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We’re in a posh restaurant, Max and I, and he’s wearing his tux again. He knows he looks good in it — one thing I can’t truthfully argue with him about. I’m in a green dress, looking very beautiful. Or so he told me when he picked me up. I don’t think I imagined that thing in his eyes when he saw me, the thing that’s been building since we met, did I? Longing, is that it? I wonder if my eyes tell him the same thing. I certainly feel it. Three years of it.
The restaurant is busy, noisy, almost too much for me to process and to be able to concentrate on what we’re here to do. It’s a weekend and it seems like anyone with a bit of cash to splash is out on the town. Since we got here I’ve heard Spanish, Catalan, English, German, Russian, Italian… It’s the international community we’re investigating again, part of our special remit. We are the perfect team to go undercover for this case, according to Inés: German and British, and apparently we look and act like a couple anyway, whatever that means. I wish she wouldn’t stir things up like that — she knows Max is with Carmen. Still.
I thought after the failed proposal and her telling me that she stays with him because he means well and — yikes — for the sex, that it would have fizzled out by now. But still they cling on to the love that isn’t quite enough. I’m sure he knows it too, somewhere in him. Not that I want to wish them ill. I just wish myself well a bit more.
The restaurant staff seem to think we’ve just got engaged. I assume Max has made something up when I wasn’t listening in and keeping tabs on him. They’ve put extra candles and red roses on our table. There’s champagne. Romantic. Inés seeing the bill won’t be.
Max winds me up by saying I should get the twenty Euro soup. I poke my tongue out at him. His memory for things I’ve said is remarkable. I suppose that goes both ways. How often have I brought his words back to haunt him? Always deserved, of course.
The champagne is crisp and delicious, but we must stay sharp. This bottle will not be drained. Our starters arrive: crab and asparagus quiche for him, a langoustine and cucumber salad for me, decorated with tiny flowers that I assume are edible. Fancy. Tasty too, admittedly, but I’m glad I’m not paying. Maybe it’s so tasty because I’m not paying. Is that the key to enjoying fine dining?
We chat over our first course and it’s the same as always: somehow comfortable and dangerous at the same time. And I don’t mean because we’re here on an undercover operation. The risk is in the feeling that has developed. I’ve fallen for Max, hard. Part of me wishes I hadn’t, but really I wouldn’t be without the exquisite pain of unrequited love for him, because it has made me come alive. He’s awakened something vital I didn’t know was missing. I wish I could turn off the little voice of hope that pipes up when he flirts with me though — even if he and Carmen do break it up, it absolutely does not mean he’s going to come running to me. He’s just a flirty kind of person, tactile, friendly.
The waiter clears the table and then brings over a large oval platter with a long mound of white crystals heaped up. He chips at the top layer and with a flourish reveals a whole sea bass, juicy and soft in its salty case. He portions it expertly on to our plates.
Max takes his first bite and flicks a furtive glance to our subjects a couple of tables away. “There’s definitely something fishy going on here,” he announces. The twinkle in his eyes tells me he’s rather pleased with himself. Two can play at this game.
I pass him the plate of chargrilled vegetables. “Don’t be so corny,” I reprove.
He is delighted, that’s obvious. “Olive it when you join in.” He grins, a white flash that lights me up.
“Lettuce get on with what we’re here to do,” I insist. Deadpan. Poker face.
His smile widens. “How swede it is to spend time with you.” A wink that unsettles me, I’m like a teenager with a crush.
“I can’t beet-lieve you stooped to that,” I smirk. He’s laughing because of me and I don’t want it to end.
Mock-serious now, he has a question. “You think I’m taking the peas?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re here for something so important and all you’ve bean up to is coming up with food puns?”
He shrugs. Catches my eye. How big, how blue, how beautiful. “I’ve got to distract myself from how radishing you look tonight somehow.” His expression shows me sincerity.
We’re staring. I don’t know what to say and it has nothing to do with trying to play on words. I’m suddenly very aware of my body and my breathing.
I catch movement to the side. One of our suspects has got up. Action time. We nod. We both pretend to be going to the bathrooms. We take a detour to the kitchen, following the guy. He’s talking to a porter, shady-looking type. We’re straining to hear what’s going on, and then—
Shit! He’s coming back. Fuck. There’s no reason to be in this corridor. It only goes to the kitchens and we clearly have no reason to be going there. I start to panic. Do we rush back to our table? Will that make us look guilty? We can’t blow this!
Max has my hand. Hot, tight, urgent. He pulls me to him. His eyes flash, he’s trying to tell me something. Is it a warning? No time to talk.
He pushes me quickly and firmly against the wall. Hesitates for only a split-second. Then we’re kissing. Soft, then deep. Our first kiss. It’s drama, bravery, passion. It’s everything. I don’t want it to end. I’m alive. I’m in love.
The suspect is clear now, has been for some time, but still we’re kissing. My hands on his neck, his shoulders, his on my waist, my hips, holding me to him. Lips on lips, tongues meeting, pulses racing.
When Inés assigned us this case, I didn’t really think this is what we’d be doing.
Eventually he pulls back, breathing fast. He looks at me like he’s felt more than he was expecting. A revelation? Or am I imagining something that isn’t really there? He’s searching my eyes. Then the guilt comes down and he’s not mine anymore. He smiles weakly and it’s over.
We talk later, on the way home. One of our BMW tête-à-têtes. He says he hopes what happened was ok, that I wasn’t too uncomfortable. I tell him it was fine, just work. What else can I say?
Our first kiss and it wasn’t real. Our last? Probably. We’re just good friends.
***
Dad’s visit is this week and it’s going to be a nightmare. He’s so picky. Suppose that’s where I got it from. We’re too alike to get along easily — two peas who struggle to stay in the same pod for long.
