Concerning Chance ✔

EIGHTEEN

The walk across town back to my house was mostly silent. Max and I both shoved our hands into our pockets and leaned into the strong easterly winds that swept in from over the forests — chasing away the afternoon's wispy clouds and threatening to draw tears from my eyes.

I thought the breeze smelled like pine needles, which I told Max as a passing comment. He scrunched up his nose but didn't say anything.

Secretly, I was half-glad my mum gave me direct orders to come home — it meant I didn't have to figure out how to explain to Lilia why I told Heather about Chance's letter.

Even now, as we draw closer to my house, Max still hasn't mentioned it. I'm growing to hate unspoken words. Often, they have disastrous consequences.

Knowing my daily effort, he picks up my basketball, bounces it a couple of times, and then sends it into the hoop in a perfect arc. Probably clearing cobwebs out of the net as he does so.

"Show-off," I scoff, rolling my eyes in mock annoyance.

A faint smirk outlines his lips — and even this slight flicker of his happiness is almost magnetising, providing me with an odd sense of pleasure. Yet it's not as simple or as selfless as wanting him to be happy. No: it's far more complex and selfish. Because I want to be the one that makes him happy.

It's then, while we walk into my house to the smell of my mum's lasagne, that I realise I want to be there for Max in all the ways he's there for me. I want to comfort him when things are rough; support him through the rough times. I want to be his peace and provide him with the same solace he does for me.

But then there's Chance. And suddenly it feels like I can't be loyal to both of them — can't support one without neglecting the other.

Oh.

Max's dad's voice sounds from the living room, telling the end of some sort of horrendously un-funny dad joke. I hope it'll be the last one he tells. Thankfully my own dad steers clear of dad jokes; as he claims, he has standards of amusement.

"Here we go," Max mutters, an undecipherable mix of emotions on his face.

I feel an odd, fleeting urge to hold his hand in mine — tell him things are gonna be just fine with me there beside him. But I don't.

"Hi, Mr and Mrs Bellamy." I smile at Max's parents.

Both of them smile back and nod. Neither says anything. Ian studies me through his glasses; Brielle suddenly looks very interested in her glass of red wine.

"How was school, lads?" My dad greets us with a warm, yet strained smile. If Max's dad is already getting to Charlie Brewer, then this should be a long evening.

"Fine," Max and I mumble. He turns away from me to study the clock on the lounge's fireplace, leaving me wishing I could reach my hand out to him.

Neither of us mentions the fact that we ditched a couple of hours of school to search for a missing girl. It doesn't seem like an appropriate pre-dinner conversation.

"How long until dinner?" I don't want to lapse into silence, but I also don't want Ian to tell another awful joke.

"Good question — I'll go ask your mum." Dad shoots up and all but runs out of the living room.

I hesitate, before announcing to no one in particular, "I'll go see if they need a hand."

My dad hisses at my mum, "You didn't tell me he was so—"

"Overbearing?" Mum sighs. "I'm just trying to give Rory some semblance of normality. And having people round for dinner parties is what we do."

"But he doesn't enjoy it, and I'm not enjoying our present company," Dad groans.