in his throat. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathed against my neck as he kissed the skin at the base of my throat. “I felt like I was going mad with wanting you.” He lifted me up and put me on the granite of the kitchen island, his mouth fusing back with mine and his hips pressing against me. My breath caught, the high of having him so close almost too much to take. His large hand found the hem of my t-shirt and then splayed across my ribcage under my breast. I followed his lead to feel the smooth skin of his back under his shirt, stretched tight over his taught muscles. Need, sharp and biting, welled up in me and I let out a noise I’d never heard myself make before. A quiet but desperate moan that felt like it was ripped from my soul. Max stilled. It was a good few moments until I realised his phone was ringing.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, moving back enough to look down at me. He was breathing heavily and his expression was still saturated with need but there was guilt there too, and more than a little concern. He didn’t answer his phone, just continued to stare down at me, searching my face for something. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t … I mean I didn’t mean to rush things like that. I know you need to be comfortable with me. Attacking you in my kitchen when you’re weak with a hangover is not in the plan.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to get my own breathing under control. “What is the plan then? And why are you the only plan maker?” I grinned and moved my hands up his back to encircle him, hugging him to me and laying my head on his chest, still high from those hopeful feelings and the fierce desire I felt for him, coupled with the ability to act on it without becoming a terrified mess. My counsellor had told me that PTSD didn’t have to rule my life. That I could go on to have real relationships, but, if I was honest, I hadn’t really believed him. And anyway, I had thought that if I ever was brave enough to give a man that much power over me again, he would be physically much weaker that Nate ever was – nothing like Max who could squash even Nate like a bug.

But it wasn’t just a matter of physical strength, was it? You could be the strongest, most lethal man in the world – that didn’t mean you weren’t gentle and caring with the people you loved. With real strength comes the integrity not to use physicality to control others, or emotional abuse to chip someone down to a shadow of their former self. Real strength means helping to build someone up so that they can be a real partner, an equal. A narcissist like Nate didn’t want a partner – just a pawn, someone he could keep in ‘her place’ – subservient, reliant, broken down

“The plan is I take you to your physiotherapy appointment now, then-”

“Max.” I cut him off, highlighting my point by bringing my hands up and onto his chest. “I can’t afford a private physio and I-”

“You’re an employee. If you need to see a physio for an issue that was affecting your work, the company, my company will fund it.”

I rolled my eyes. “My shoulder is not affecting my work performance. The only thing it affects is my ability to get a mug off the top shelf.”

“I’ve seen the way you inhale coffee in the morning, Number Five. It’s like the plutonium in your Dolorean, the Sky Net in your Terminator. I would argue that your cup-reaching ability is crucial to your work performance.” His grin was so smug that I tipped my head back to look up at the ceiling and let out a short laugh. “Mia, you are going to this appointment today. It’s already paid for so I’ll be spending the money whether or not you show up.”

“Max–”

His smile dropped and his hands cupped my face to tip it down from my contemplation of the ceiling and gain eye contact. “It’s your right arm, love. Your dominant arm, and you haven’t got full use of it. Something has been taken from you, and I want to help you get it back.”

I paused for a beat, taking in his stubborn expression. “Okay,” I said softly. “Okay I’ll go. And Max …” I leaned into him, my hands moving from his chest to his wrists below my jaw, “… thank you.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. My next words were a little choked with emotion but I managed to get them out. “I mean it. For last night, and for this. Whatever happens between us I’ll always be grateful.”

He groaned. “Bloody hell, Number Five,” he said in a pained voice. “Didn’t you listen to anything Verity and I said last month? It’s us that’s grateful to you. And please don’t thank me for setting up a lock-in in one of the grimmest pubs in Dorset – that makes me feel like a right tight-arse.”

“I love the Pig and Whistle – give me that over the Ivy any day.”

“You’ve eaten in the Ivy?” he stared at me in that assessing way he had.

“You know – figure of speech.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Right,” he said slowly. “Anyway – plan is physio now. Then later in the week I take you somewhere that’s not the Pig and Whistle and we talk, right?”

“What physio works on a Sunday anyway?”

“One that wants to get in Heath’s pants.”