Should I let him meet Max? Will he see through my carefully-managed façade? I imagined if I ever did find someone I wanted to be in a relationship with, they’d be someone like me, just not as like me as my dad. I always thought that ‘opposites attract’ wasn’t really a thing outside of magnets, but Max has blown that theory out of the water. He’s so different from me that it’s infuriating sometimes, but it’s in the differences that the interest lies. He shows me other ways of seeing things, other ways of approaching life. I will always, always be grateful that he welcomed me so gladly and helped me settle here. It could so easily have been just another transfer, just another pissed-off partner hoping one of us would get reassigned, just another flat I wouldn’t be staying in for long. Instead it’s a home, a partner for life, a best friend.
I finally stop pretending Dad’s visit is a problem for later and I tell Max about it. He offers straight away to help me out. He’s going to take us on some excursions. His weekend at my disposal. My load is lightened and I can get through this.
The flight is late. Thursday night and I’m hanging around at the airport, alone. I can’t come here without remembering my first day on the island. The first time I met Max. It was dramatic. A job that was meant to be over and done in a day, and then a killing that turned out not to be real in the end, but very much felt it at the time, a fake death that uprooted me with no warning. An ending and a beginning, unannounced. London to Palma. A new start borne out of trauma.
Dad is tired and it’s almost midnight. We get a taxi. Max has offered his services, helpful and generous as usual, but I need to do the reacquainting bit by myself. I’m nervous. We talk lightly, Dad and I, tread carefully. Tea sees us through back at my place until we agree we must sleep.
Friday is sightseeing. A whirl through the centre of Palma: Catedral, Llotja, Ajuntament, Mercat, Plaça Major. We go past Max’s place. I know he’s at work, but automatically I look to his windows, wanting to see him smiling down at me. This need has taken me over. I can’t evict him from my brain.
I tell Dad that Max is driving us tomorrow and he bluntly asks who Max is to me again. Apparently I have mentioned him too much already and Dad is suspicious. My dimples can’t hide the truth the way the rest of my face is trying to. He accepts my explanation: compañeros, friends. Or does he?
Saturday is bright and full of promise. Max arrives, slightly late as usual; I can see Dad waiting, trying to hide his annoyance. Max’s charm washes away the irritation. He’s a burst of sunshine. I wish once again that I had even a little of his ease with the world. In the car I can’t help stealing looks at him as the breeze ruffles his hair and he sings along to the radio; he’s put the top down to impress Dad, but it means the wind has made it too noisy to talk, which is fine by me.
At the nature reserve we’re on bikes again. We let Dad lead. He has the map, the list, the goal. Max shows off as we trail behind, trying to ride hands-free. Of course it goes wrong and he is in a heap by my feet. He says he’s lucky it’s not muddy today. I privately disagree: no tuxedo.
Dad is thrilled he’s added several species to his personal checklist. To Max and I they mostly looked the same: smallish, brownish, far away. We have different reasons for enjoying this day trip.
Max takes us to a roadside restaurant he likes and we order traditional Mallorcan food. He chooses a selection for us to share; I can trust him now he understands my cautious palate. Plates of chargrilled meats and vegetables arrive. Simple, fresh, delicious. Safe enough for the Blake sensitivities.
With Max here there are no awkward silences. I know that without him the conversation this weekend would be stilted. Talk turns to Carmen and I catch a slight hesitation, a split-second of something before he continues. He told me she was busy all weekend and he was at a loose end, but now I wonder. Has he blown her off for this? To be with me?
We move on, planning tomorrow. Max has ideas and Dad is quietly keen. The bill arrives and Max pays before we can even argue. Dad thanks him. He seems to have warmed to this effusive, generous German. Quickly too. Both Blakes are somehow in thrall to him now. We’re not usually this easy.
Sunday morning and Max is just a little bit late again. Dad doesn’t seem bothered this time. He’s busy reading his guidebook, studying the places Max is going to take us.
A cry of ¡hola! and Max is here. He’s got ensaïmadas and a bag of ‘proper coffee’. We have a quick breakfast and I can’t stop smiling to see the pair of them getting on so well. I hadn’t realised how important it was to me that they liked each other, even though Dad and I aren't particularly close.
Soon we’re up in the Tramuntanas, exploring in the clear morning. Max has chosen a beautiful mountain village I haven’t been to yet. We wander, stroll, browse. I’m relaxed and happy.
Next it’s a hike, uphill on the way out, but not too strenuous. Max has planned this so well — I hardly had any input for once. The view is fantastic. Dad is impressed, and so am I, by my compañero far more than the scenery. I sit down next to him on a stone wall, but not quite as close as I want to. He’s forbidden fruit and I have got to stop thinking about him like that, about that kiss; I don’t get another bite at that apple. It lives in a world of make-believe, a fairytale fiction where the handsome knight kisses the shy princess and rescues her from her lonely tower. But I’ve built those tall walls up for a reason and I must hide behind them. It’s not safe to let him all the way in. He’s Carmen’s prince. I focus on the view from the top.
We pick our way down the stony track and back to the car, his dark steed. Max says he’s hungry. He knows a place. Doesn’t he always? He stops at a deli and he and Dad go in, then he takes us to a secluded cove. Picnic time. The familiar wicker is produced from the boot.
Dad’s spotted some apparently interesting birds and he’s off, checklist in pocket, mini binoculars ready for action. Just Max and I on our soft blanket, our woven square of friendship. He’s chatting, joking, making me laugh. He’s been wonderful this weekend. I tell him how much easier he’s made it for me and he’s thrilled, beaming at me. I offer to help him get through a parental visit should one befall him. I’m secretly desperate to meet Winter Senior. He sounds a bit like me in the body of an older Max.
Eventually he drops us off and to my surprise Dad is wishing him a warm and unusually physical farewell. He says he hopes to see him next time. All this time I’ve been on the island and it’s Max who is drawing him back! My turn to say goodbye. I touch Max’s shoulder; it’s all I can allow. I notice his eyes flick down to my arm and his smiles grows. With a cheery wave and beep of the horn he’s off. I wonder if the last day of the visit will go so well without him. I already feel colder.
I’m in bed, replaying the whole weekend. If my dad hadn’t been part of the equation, these little outings would’ve seemed romantic perhaps, even if that wasn’t the intent. I wonder if this is the Max Winter boyfriend experience. Is this what dating him would be like?
It isn’t dating though. I’ll never know what that’s like. We’re just good friends.
