Miles from Home - Max and Harvey Mills FanFiction

Miles from Home - CH 3

CHAPTER THREE

I tap the smooth surface of a small black button on the side of the big white door before me. My chest tightens as the pounding in my chest rises to my eardrums. I hear the melodic chime ring from behind the door as my stance shifts below me—I'm all too eager to get out of the blazing morning sun cooking my backside and the black leather satchel under my shoulder carrying my work laptop. The rays of  this unusually long summer heat wave are already making my black uniform polo stick to my shoulders and the door reflecting the sun's heat is glowing bright and blinding. The door clicks and sweeps open, revealing Harvey, who immediately squints as his hazels meet the sun. As we exchange greetings, I glance at his casual pair of bright red shorts and at the black stitch embroidery of the M&H logo on his immaculate white shirt.

After exchanging greetings, he lets me in and guides me down the hallway into the dining room where Dalton is already sitting at the table writing into a notepad in his leather portfolio. The dining room set of six chairs at a thick rectangular table are made of a dark walnut, giving a warm and rustic vibe to the otherwise modern space. Dalton looks up and we share a wave and a smile before he returns to his work. Before joining Dalton at the table, I pause to examine a framed photograph hanging on the wall; it's larger than a movie poster—the centerpiece of the room.

In the photo, the perspective is from center stage looking out towards the audience in a blacked-out arena; innumerable circles of white lights shine from the unseen fans in the stadium, varying from dim to bright, piercing through the plane of blackness, resembling the stars across a midnight sky; against this backdrop, two silhouettes, the backs of Max and Harvey, each hold an arm up into the air as if reaching for the stars, while the mass of fans within the pit below the stage do the same—mouths frozen ajar as they scream and holler, fervently reaching up to touch them. I gawk at the thousands of fans—one young woman seems to almost touch Max's shoe—obviously a sold-out show at a major, massive venue.

"The London O2," Harvey says rather flatly, perhaps attempting modesty as he casually continues on into the adjoining kitchen. The island of the kitchen with a gray, swirling marble countertop divides the space from the dining room, but leaves Harvey's top half visible against the backdrop of white cabinetry and modern brushed aluminum appliances. In the corner of the cherry hardwood floors and up against the slate, stacked stone tiles of the kitchen island is a cardboard box with a scribble of black marker across the top that reads, 'kitchen.' As Harvey retrieves a glass from a practically empty cupboard, he announces, "Max is still in the shower."

"How long ago did you two move in?" I ask as I pull out the first chair in front of me and take a seat adjacent to Dalton with my back to the open doorway to the hall.

"Oh, a few days ago, now," Harvey says as he opens the refrigerator door, his head disappearing behind it. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you," I decline politely, although I should probably ask for a tall glass of ice water, considering the heat.

"Dangle?" Harvey calls out, leaving me a bit confused.

"Still good, Harv," Dalton responds nonchalantly, still scribbling away notes onto a schedule. It's the very first official day of working together and Harvey's already using a nickname—I can't believe how quickly these two seem to be getting along.

"Dangle?" I inquire while staring at Dalton, but loud enough for both to hear.

"Well, when he was at a pool—" Harvey starts as he pours something unseen behind the bulk of the refrigerator door, but Dalton interrupts, coughing loudly and incessantly until Harvey stops speaking.