Finding Home (Complete)

23. Max.

Present Day- Max's POV

Leaving Hannah in her room alone, on Thanksgiving was hard. Leaving Hannah at any time since she came back was hard in itself.

The feeling I have climbing into my Jeep is the same sinking, panic-based, almost heart stopping feeling I had pulling away from the airport practically three years ago. Even more, it's the same feeling that crashed over me when I felt that her side of the bed was cold when I awoke that morning, the morning after I laid it all out for her.

I have loved that girl for years.

I tried ignoring it, denying it, fighting it and even drowning it in a sea of long legs and lacking morals. It was always useless; in the end I would always see her face, hear her voice, crave her touch. None of those women could fill the void she left.

There was nothing else for me to figure out about Hannah Mitchell. I knew who she was, what she dreamed for, what she liked... and now, even more, I know how she felt about me.

Three years ago, I wrote off a life of happiness with her when I saw how truly damaged she was. She walked off on me and what I could do to help her. I only realize now that I couldn't have saved her, she needed to save herself for herself.

And damnit, she has.

Her eyes have never been brighter, her smile never more breath taking and what is best: her attitude of life and her own happiness is spellbinding. She is once again the Hannah I fell in love with, but somehow even better.

And we are finally doing this, us. I can kiss her, hug her, love her anytime I want. There is just one major hurdle left for me to take care of: The Davenports.

Once Hannah was sent to Boston, I didn't think I'd see her again. Worse than my guilt of not believing in her, is the guilt of my stubbornness. After initial trials, I didn't attempt to try to find another warm body in the hours, days, and months after she left; I knew I couldn't find what I had with her that night we shared no matter how she left it.

The days dragged on and I was going stir crazy. I talked myself out of flying to Boston and finding her; one time even having a flight booked and my bags packed. Ultimately I always realized that she was gone for her own benefit and I wasn't my place to complicate that for her.

So, I threw myself into work.

I ate, slept, and breathed Bishop's Outdoors Store. I was the one staying late crunching numbers, pitching sales ads, shelving merchandise, and testing all new equipment in every element, anything to keep my mind busy.

Then, one day, Lester Allen Davenport waltzed into the store and I could immediately tell by his overpriced Armani suit he didn't belong there. For weeks he was in the offices trying to land a deal that was simply too robust and obtuse for our small sportsman's shop to handle.

On his way out the door, he managed to pull me aside and admire what he had noticed about me. He slipped me his card and two days later I found myself calling his phone number that was listed in raised, starchy print.

A week after that, a limousine picked me up and drove me to the kind of house I didn't know could exist in this part of the state. It made me swallow hard, realizing I had no idea who I was considering going into business with.

Lester talked my ear off as I tried to keep up with the numbers and sophisticated language he was throwing around like he was seasoning a steak. He knew this area was in need of a better store than Bishop's and with the changing demographic of a generation of people my age, well, he was chomping at the bit for an opportunity to make money. The deal may have fallen through with Bishop's but he pitched me something greater: a store, a brand, a company based around me.