***
I’m so very tired. This day has gone on and on, this case that needs to be over. Max looks fed up with the whole thing. I remember him saying earlier he was meant to be meeting Carmen tonight — her night off. Whenever it was, it’s surely either very soon or it’s passed by now. And yet I do not remind him. Is it because I don’t want to interfere or is something more selfish lurking behind it?
The calls start and he looks at his phone with a trace of annoyance and perhaps guilt. He mumbles something about not wanting to lose his place; he’ll call her back soon. Time ticks on and eventually he leaves the room, a grimace on his face and a phone in his hand.
He strides back in and on with the work, issue put aside again. I know he knows better than this; I’ve told him before about letting her know where he is and not standing her up, letting her worry unnecessarily. So why is he still doing this, still leaving it late to update her? Has he really not learned or is there a problem between them? He seemed to have taken my lesson in before, so is it the latter? Some barrier, some niggling feeling blocking their communication these days?
He asks me for a drink when we eventually finish for the night. It’s late and he probably should go and talk to his girlfriend, but I accept. Too easily, probably. If he doesn’t want to fix his relationship tonight, I’m not going to push him, no matter how much I like Carmen.
We find a quiet bar. Wine, chat, unwind. I’m too tired to notice my schoolgirl hair twirl beginning and then I’m too happy to care. He flirts, so why shouldn’t I? I come up with a couple of puns that have him sniggering like a little boy. We’re a couple of carefree kids living in this moment, no responsibilities, all fun. We need it after the day we've had.
He walks me home even though it’s in the wrong direction. I ask him in for coffee. The pause before he declines says more than his words. The shoulder touch that lingers, the gaze that does the same…. He leaves me aching.
Am I wrong to read something into it? Probably. We’re just good friends.
***
Saturday night and I’m thinking of going for a run; I’m alone and I’m restless. The energy needs to dissipate somehow. I’ll be safe if I stick to the well-lit, busy areas, weaving my way through groups and couples out for a drink or a stroll. I need to clear my head.
Something Max said this week is playing on my mind: he thinks he’s really messed things up with Carmen. He thinks this might be it for them. I’m sad for him, and for her, but I can’t stop the hope surging. It’s not right, but it’s my reality. I keep telling myself to be there for him as a friend, but it’s complicated. Always is when feelings are involved. A good run might help simplify things.
My phone buzzes.
Max:
I was right. She finished with me. It’s over.
My heart drops for him. But I feel a unwanted smile pull at the corners of my lips. What the hell is wrong with me? He needs me, as a friend. He needs either a shoulder to cry on or cheering up, maybe both. I will do my best for him.
Miranda:
I’m coming round with gin and crisps
I was going for a run anyway. Now I’ll run to him. He has lit the signal fire and I am coming.
I’m there in no time. Plaça del Mercadal, scene of so many convivial meals, lively drinks, movie nights… I stand in front of his door and force the smile from my face, arrange it into appropriate sympathy. A knock and a couple of seconds and he is there. He’s been waiting for me. He looks terrible. His face is stiff, like he’s trying not to cry. He looks worn, a shadow. It physically hurts me to see him like this, a crushing weight in me echoing his pain.
I know it’s wildly inadequate, but I touch his arm. He lifts a little. Touch always helps him. So will alcohol. He needs the release.
I march into the kitchen. I know where everything is here. The bedroom is the only room I’m not a frequent visitor to. I slice the lemon, drop the chinking ice cubes into glasses. I make the drinks strong, stronger than I usually would; he needs to let himself go, to get past the worst of the rawness, and I need courage to offer him the kind of solace he needs.
We talk quietly. It’s strange to see his light diminished like this. Usually he is the sunshine in my life, but tonight I must illuminate his darkness. I make us a second round. As I finish mine I feel the pleasant buzz of inhibitions slipping away. I look to him. He is breaking. A single tear rolls down his cheek. He needs me right now.
I walk round the coffee table and sit beside him. He can’t be alone on his sofa now, I’m joining him on his life raft as he is tossed in the vast sorrow of breaking up, breaking down. We will ride the storm together.
I breathe in deeply. It’s time for a hug of friendship. I launch myself towards him fiercely. I wrap my arms round him and lay my head on his chest. His heart thumps in my ear. It speeds up as he embraces me, rubs his hands on my back, then it gradually slows as he stills, gripping me tightly. I feel the sobs begin and soon the tears fall into my hair. I don’t mind getting wet if some of his salty grief transfers to me. I will do anything for this man. Anything to make him feel better.
We stay like this for a long time, hearing the bars unloading their tipsy patrons into the small hours. Eventually Max leans back against the sofa, pulling me with him. He is relaxed. The tears have stopped and he breathes peacefully into my hair. My hand is on his stomach, my leg partially over his. It feel his thigh twitch and his grip on me slackens. I smile as he sleeps.
After a while, I slide slowly out of his grasp. I find a blanket to put over him. I recognise it — he’s done the exact same thing for me in the past. I fetch water and paracetamol and leave them on the coffee table. One last lingering look and I slip away.
In the taxi I wonder if I made the right call. I could’ve stayed, if not on the sofa with him, then on the one opposite. We could have woken up together, spent a lazy Sunday morning in each other’s company.
But I couldn’t. Too much. I can’t get too attached, too close. We’re just good friends.
***
It’s Christian’s birthday and we’re at Joan’s bar, his favourite in the whole city, as he’s drunkenly proclaimed to me on several occasions. I’m sitting next to Max. I don’t know all of the smiling faces round the long table and Max is my safety blanket while I get used to the new people and the wine helps me slowly let my guard down and untie my tongue.
He seems his usual lively, friendly self, but I know behind it he is tense. He made a casual remark earlier about this being the first time he’s seen Carmen in weeks. He didn’t say he was worried, but he can’t fool me. I know him. She’s not on shift yet, so he hasn’t had his façade tested. He gives himself away with a jiggling leg that only I can feel because it’s brushing against mine. I can spot a slight tension in his jaw too. Nobody else seems to notice his disquiet.
