A/N: C'est le temps pour beaucoup d'angst, mes amis. Beaucoup d'angst.

Chapter Five: Life's a Party You Have to Clean Up After

Walking into the apartment of Grazia de Mayo, Logan had to admit he was impressed. It was large, nowhere near as large as his own, but large nevertheless, and everywhere it had been possible to put a window there was a window. The décor was nice, obviously expensive, and seemed to reflect very little of the Max he knew, unless she had a passion for pastels he'd never known about. More than likely, an interior decorator had been employed, and Max had very little to say in the matter. All in all, Logan knew, it must have cost a fortune, and it made his head spin. Patterson money had bought Max an apartment, and, if the gossip was right, a brand new Mercedes. He couldn't do that for her. Hell, even if he'd tried, she would have refused.

She was standing in the foyer when he entered, and, as soon as she turned to him, her face lit up in a gorgeous smile. She looked lovely and sophisticated in a flouncy pink skirt and a red silk camisole. He'd never seen her look more feminine, and his jealousy increased, along with an emotion he couldn't describe, though he thought it felt a lot like regret.

They drew near to each other, as near as they dared, and her smile became more conspiratorial. Reluctantly, he stuck his hands into his pockets. It was a defense he'd adopted. It really was the only way he could ensure he wouldn't reach out and run his fingers through her hair. Besides, it seemed to help Max relax when he took more responsibility for his own life, and she didn't have to keep backing away.

"Hey," she said quietly.

"Hey yourself," he replied just as quietly.

"You're the last to arrive," she revealed, and she bit her lip slightly, "I thought you might not show."

"The driver got lost," he assured her. She nodded, and he took the chance to steer the conversation. "Nice place."

"Yeah, I guess. The windows make me a little uncomfortable. I feel like I'm inside a television."

Logan laughed, silently glad that she didn't seem as fond as the apartment as most women would be. It relieved some of the jealousy, but increased his confusion. He wondered if she really was just in it for the money, or what the hell was going on if she wasn't. Whatever was happening, she was taking it all in stride, just as she always did.

"So, were you surprised?" Max suddenly asked, with a teasing gleam in her eyes.

"To see you? In San Francisco? Hobnobbing with the elite at my mother's charity? Nah!" He winked at her, and he could have sworn Max blushed.

"Imagine my delight when I arrived in San Francisco and was invited to a meeting of the Montgomery-Cale Society…"

"For the Protection of Widows and Orphans," Logan finished for her with a grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm sure you spent a good five minutes silently congratulating yourself for your preemptive cleverness."

"Yeah," she replied, and her voice lilted in a way that forced a dozen different memories through Logan. Then, as if purposefully coming to break through the euphoric feeling of being near her, William Lucas-Patterson III arrived and wrapped an affectionate arm around Max's waist. He kissed her cheek, and Logan felt his breath hitch in his throat.

"Grazia, darling, you're the hostess, and you're out in the hallway?"

"Sorry," Max smiled, carefully avoiding Logan's eyes, "I was just making sure Mr. Cale arrived. I didn't really get a chance to talk to him last night, you know, and I…"

"Time for that later," Will smiled as he acknowledged Logan, holding out his hand with a "nice to see you again."

"Likewise," Logan lied through his teeth.

"Let's go," Max smiled, leading the way into the living room, Will's arm still around her waist. Logan tried valiantly, and failed, to fight the rising rush of insane and bitter envy that boiled inside of him. The two-year-old in him shouted "No! She's mine!" and, he almost turned and left, but her very existence was magnetic. He couldn't leave, he was drawn to her.

The scene in the living room was one that Logan was more than familiar with. A dozen beautiful people, most of them young, all of them wearing clothes that couldn't be more expensive if they were actually made of spun gold. When Max entered the room, all eyes turned on her, and Logan was struck by how out of place he felt, and how perfectly Max seemed to fit in. Before his eyes she stopped being Max, transgenic cultural fugitive and former bike courier, and became Grazia de Mayo, darling of San Francisco's high society. She fit perfectly into the role, and for a moment, as she crossed the room and took a seat beside Melissa Littleton with a ladylike flourish, Logan could have sworn he saw his mother. The eerie similarity would haunt him for the next two hours.

Logan was tired. He was tired and he was feeling sick. He told himself that he didn't understand why Will Patterson had to keep touching her, as if she would disappear if his arm wasn't firmly situated around her waist, or her fingers weren't entwined in his. Of course, he knew that, given the chance, his fingers wouldn't leave Max for a moment if it weren't absolutely necessary, but that was a different situation entirely.

He was leaning against the living room wall, talking quietly with Melissa, and keeping his eyes on Max. She was sitting on the couch with Will reclining beside her, his right arm resting on the back of the couch as his fingers stroked her hair, and his left hand rested just above her knee. Envy crawled up from Logan's toes to his ears, and he gripped the glass in his hand with a desperate need to have a physical barrier between his fingers and the little bit of skin that showed when Max leaned over to rest her glass on the coffee table. His hand fit so well right there, he remembered… they'd danced.

"Isn't she lovely?" Melissa whispered suddenly, calling Logan's mind back to the present. He saw Max's involuntary glance in their direction, and he knew she'd heard. Suddenly, a seething clash of anger and resentment flared up inside him. He'd been there for two hours, and she hadn't even looked at him once. For two hours, he'd been forced to smile, and make small talk, while that preppy little bastard touched her, and kissed her, and… claimed her.

