Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

smeared over them. A workbench lined one wall, filled with hand tools, and a row of sculptures sat side by side near a painted-over window.

      She knew from the mass e-mail that Max had sent to his friends that he’d recently moved into a new apartment after the death of his father, but this was the last place she’d imagined him living. In the old days, he’d always been the one who complained the most about the moldy bathroom and crusty kitchen in their shared rentals. He’d even painted his bedroom himself because he couldn’t stand the flaking, bright blue paint that had decorated his walls.

      But maybe his appearance wasn’t the only thing that had changed. Maybe the years had given him a different appreciation for what made a home.

      “I was sorry to hear about your father,” she said as he dumped her bag on a low modern leather couch. At least that conformed to her idea of the old Max’s tastes—sleek, welldesigned, high quality.

      “Yeah. Thanks for the flowers, by the way. I can’t remember if I sent a thank-you card or not,” he said. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, to be honest.”

      “You did.”

      They were both uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because she’d brought up his father, or because she’d miscalculated horribly in racing to him this way. She hadn’t expected it to be awkward. She’d expected to walk through the door and feel the old connection with him. To feel safe and warm and protected.

      Stupid. She could see that now. E-mails and Christmas cards and the occasional phone call were not enough to maintain the level of intimacy they’d once shared. She’d run halfway around the world chasing a phantom.

      “Maybe I should come back tomorrow,” she said, stopping in the space between his makeshift living zone and the counter, sink and oven in the back corner that constituted his kitchen. “You’ve probably got plans. I should have called before coming over. We can meet up whenever you’re free.”

      Max put down the bottle of wine he’d been opening and walked over to stand in front of her. He reached out and rested his hands on her shoulders. The heavy, strange-but-familiar weight warmed her.

      “Maddy. It’s great to see you. Really. I wish it was for a happier reason, for your sake, but I’m honored you thought of me. Now, make yourself at home. I don’t have a thing to do or a place to be. I’m all yours,” he said.

      More foolish tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, then nodded. “Okay. All right.”

      He returned to the wine bottle, and she sat at one end of the couch. She was tired. Emotionally and physically. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath ever since Andrew had looked her in the eye and confirmed Dr. Hanson’s pronouncement that her career was over.

      “Here.”

      He slid a large wineglass into her hand. Red wine lapped close to the brim and she raised an eyebrow at him.

      “Save me a trip back to the kitchen to get you another one,” he said.

      “I haven’t been drunk in years,” she said, staring down into the deep cherry liquid. “I guess if there was ever a time, this is it.”

      “Absolument,” he said.

      She drank a mouthful, then another.

      “I was wondering what else was different about you,” she said when she’d finished swallowing. “Apart from your hair and your face. It’s your accent. It’s much stronger now.”

      “That would come from speaking my native tongue for the past eight years,” he said wryly. “These days, the only time I get to practice my English is when someone from the old days calls or visits.”

      “It’s nice,” she said. “The girls from the corps would love it. I remember they used to be all over you because of your accent.”

      “I think you’re forgetting my stellar talent on stage and my legendary status as a lover,” he said mock-seriously.

      Her shoulders relaxed a notch as she recognized the familiar teasing light in his eyes. There was the old Max she knew and loved, the Max she’d craved when her world came crashing down around her.

      “Right, sorry. I keep forgetting about that. What was that nickname you wanted us all to call you again?”

      He snorted out a laugh and she watched, fascinated, as his face transformed.

      He’s been too serious for too long, she realized. That’s what’s different about him, as well.

      She could only imagine what caring for his wheelchair-bound father must have been like. Terrifying, exhausting, frus-trating and rewarding in equal measures, no doubt.

      “The Magic Flute,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about that. Never did catch on.”

      “We had our own names for you, don’t worry,” she said. She toed off her shoes. As always, it was bliss to free her feet. If she could, she’d go barefoot all day.

      “Yeah? You never told me that. What did you use to call me?”

      He settled back on the couch. He filled the entire corner, his shoulders square and bulky with muscle.

      “Not me, the corps. Wonder Butt was the most popular,” she said. “Because of how you filled out your tights.”

      Another laugh from Max. The warm wine-glow in the pit of her stomach expanded. The more he laughed, the more the years slid away and the more she saw her old friend. Maybe it hadn’t been so stupid coming here after all.

      “Some of the girls called you Legs. Again, because of the way you filled out your tights.”

      “We’d better be getting to the Magic Flute part soon or I’m going to be crippled with size issues for weeks.”

      She felt her cheeks redden as she remembered the last nickname the other ballerinas had for Max. She shifted on the couch, not sure why she was suddenly self-conscious about a bit of silly trash talk. It had been a long time since she’d been coy or even vaguely self-conscious about anything sexual.

      She cleared her throat.

      “I believe they also used to call you Rex, too,” she said.

      He frowned, confused. She made a vague gesture with her hand. She couldn’t believe he was forcing her to elaborate.

      “You know. As in Tyrannosaurus Rex. Big and insatiable.”

      He threw back his head and roared with laughter. She found herself joining in.

      “Maddy Green,” he said when he’d finally stopped laughing. His light gray eyes were admiring as he looked at her. “It’s damn good to see you. It’s been too long.”

      A small silence fell as they both savored their wine.

      “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a while. “Call people names, throw a tantrum? I’m happy to listen if you do.”

      She drew her legs up so that she was sitting cross-legged.

      “I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, they told me the surgery was a long shot, but I’ve always been a good healer. And the knee was getting better. If they’d just given me more time…”

      She looked down and saw her left hand was clenched over her knee, while her right was strangling the glass.

      “What did the doctor say?”

      “A bunch of cautious gobbledygook about my body being tired and not being able to compensate anymore. I know my body better than any of them. I know what I’m capable of. I know I’ve got more in me. I can feel it here,” she said, thumping a fist into her chest so vehemently that the bony thud of it echoed.

      “Careful, there, tiger,” he said.

      She