Eventually she appears, bold and red, taking her command post behind the bar. Max has seen her. He breathes in sharply and stiffens. His focus is not with us anymore and he goes unusually quiet. He's fading by my side.
I need to reassure him. It’s a good thing the wine has made me a bit freer already, because now I can more easily manage the physical comfort that is his preference. I slide my hand secretly below the table and on to his thigh. My heart is thundering. I hope this is the right thing to do.
The linen of his trousers is so thin it almost feels like we’re skin to skin. The warmth of him seeps through into my palm. I’m on fire. He turns to look at me and I give him a small smile, telling him that I see him and I see his pain and it will get better. My hand says I will be there with him while he heals.
He turns back to the conversation, something about the best tapas bar round here, which seems to be hotly contested. He joins in — he always has an opinion on this kind of topic. After enthusing about the scallops at El Camino, he asks for my top three, making sure as always that I’m included.
I’m not sure if I should remove my hand now. Has it done all it needed to? It's been a while and I'm conscious of not wanting to overstep. I’m just about to slip it back to my lap when his hand leaves the tabletop and suddenly it’s resting over mine. He still needs me. It’s hot and it’s all I can think about. His thumb occasionally rubs the back of my hand, tracing fiery circles.
Is there something more here or is he just saying thank you? I mustn’t get my hopes up. We’re just good friends.
***
We’re moving fast. We have a good tip and it won’t be light for all that much longer today. This can’t wait for tomorrow. We’re close to a discovery, I can feel it.
We approach the warehouse. It can’t have been used for years. There is rubble in piles, rotting pallets stacked precariously, broken glass. It looks only just safe enough to go inside.
The entrance is partially blocked. Max takes the lead, scrambling and trying not to stumble as he ascends the mound of forgotten junk and fallen building. I’m close behind. He turns to warn me about a tricky bit ahead. In front it’s rough and it’s dark and it’s gloomy. It reminds me of the drinks factory where I nearly died, and so did he when he came for me. It was nearly the end of us. It would’ve been if he hadn’t known me so well. I nod and silently, cautiously slip my hand into his. I’m not pretending I don’t need him today. He looks down, surprised, and then he grips me firmly between palm and fingers. We work our way in, supporting each other. Where we go, we go together.
When we’re inside we don’t let go. Not yet. I don’t know when to break the contact and I don’t want to. We have to separate to carry out our task and I hate the cleaving. There was safety in the linkage.
We begin our exit and he offers his hand. I bite down the automatic smile. I don’t want to give myself away. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I do want to feel the touch of his skin again.
We hold hands all the way back to the car, picking our way over rough ground. Is this more than simple support for him too? It can’t be. We’re just good friends.
***
Inés has just asked me to lead a big case for her. I’m pleased, of course, proud to have her trust. But I’m also just a little bit terrified. I know I’m competent enough, that’s not the issue. It’s whether all my colleagues agree. I need their respect and their cooperation. I have to command, not just do my own thing with Max and occasional assistance from Uniform. I have to be confident Miranda. Leader Miranda.
In two days I have to give the big briefing. I hate public speaking. It’s the bit that I’m dreading. I can handle all of the rest, but that… that just makes me feel sick. Once a group gets above about five or six people, my willingness to talk in front of them all at once begins its plummet into shyness.
Max jerks his head to get me to come with him. I save what I’m doing on my laptop, lock it, and follow. We slip into a free meeting room along the corridor.
“You’re worrying about the briefing, aren’t you?” He leans forward, showing his concern.
“You know me too well,” I mutter. Even after all this time, I’m still getting used to having someone around who really sees me.
“Certainly do,” he smiles. “And I know that you have no cause to worry; you’re very impressive.”
My nose wrinkles. “What? Me?” Why do I struggle so much to accept a compliment? I’ve always been this way, as if some malicious force deep within me whispers ‘they’re lying and you know it’.
“Yes, you!” He rolls his eyes. “You’ll be the best officer in the room, so you tell them all what to do. Imagine they’re all me and get bossing.”
“A whole crowd of you,” I smirk. “Am I being punished for something?” It’s all front; in a crowd of Maxes, surely there would be at least one who’d want me as much as I want him?
“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t love it. More me can only be a good thing.” He shoots me a wink and it does things to my stomach.
“Well, that’s certainly a statement. Mind yourself on the way back to your desk,” I warn him, sarcasm hiding my true feelings once again.
He is confused. “Why?”
“I’m not sure your head will get back through the door,” I reply slyly.
He laughs, a magical sound made just for me. “I’m just showing you the kind of confidence you should have for the briefing!”
“You think you’re my role model?” I tease.
“Why not?” He shrugs. “You’re kind of mine in some ways.”
I’m not really sure what to say to that. How does he mean it? “Is that a compliment?”
“Yes. We both have a lot to offer each other,” he tells me, his voice soft. I stare at him for a moment, into those kind eyes, then I make my excuses to get back to my desk and prepare myself.
The briefing’s in half an hour. I gather my things and quietly go to the meeting room to get set up. Fifteen minutes later Max appears in the doorway, mug in hand.
“All ready?” he asks lightly.
“I suppose so.” I’ll never be ready, but there’s not much more I can do about that.
“You’ve practiced, the slides are down, you know what you need to say: it’s going to be the best damn briefing we ever had.” He exudes optimism and confidence and I wish I could drink it all in, every little bit.
“I don’t know about that”. My lips purse.
“I do! I’m going to sit over there in the corner, ok? You need a boost and you just look to me. I’ll be sending you super-positive confidence vibes the whole time.” He gives me a friendly pat on the arm.
“I’m not sure those exist, Max. But thank you.” I manage a weak smile. I do appreciate his efforts.
He takes a seat and sips his coffee. Somehow I’m ever so slightly more calm. His presence centres me. Nothing can be quite so bad if Max is with me.
I shuffle through my notes as the others wander in and take their seats. I don’t want to engage with them until I’ve begun in case it puts me off. I am focused.
Everyone is here now, watching and waiting. I smile tightly and look round the room. I stop at Max and he gives me a nod and a wink. He mouths “you got this”.