"Yeah," he replied, as calmly as possible, "She reminds me of someone I used to know." Melissa looked intrigued. Max looked… exactly the same, which was to say, completely different. Logan thought he would vomit.

"Will you excuse me," he said quietly, heading for door. He didn't head directly toward it, of course. He detoured through the kitchen, and then from the foyer he opened the door as quietly as possible, and then he made his exit. He didn't know if Max had noticed, and for those brief moments, he actually didn't care.

Then the moments passed, and he wanted her to care. He wanted her to know he was disgusted. He wanted to hurt her, because she obviously wasn't. She had everything now. William Lucas-Patterson III loved her, would marry her, and probably would even make her happy. At least he could touch her. At least he could hold her when she needed to be comforted. Or could he? Could he know why she needed comforting? Logan seriously doubted that the debonair Patterson heir knew that his future in-laws were a couple of embryologists and a government agency. The thought gave him momentary amusement, and then he regretted it. Why should he be angry that Max was happy? Wasn't that what he wanted for her? Why did he hate that she would be rich, and happy, and devoted to helping people? Because he could have given her that, and life just wouldn't let him.

Logan knew he should leave. He couldn't go back into the party. His eyes would explode if he saw that jackass' hand on Max's leg one more time. He couldn't leave. Max was in there, and his entire being screamed to go back in there and soak up the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the airy music of her laugh – a laugh he'd never even heard before that evening. He wanted to memorize everything about her. He needed those memories. Pathetically enough, he survived on them. No. NO! He had to leave. He couldn't do that again. He could live without her. He knew that. He just had to turn around and leave.

"Hey."

He hadn't even heard the door open. He turned, and was just… awed by her, the way he always was. The look in her eyes was quiet, maybe sad, he couldn't tell. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He wouldn't touch her. He wouldn't move toward her either. He couldn't, and he knew it, but oh, God, he wanted to… so badly.

"Hey," he replied, searching for a decent lie, and trying not to meet her eyes. "I didn't want to interrupt, but, I should get going. I've got… work to do at home, and it's a long drive…"

She nodded. She knew it was a lie. He knew she knew. Neither was going to admit it. That was their way, or it had become their way in the weeks before she'd left. Why spend time together? It just hurt them both. They stood in silence for a moment, and Logan wondered whether he should just say goodbye and leave, but then she spoke, and his eyes flew to her face, and they locked with hers.

"Not that long."

"Long enough." He sighed, "This was a bad idea, Max."

"I know," she whispered, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. "I just… I wanted to talk to you, and I had to leave last night. The party was a bad idea, but I was afraid you'd go back to Seattle, and I wanted to…" she stopped, and she seemed to honestly have no words for what she wanted to say. When she met his eyes again, he saw that they were noticeably reflecting the light. His chest tightened, and he fought it. He fought instinct.

"I should go," he whispered, and he was surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. He shut his eyes for a moment, to block out the sight of her, and when he spoke again his voice was decidedly calmer, cooler. "It was nice seeing you again."

"Wait…" she started. That was all it took. The pain within him erupted.

"Max, I can't do this!" He shouted, and then, surprised by the acoustics of the empty hallway, immediately lowered his voice to a fierce hiss. "You know that. He can't keep his hands off you, and who can blame him? But I can't just stand there and watch! So go back in, and be happy. I'm going back to Seattle."

His words seemed to hit her like a physical blow. Her head snapped up, her glassy eyes narrowed, and her stance changed completely. He'd hurt her, and he knew it. At least she looked like Max again, even in her girly outfit. She'd crossed her arms, and her right hip jutted out slightly as she eyed him coolly.

"Fine," she replied icily, turning on her stiletto heels and reaching for the apartment door. A silent moan rose in Logan's throat as he realized that he might never see her again, and the last words he'd said to her were angry. God, he was pathetic. God, he wanted her.

He listened for the turn of the doorknob, the clicking of her heels, but the sounds never came. He looked up after a few moments and saw her leaning with one hand on the doorknob, the other resting against the door itself, palm flush with the smooth white surface, her head slightly bent. For the tenth time in only three years, Logan felt his heart truly break. She was so young, why did life have to play with her the way it did?

"I'm sorry, Max," he whispered, mentally kicking himself.

"I'm sorry too." She looked at him, and he saw that a tear was winding its way down her cheek. He took a step toward her and dug his short fingernails into the skin of his palms. They both took a deep breath, and finally, Max gave him a small, exhausted – dare he say heartbroken – smile.

"Listen," she whispered. "Will you come back? Tonight, I mean. Will won't be here, I promise. I… we should talk."

"Ten o' clock?" he asked hesitantly.

"Sure. You won't get lost this time?"

Logan smiled. She was teasing him. That was always a good sign. "I'll make sure I'm here on time."

"Good," she seemed to waver for a moment, but then she caught his gaze and kept it. "I went to the ball for a reason," she said calmly, forcefully. He understood her.

"I'll be here at ten."

"Okay."

"Goodbye, Max."

"Bye, Logan."

As he turned to walk away, he heard the apartment door open, and her pointy little heels click inside. He felt sick, and exhausted, and elated, and terrified, and heartbroken, and… he couldn't even describe it. He just knew he had three hours to burn before he could return, and he wondered how on Earth he would keep his mind off her long enough for time to pass.

TBC...