Back to Fan FictionThe usual disclaimers here. These characters aren't mine. Thanks to Ray Charles and AG for the inspiration.
by
Jan
Max swirled the brandy around in his glass watching the glow from the fireplace play off of the amber liquid. He sat on the sofa in his bedroom, refusing to go to bed. He knew if he let himself drift off, he would just start dreaming of her—the smell of her perfume, the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips. God, he was tired, but he couldn’t let himself sleep. It wasn’t the dream that he dreaded. It was waking up and facing the stark realization that it wasn’t real. Would never be real.
It had to be well past midnight. The house was silent except for the crackling of the fire, which offered the only light in the room. He took a sip of the brandy and looked down at his right hand. The hand that she had touched today.
Max stepped out of the restaurant where his lunch with a potential backer had gone well. His mind was busy with the details of his new play when he looked up and saw her walking toward him. Immediately, his heart started racing, and he feared it would come out of his chest. During the few seconds before she noticed him, Max stared mesmerized at the way her soft, brown curls fell across her shoulders and how those gorgeous brown eyes sparkled like jewels. Her beautiful face, animated in conversation, still totally captivated him.
As her eyes lit up in recognition, she flashed that million-dollar smile, and Max suddenly forgot how to breathe. He felt helpless when she said, "Hello, Mr. Sheffield!" and he couldn’t even get a coherent word out of his mouth. Then she reached out and took a hold of his hand, and he felt a familiar surge at her touch.
He closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the feel of her soft, delicate hand in his, so warm to the touch. He had dreamed so many times the last few years of touching her silky skin again. He knew he had held on to her hand longer than he should have, but he just couldn’t yield that physical connection to her.
He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, and that was when he felt her rings. He looked down and stared at them, a Florentine cut wedding band accompanied by a pear-shaped solitaire. They looked beautiful on her small, delicate hand. Max looked up at the man who had earned the privilege of putting those rings on her hand. He wanted to hate him, but he could only hate himself—for the time he had wasted, for the missed opportunities, for the chances he had let go by.
Max felt tears stinging his eyes, and he fought them. He set his brandy down and leaned forward to place his head in both hands, elbows propped on his knees. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, stemming the flow, and then ran his fingers through his hair. He stood up and walked over to the table. Refilling his brandy, he couldn’t help thinking about that old saying, "Be careful what you ask for."
Passers-by observing their chance encounter probably had assumed that they were simply old friends who’d run into each other unexpectedly. Old friends? "Friends" seemed such an inadequate word. Would a friend love her so completely and so deeply? Would a friend dream every damn night of tasting her kisses and feeling her body against his? Would a friend mourn for the lost chance of knowing her love in return? Anyone who thought he was just her friend didn’t know him very well.
She let go one of those great, raspy laughs of hers, and Max was hit with the realization of how much he had missed hearing it. She asked about the children and Niles, and Max mumbled something innocuous. He was too caught up in her eyes to manage anything more intelligent. She told him that they had come to see his last play and congratulated him on its success. He asked about Sylvia and Morty, and was genuinely happy to hear that they were well. Standing there racking his brain, he tried to think of anything to say that would prolong their encounter.
Max walked over to poke at the dying fire. "I certainly got what I asked for," he said out loud. "I said I wanted us to be friends, and she took me at my word." He took a large gulp of the brandy and made a face as it stung his throat. He walked back over to the couch and sat down. "If she thinks I’m just a friend, well, she doesn’t know me at all," he thought to himself.
She reached out and took his hand in hers again. She smiled that smile that made him melt and told him how good it had been to see him. She said good-bye, and as the two of them walked away, Max watched as they took each other’s hand and intertwined their fingers. He longed to be the man beside her. They looked so happy, so right together.
Max swirled his brandy again. "Friends," he said aloud. Damn! He hated the bloody word. Despised the idea of it. What in the hell ever made him think they could just be friends? After all they had been through together, after everything she had meant to him and the children, after he had fallen so deeply in love with her? If only he’d been better at expressing his feelings. If only he could have told her how much he loved her without taking it back. If only.
Would she have told him that she loved him too? He thought he had seen it in her eyes, had felt it in her kiss. But now, he would never know—he’d let that chance go by. Max heaved a huge sigh and felt the tears filling his eyes again. This time, he let them flow.
He downed the last of his brandy and stared into the fire as it dwindled to a few remaining embers that barely flickered. In the waning light that emanated from them, he could see the pile of gray ashes the fire had left behind. He brought his hand up to the middle of his chest and tried to rub out the ache that had taken up residence there. As the last ember died out, the glass slipped from Max’s hand and hit the floor, shattering into pieces.
Now in the dark, he could only whisper, "She’ll never know me."
"You Don’t Know Me"
by
Ray Charles
You give your hand to me
And then you say, "Hello."
And I can hardly speak,
My heart is beating so.
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well.
Well, you don’t know me.
No, you don’t know the one
Who dreams of you each night;
And longs to kiss your lips
And longs to hold you tight.
To you I’m just a friend,
That’s all I’ve ever been
‘Cause you don’t know me.
For I never knew the art of making love,
Though my heart aches with love for you.
Afraid and shy, I let my chance go by—
The chance that you might love me too.
You give your hand to me,
And then you say, "Good-bye."
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy.
Oh, you’ll never, ever know
The one who loves you so.
No, you don’t know me.
Words and music by Ray Charles. No infringement of rights is intended.
The End
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