Have I got this? Time to begin anyway.
My voice wavers and falters a few times, but a couple of minutes in and I am in flow. I know this operation, these are my plans, I’ve followed guidelines… it’s going to go smoothly. I’m confident now. I am in charge.
The briefing finishes. I’ve answered questions, assigned tasks, tried to motivate them all for the days ahead. Has it gone as well as I think? I look to Max, still sitting in his seat as the others file out. He nods at me. Relief floods through me and I grin at him. I can’t take my eyes of him. The thread of pride and praise is too precious to break.
It’s only a couple of compañeros happy that one of them has done well though. It’s nothing more than being supportive partners… I’m fairly sure of that. We’re just good friends.
***
The suspect is fast, but we are on his tail. He’s not going to get away with this. He pauses at a corner. Something black in his hand, a flash, a terrible crack. He runs again. Away, but not free yet. He hasn’t counted on my tenacity.
We have both stopped at the danger. Max must have seen what was happening first as it was his hand pulling me back and rooting me to this spot. I turn to urge him to resume the chase, to help me catch the guy. He slumps before me, groans. A dark patch is spreading across his shirt. He’s falling. He reaches for me, grabs my shirt, but down he goes, pain radiating from him.
No no no no not Max no no it can’t be no this can’t be happening no no how do I make it stop make it stop make it stop
Is this the day my world implodes?
I’m reaching my arms towards him, but I’m too slow and he’s flat on the floor now, a heavy landing I could do nothing to stop. It’s too fast, yet I see it all in slow motion, unable to act, trapped a second away. His head crashes back and his eyes shut. I can’t stop the wail that forces itself out of me as I fall to my knees. I peel his shirt back. The blood is seeping and not spurting. That’s good, isn’t it? I peel off my jacket and ball it up. I’m trying to staunch the bleeding, but I don’t know if I’m doing any good. What else can I do though? I have to try. I will not just watch him die, helpless and needing me.
One hand still pressing down on him, I call for an ambulance. I’m trying to be calm, but I can hear the urgency and the strain in my voice. Do they understand how serious this is? My compañero, my best friend, my love…
Someone rushes over and takes over the phone call, letting me focus entirely on Max. I register nothing about this kind passerby; they could be anyone. I know it can't be, but it feels like an hour waiting there, pressing my jacket to the wound, trying to stop the life escaping. Max’s eyes flicker open at one point and he stares at me. Clears his throat. “Mi-Miranda, I… I I—”
I stroke his cheek, shake my head, weak smile. No deathbed confessions; he will not die today. Not him, not now: my challenge to the universe. My strong determination and my quiet love against your random cruelty. Let me have this one. This is the only win that matters to me.
He grips my hand, closes his eyes again. The light dims for both of us. I keep one hand on the jacket, the other in his; he needs to know I’m with him and I can feel the vital warmth in his palm that tells me it’s not over yet.
The paramedics arrive, pull me back firmly yet kindly so they can work. He’s stretchered, masked, embarked. Blue lights, siren, speed. We sway in the back and all I can do is watch as his life is in the balance. I have not cried yet and I won’t now; if he wakes he needs to see me strong, optimistic. Tears can wait.
He’s rushed away when we get to the hospital. I’m shown to a chair in a lonely waiting area and forms are thrust at me. An assumption is made that I’m his girlfriend. I do not correct it.
I call Inés as soon as I can trust my voice to hold out long enough. She has somehow heard already and she is horrified. Dios mío, Dios mío, Dios mío. I promise to update her. She tells me I am on leave now. Hospital duty is all I need to focus on.
Christian next. He weeps and that breaks my resolve. Max isn’t here so it is allowed. The hot sting on my face is cathartic yet weakening. Christian has never heard me cry before and the novelty jolts him; he becomes the responsible one, the organiser. He will come as soon as I give the word. He volunteers for the calls to Munich, to Carmen, to the closer friends in their circle. I am to concentrate on being there for Max.
***
The days go by and they bleed into one. The nurses let me sleep beside Max in a chair that folds out. Christian brings clothes for us both and some toiletries and books. As long as this is Max’s home it will be mine too. I’m his constant compañera. I hold his hand as much as I can. I need that lifeline and maybe he does too.
The day Max wakes is the best one I can remember. He disturbs me to ask for water and it’s the sweetest sound, even if he is hoarse and croaky. I could fill a glass with my tears.
I take his hand again the second I have got him his drink. The relief of seeing those blue eyes and hearing that beloved voice is so intense it overwhelms me. I don’t know what to say, what I can say, so I stick to actions. I tell him I love him without telling him: a kiss on his hand, my eyes shut tight in sincerity and timidity. He’s going to be ok. I’m going to be ok.
I wonder if my lips have told him too much. Should I have kept up the walls that enclose my deepest feelings and hide my hopeless love from him? We’re just good friends.
***
Max is on the road to recovery and the doctors are pleased enough that he is being discharged. I’ve come to pick him up after checking on both our places after our absences. I get full instructions on his care from a nurse at the desk outside. I will do whatever is necessary to get him back to robust health. I need the full beam of his sunshine in my life.
He walks stiffly and slowly over to me, carrying his bags. Idiot! I rush to him, take the load. He stumbles and I am there. I will always be there. We get through everything together.
I drive him home, careful with his precious BMW. I nearly crashed it once and he has not let me forget. Back at his place, he gets out gingerly and makes his slow ascent to his apartment. Halfway up and my decision is made. He cannot stay somewhere with so many stairs and nowhere to recuperate in the sunshine. He’s coming to stay with me and that’s that. It will be strange sharing my space, but he’s the only one I would ever let in. Why delay? He needs me to open my sanctuary to him right now.
Back at my place I order him to the sofa and he does not argue. I take his clothes upstairs and clear some drawer space. I’ve never done that for anyone. Next I make tea and we talk of nothing in particular. It’s clear his energy has drained away, so I help him to bed. Lying there, he looks so helpless and so handsome all at the same time that a confusing mix of maternal instinct and attraction makes me kiss him on the forehead. And then practically run away downstairs. Why do I have to be so frightened?
It’s early still, so I sit downstairs for a while as he sleeps. I try to read, but when I have gone over the same paragraph eight times and still have no idea what it said, I give in. Max has taken me over. I surrender gladly.
I wonder if he’ll ever feel the way I do. Carmen once said I can be hard to read; I have that problem with Max. When someone’s so flirty by nature, how do I tell if any of it’s truly meant? It’s probably too much to hope for anyway. He’d want someone like Carmen again: outgoing, fun, just more like him. I’m the chalk to his cheese, sadly.
I torture myself over my unrequited love until it is time for me to get some sleep too. We didn’t talk earlier about where I would go. Max was too tired to question anything when I put him into my bed. The sofa is a little short, even for me… Dare I? Yes, I’m going to. If I’m to play nurse I need my rest too.
I change into my pyjamas, brush my teeth. I take a deep breath at the bottom of the stairs and I creep up. I tiptoe and I slide in. Max doesn’t wake. If I stay on my side and make sure there’s a gap between us there’s no risk I’ll accidentally hurt him in the night. I switch off the lamp that has been on since he came up. The soft glow from the streetlight lets me just about make out his face as I drift off. Happy.
When I wake the next morning it’s late for me. My arm is round Max, holding me close to him. It seems I am at my bravest in sleep. I’ve never really enjoyed cuddling, but I’m enjoying this. It’s different now: I’ve realised how I feel and he’s single at last. I can allow this now without succumbing to panic. I pretend to still be asleep and a while later gentle movements tell me Max has woken. He doesn’t shift position or say anything. Is he pretending too? Is something going on here?
It can’t be. It’s just a morning cuddle, a platonic exchange, unvoiced. We’re just good friends.
***
At first I’m nervous about caring for Max. Helping with his dressings, touching his bare skin, seeing his body heal, it’s all so intimate and I’m not used to it. But soon I come to see it as a privileged duty to look after this man I love so completely, to make him whole again. There’s a tenderness between us in these moments.
I spend my days thinking not about cases and criminals, but about care and comfort. When Max naps it is my time to come up with little treats to surprise him when he wakes. I’ve bought him all the stinky sausages his heart could desire, and even those dreadful meaty cabbage bun things. They don’t smell so bad when I see his joy.
I go back to his apartment to collect his mail and fetch things he needs — more clothes usually. It feels intrusive and in a way unexpectedly thrilling going through his drawers, seeing what nobody else sees. Not that I would ever admit that to anyone. I picked up his favourite blanket when I came to collect his first list of requests. I touched it to my face, remembering how he laid it over me when I once fell asleep on his sofa. It smelled like him, a scent of comforting familiarity.
He hasn’t asked, but I’ve also been bringing back some of his favourite books. I know exactly which ones to choose; I’ve always listened to his enthusiasms and his recommendations, storing the information up for future use, even if my face hasn’t shown I’m remotely interested.
Today, in amongst the usual flyers from takeaway places and unsolicited credit card applications, Max’s mailbox contains a fancy-looking white envelope, the address handwritten on the thick paper. I bring it back to him and he opens it, silently reading.
“Wedding invitation: Max Winter and guest,” he explains. “My first proper girlfriend is getting married in Alcúdia. Her parents have a place there.”
“Will you go?” I ask. I wonder why the hell I’m feeling jealous of someone he went out with so long ago. I’m ridiculous.
He frowns. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in such a long time…”
I sense he’s nervous about this. “You ok? I can be your plus one,” I offer. “If you want me to, that is…” Was I too keen? I really would quite like a relaxed day by his side though, celebrating on the other side of the island. A change might be as good as a rest.
His smile tells me the suggestion was very welcome. The RSVP makes it official: I’m Max’s date. Sort of.
It’s not a date, though. I need to remember that. I’m not that to him. We’re just good friends.
***
It’s a month since that day of blood and terror and helplessness. Max has moved back to his apartment and our — my — home is suddenly empty and silent. At least I have him with me all day at work from now on. Inés has grounded us at our desks while he continues his recovery. No decision of hers has ever been so welcome; here in the office he is safe, smiling across at me as we work and talk and joke. All my days should be filled with this, with him. My love grows with every insignificant conversation, each warm gaze, every friendly smile.
I have a special surprise for his first day back, one I got up early to seek out. I pass him a box of Carmela’s treats. He’s well-known to the staff there and they have made sure to give me all his favourites. He’s thrilled with my gift, my love in pastry form. He offers me one, but I will not diminish his treasure. My joy is in his devouring.
Has he seen the truth of my present? The love language of the proffered box of delights? I’m not sure I want him to. We’re just good friends.
***
It’s all come crashing down around us. Our explosive arguments were in the past, but a stupid move by him and they inhabit our present. I’m furious with him and I am freezing him out until he apologises and clears up his mess. Two whole days of turmoil and I want it to end. Tomorrow is Monday and I will have to face him.
A text arrives, lighting its way onto my screen, but I don’t notice it until a few minutes after its arrival because I’m out trying to run away the pain.
Max:
I’m sorry. I’ll put it right first thing tomorrow. I should have listened to you.
Warm relief runs through me. I was dreading tomorrow and now I don’t have to. Now I can feel my usual Sunday night anticipation of five days with my compañero at my side.
Miranda:
You’re forgiven. Just bloody well make sure you DO fix it in the morning, ok?
Max:
Of course! You got it. Compañeros?
Miranda:
Compañeros x
Everything is right again… except that kiss. Should I have sent that? I stare at it on my screen. X marks the spot of my love confession.
But he won’t realise that’s what it is. He’ll understand it as friendly, because that’s all I am in his eyes. We’re just good friends.
***
We’re out for pizza and wine, Max and I. He followed through with his fix-it promise this morning, but I know he could tell a trace of annoyance lingered in me, and I wanted it gone myself, so here we are on my suggestion, repairing the damage at Max’s favourite Italian place.
He talks and laughs, sips and bites, and all I want is those busy lips on mine. My eyes are drawn to them over and over as I try to stop the faked footage in my head of him leaning over the table to kiss me with a deep, intense passion that nobody has ever shown for me before.
I have to find a way to stop this torture. Why am I doing this to myself? We’re just good friends.
***
We haven’t been back out in the field long and already we’re being sent on an important operation. It’s crucial we get this right with all the planning that has gone into it. Failure is not an option and we both know it.
Max would seem cheery and upbeat to anyone who didn’t know him like I do. His pun frequency is at an alarming level as the appointed hour approaches and he’s singing dreadful German songs that I vaguely recognise from a Europop lesson he gave me once. His body is tense and nervous energy is escaping in his leg, which is practically vibrating. He’s so nervous and my heart hurts for him.
I remember a time not long after we met when I was scared and he tried to tell me it was ok and to help me. I cringe at my rudeness back then; I hadn’t opened myself up properly to the possibilities of his friendship then, let alone to the invisible love that had seeded itself within me.
It’s my turn to be the one to offer comfort in fear. I tell him it will all work out, remind him of the bulletproof vest’s hug of protection round his chest. I know the terror of being shot again is filling him up, because it’s within me too. Losing him would destroy me. Have I let him become too important to me? It happened before I could realise and have a chance to stop it, this strange interweaving of every part of my life with this beautiful, kind, irritating man.
Touch is important to him so I reach for his wrist. My fingertips tingle where we meet. Without fully realising it, I have missed the feel of his skin since my nursing duties ended. I have never craved another’s physicality before and I feel like I might be losing my mind, like all my years of tight control are coming undone.
He smiles and I am relieved. We are a team and we will always triumph together. Just not as together as I would like. We’re just good friends.
***
I haven’t been to many weddings, so I’m not sure how this one compares, but I know that I’m enjoying it. Parties where I don’t know many people aren’t my thing, but this one is different: I’m on Max’s arm. His social ease paves the way for us to have a good day, a fun evening. I feel free. I’m not even jealous when I meet the bride, his ex. Probably because she, like everyone else here, assumes we are a couple. I feel proud and content for this mistake to be the truth for a day. We tried to correct the first few who misunderstood our friendship, but after that we choose to concoct new stories of our love for each person who asks. A private game for the two of us that comes with secret glances and joyous giggles.
Max has told me over and over how beautiful I look today and how glad he is that I’ve come with him. I’m sure my dimples have given away how much his words mean to me, how he can radiate his light right through me and make my heart soar. Today I don’t even care if he knows. It’s a wedding and if I show love for a few hours, where’s the harm? I can let myself go a little today.
Watching the happy couple dance their slow dance at the start of the evening, I’m suddenly bold. I want what they’ve got. I silently invite Max to the dance floor. He looks like he can’t believe his luck, springs to his feet and offers his arm. The song changes just as we are ready to join in. We’ve missed the slow dance and the chance for him to hold me close. He takes my hands to spin me round to the faster pace of the next song and I am free of all my shyness, all my worries. I am dancing with the man I love and nobody else exists. He and I, champagne flowing through us, whirling and stepping, smiling and laughing.
I’ve had the time of my life and I don’t want it to end. But it’s not entirely real; we’re playing a couple when that isn’t what we are. We’re just good friends.
***
I slide an envelope across the desk to Max. I don’t say anything; it’s awkward giving gifts, wondering if the receiver will actually like them or if you’ll look foolish for your ill-advised purchase. I’m pretty sure Max will like this one, but I don’t know any other way to present it to him.
He looks at me, eyebrow arched in question. “What’s this?”
I clear my throat. Small voice. Looking slightly past him. “For your birthday. I know it’s a while away, but I had to book far ahead and I thought with your obsession — sorry, passion — you’d want to obsessively stalk social media about it in advance instead of wait for a surprise. Gives me time to change it if you don't like it too.” My reasons tumble out, explanations offered in case of rejection or disappointment.
He’s grinning now; I've amused him. He rips the envelope open with eagerness. I watch his face light up as he reads the contents.
“Oh, wow! We’re going to that Michelin-starred place I’ve wanted to go to forever!” he exclaims loudly. “This is amazing!”
His delight is my relief. My shoulders relax.
“The ten-course tasting menu. That ok?” I check.
“Yes! Wow, I am so lucky to have you!” He’s beaming now.
“You don’t have to take me though,” I let him know. I won’t force my company on him.
He looks puzzled. “Of course I’m taking you! Who else would I take?”
“Dunno. Christian?” I suggest quietly.
He shakes his head, smiles softly. “No. I want you.”
My heart thuds and my ears ring so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I’m frozen and I’m burning. I can’t tear my eyes away from the bright sparkle of his. It feels like an hour before he looks away. He reaches for his phone and I grip the desk, willing whatever hormones have run riot in me to stop what they are doing and just let me be normal.
I can’t see what Max is looking at now, but I’m fairly confident he’s drooling over sample menus and Instagram pictures. Definitely smart of me to wait until Inés was out at a long meeting and we were having a bit of a slow day. He’s already distracted our nearest colleagues with his noisy enthusiasm and one of them is giving me what I believe qualifies as a knowing look, silently saying ‘we see you and your extravagant gift for your just-a-friend’.
“Sorry it’s just going to be us; I couldn’t really afford more than that. Not until an actual big birthday anyway,” I tell him.
“Don’t be sorry, this is perfect! Nobody is going to beat this and they’ve got weeks to come up with something.” I can see he means it. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he read the words that revealed my idea.
“Glad you like it. You didn’t have anything planned that night already?” I am still giving him an out, still not quite believing someone like him actually does want to go to dinner with me.
A vehement head shake. “Nope. I’m all yours. It’s a date!”
I seize up. What do I say to that? I want it to be a date, of course I do, but… We’re at work with our colleagues looking on, listening in. Not that I would know what to say outside the office—
Saved by the bell. My phone ends the conversation. As I answer, I see Max scrolling on his, a grin on his face. I’ve made a very happy foodie.
I wonder if this is better than the gifts Carmen got him. I shake myself free of that ridiculous thought — where the hell did that come from? We're just good friends.
***
Is it Cazador part two? Another night forced to stay over in a sleepy town at the insistence of Inés. This time I welcome it. The change of scene helps us both, as does the lack of anyone we know. That’s what made it easier at the wedding, that and the flowing wine.
It’s a fiesta again — is there a day without one somewhere on this island? The hotel restaurant is busy and the streets outside ebb and flow with families and couples out for a good time. I haven’t figured out exactly what the fiesta is celebrating; it doesn’t matter because I’m celebrating quality time with the one who makes my heart race.
A flower seller brings her basket of crimson roses to the table. This time Max goes to buy me one and I do not stop him. I accept it with trembling fingers and a blush that must surely be reddening my cheeks to the same shade as the delicate petals I hold.
We talk of everything and nothing, and then of Cazador. We both remember it, fondly? I wonder if it has the same special meaning for him as it does for me. It is a treasured vignette, tucked safely within me, a warm, glowing light for my dark moments. I fear my face is giving this away. Suddenly there is a cry from the street to save me: time for a dance.
I haven’t had enough wine to initiate, so I am willing Max to ask me to dance. He needs no encouraging. He’s on his feet, hand held out, waiting. He wants this. He’s ready. Excited.
Outside the street is thronged with dancers moving under the twinkle of strings of lights that stretch from house to hotel, shop to apartment. We take a position at the edge of things, where our chances of escaping jostling are greater. He counts us in to the salsa and we join together in the dance. I’m nervous, but not as much as last time because I want this so much more. Cazador was the starter, the appetite sharpener; this is the main course. Our movements are synchronised like we’ve been practicing, but it is just the closeness that has grown between us, the understanding.
He looks at me. Intense. Burning. Desire. Is this it? Have I been wrong to dismiss the little signs that have led to this point? Maybe I have. I don’t think that is a look you give a friend. Not just a friend anyway. It's drama, bravery, passion.
I’m going to risk it. The biggest gamble since I came to this island and tonight is the night. A blow on the dice, hoping for double sixes. I keep my eyes on his and our faces slowly come together. The way my heart thunders reminds me how much rides on this. I close the gap and my lips are on his, so light, so unpractised—
What am I doing? I have stepped beyond the line, the boundary defined in the sand. He’s my friend, and worse, my colleague. Work is so important in my life and I’m putting that at risk. I couldn’t bear to have to start again with another partner. There’s no compañero like Max. He is irreplaceable in my world.
I push myself away, open up a gulf between us, a ravine of professional distance. I remind him we have work first thing, say that we should both get some sleep. My tone makes it clear that I mean separately. His face shows me the bewilderment I have caused: a kiss, but not quite, and now I’m pulling away from him, leaving him with the confusing memory of the feather touch against his lips.
We go to our rooms, nod goodnight. A click of the door and it’s over. I sit down and try to concentrate on the case that has brought us here, but it is almost impossible. Tonight work is not top of my priorities. I wonder if I’ve had that all wrong. What’s more important: Max or my job? I think I know deep down — somewhere I have been hiding this growing realisation from even myself. Even workaholics deserve love.
Seventy-four minutes and I can pretend no more. I go tentatively on to my balcony and call his name. Seconds later he is there, standing facing me, just like in Cazador. My stomach flutters, knees tremble, mouth dries. I mask my true reason for drawing him out here with talk of the case. Both of us have only learned one new thing each — minuscule gain for over an hour’s work. He must be as distracted as me. It’s just enough though to help us plan our morning and what we’ll report to Inés.
I don’t know what to say next and it seems like words are failing him too, for once. We say goodnight and return to our rooms. A few beats and I am back on my balcony, wishing him to appear again, just like in Cazador. This time he does. I cannot help the smile, the dimples. I’m so nervous about what’s going to happen next and I betray myself in the fiddling of my fingers.
He clears his throat. “Shall I come to your room? We can talk a bit more.”
I want more than a chat, but it's a start. “Not about the case,” I say in a low voice that rises uncertainly at the end. I don’t specify another topic.
“Are you feeling ok?” he asks, grinning. Am I imagining that he looks just as on edge as I feel?
I nod. Swallow hard. Look him right in the eye. “Some things are much more important than work,” I tell him, fully meaning it for the first time. Maybe there’s a chance now.
He's not smiling now. He's serious. “I’ll come over then.”
I nod, flash him a lopsided smile and we both disappear again. Is this it? Could this be a new beginning, a new chapter? I mustn't mess this up. The next few minutes are going to be crucial to my future.
I've opened the door before he has even had a chance to knock. I cannot wait any longer. Carpe noctem. I am standing in the middle of the room, drawing him in without a word. I try not to smile too much; I don't want to get my hopes up and reveal them, only to have them dashed. I'm still not certain of what he wants me to be to him.
He stops right in front of me. The look between us is electric and I am alive. We are asking each other for confirmation. I know now. I know he wants me, probably as much as I want him. It's in his eyes, his smile, the way he angles his body towards mine. It's happening and it is wonderful.
We come together, wrapping ourselves up in one another, he around my waist, I around his neck. I rise slightly, and he lowers. We are equal. We press our foreheads together, tender love passing between us in the gentle touch as we breathe each other in.
"It's time," I whisper. It's beyond time. We are not wasting any more now.
Finally we kiss properly and it is all I have imagined and more. It's real and it's precious and it's passionate. All the bad times and all the low points are nothing now. I have been lit up and the darkness is gone. This moment is pure sunshine.
Things escalate quickly, but it doesn't feel too soon, too rushed. I’m not normally so bold, but haven’t we waited long enough for this? No more self-denial. I want all of this.
We get to know each better, hands on skin, loosening clothes, discarding them, shedding the barriers between us. I stand before him naked. I’ve never been so vulnerable, yet I’ve never felt so safe. He has all of my trust.
He loves me, this man. It’s there in every look, in every touch. I know if I said it first he’d say it back without hesitation, but I’m cautious, taking it slowly when it comes to giving voice to my emotions, and he knows that. He knows me so well. He knows me like nobody else. And I know him.
It’s not he and I now. It’s us.
We were never just good friends. We’re so much more.