It's Saturday again before I know it. Losing track of the days is easy when barely anything is happening. The thing is with journaling (which I suppose is what I'm doing right now), it's so rare for anything interesting to come up. Some days I write, others I don't.
For the past few days, after me texting him, Max has been acting distant from me. Probably because I tried to drag up something he was trying to leave in the murky depths of denial.
Chance's words from beyond the gra— from beyond now ricochet around my mind. The desperation in her words, the hope she holds for me. For me to make things right with Max. She never said a word about trying to help her.
Maybe she was past the point of saving.
Whatever, I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the unmediated thought.
I'm sitting on my front porch, waiting. Aiming to avoid the current awkwardness between me and Max, I invited Lilia along. The plan is to speak to Chance's dad today.
Max, as always, arrives exactly three minutes before our arranged time of 2pm; apparently, he was busy with something this morning. What that something was, he wouldn't tell me.
I smile wanly at him as he walks over, never lacking confidence or faltering in his step. But then he sits down a bit away from me and his face contorts into a look of temporary agony — an awkwardness obvious in his back.
"Everything okay?" I pounce immediately, despite his casual indifference towards me.
His casual indifference that's so suave and attractive and oh my God—
"Just perfect." He hisses out through gritted teeth.
"What happened?"
"Fell off my skateboard," he lies. His tell is clear to me now — the way his eyes fix on a point and glaze over slightly as the words slip out. He doesn't stare, he blinks but the absent look is there regardless. He's also not really fallen off his skateboard for years.
Fifteen minutes pass while we fall into silence. A crackly silence filled with unspoken words. Lilia still hasn't arrived.
"Are we doing this today or next month?" Max asks sarcastically, getting to his feet and starting to pace the length of the porch.
My phone buzzes, providing an answer.
Lilia
sorry can't make it.
Me
hope everything is ok. See u at school on Monday
"She's not coming," I tell him, and I can't help but feel a little relieved. Inviting her wasn't my best idea anyway. The dynamic between me and Max is tough enough without having to relive what happened in the performance hall.
"Let's go then." Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he waits for me at the front gate of my house.
I get to my feet just as Lexa pops her head out of her front door, her face smiling and inquisitive. "You boys going somewhere? Off to meet some pretty girls, maybe?"
"None of your business." Max is quick to bristle, eyes narrowing.
Shooting him a 'what the fuck' frown, I say to Lexa, "We're going to see Chance's dad and talked to him about what happened."
"Oh." Her face falls; she, along with everyone else in this fucking town, has no idea what happened.
And whilst I don't know the entire truth yet, at least I know a few fragments.
I know the way to Chance's house off by heart. I could walk there in the pitch-black of night, blindfolded and with my feet tied together and I'd still get there.
Chance and I became friends immediately after she moved into this house just a few streets away from mine. We were 10 years old. Seven years of friendship — of being inseparable — and now I'm alone without her.
I almost forget that Max is walking beside me, until he scuffs the toe of his shoe on the pavement, unwittingly reminding me of his presence. We reach Chance's house after walking in a silence that was only punctuated with passing remarks.
Inconsequential remarks, of course.
I catch myself wondering if anything with Max could be more than inconsequential. The thought is already proving true — he's here, helping me help someone who hurt him, somehow.
I can't imagine what's going on inside his head, shielded by that brown curly hair.
Knocking on the duck-egg blue front door with my knuckles, I rock forwards onto my toes then back onto my feels. Half-expecting Chance to come bounding down the stairs, a grin on her face.
But she doesn't; instead, no one greets us. I knock again, though it doesn't seem like anyone's home.
"Maybe he's out," Max suggests, doubt tinting his words.
"He's out!" A voice shouts from behind us, confirming Max's suspicions. We whirl around to see Chance's next-door neighbour, Morgan.
They smile and walk over, referring to Chance's dad, "Martin's out working right now."
"But it's a Saturday..." The uneasy doubt never leaves Max's voice. I wish I could make him relax; make him feel better about whatever's going on in his head.
Morgan shrugs. "Since what happened to Chance, he started spending all his spare time volunteering at the New Ridge Mental Health & Wellbeing Centre."
Why? It had never occurred to me until now that Chance could have had mental health issues; I'd always assumed that night was a result of everyone else, not her mind. Though maybe it's both.
"Do you know when he'll be back?" I hear Max asking, but I'm suddenly distant from it all.
Morgan responds with a time; time's only a concept so I don't listen. A hand closes around my arm, and I jump slightly, shaking me out of my reverie.
"He's not gonna be here for a couple of hours," Max tells me clearly, "What do you wanna do until then? It's your call, Rory."
"Uhm..." I know what I need to do; make up with him and apologise for pushing him (even though it didn't feel like I pushed him that much).
Yet it's awkward trying to own up to what I did, awkward trying to get those words out. I know Max and I both need to talk to one another more about... certain things, it's just taking the first step that's the hardest part.
"Let's go to the woods for a bit," I tell him, in an effort to be decisive for once — without Chance, my certainty and self-belief have been seriously lacking. "We do need to talk to him, and we might as well get it done today."
"Sure." He bobs his head in agreement.
"I'm sorry for dragging you along," I apologise out of guilt — apologising for more than just bringing him along.
"Rory, I decided to come with you." He shrugs a shoulder, tucking his hands into his pockets as we walk towards the woods, swapping the grey streets for the auburn woods for a little while. "You don't need to apologise."
"I need to apologise for pushing you last night, for talking about Chance and what she may or may not have said to you in the summer." I rush out in a blur of words, forcing me to inhale straight afterwards.
I look across to see him bristle slightly, the way I've been noticing that he does whenever Chance is brought up.
Realising I'm watching him, he turns his face away from me some more. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Well, I'm sorry." I swallow, attempting to dispel the lump in my throat.
The silence between us returns and I hate it. I hate it so much that I'd rather fill it with inconsequential shit. And for me, that's saying something.
But I have nothing to talk about, nothing other than Chance. God. It must be pretty boring being in my company. All I do is talk about Chance. All I do is think about her too.
"I'm sorry for pushing you to talk about it when you weren't, and clearly aren't ready to," I speak again, despite the voices in my head screaming at me to be quiet. "And even though she hurt you, I want you to know that I want to make things better, somehow. I'm sorry I didn't notice before now."
"You keep saying that a lot." He huffs, looking everywhere but me.
"Saying what?" I frown, glancing at him as we neared a bench looking out across the woods and down into New Ridge.
"You keep saying you're sorry a lot," he states, noticing it before I can even become aware of it myself.
"Well." I shake my head and look skywards, letting out an exasperated laugh. "I feel it a lot."
"You know you don't have to apologise for things you didn't do, right?" The corner of Max's mouth quirks up at my unprecedented show of emotion.
"Yeah, but..." I shrug my shoulders, struggling to find an apt response. Instead, I redirect the conversation, "Wanna sit down for a bit? We can't just keep walking forever."
"I reckon we could." Max slips the words out quietly, perhaps he thinks I can't hear. But I do. And I don't think he was talking about sitting down for a bit.
Redirecting the conversation, pretending like I haven't heard him, I ask, "How long have we got until Martin gets back?"
He glances at the time on his phone, "We should probably head back in around half an hour."
"Truth or dare?" I ask as we sit down, the sounds of the autumnal forest encompassing us and welcoming us in its open arms.
The trees rustle with a slight northerly wind, and a nearby brook babbles and trickles over rocks cloaked in thick moss. Birds chirp and sing in the trees, and squirrels chatter and scamper around on a rampage of burying nuts for the winter.
Max rolls his eyes, but complies, "Fine... Truth."
I go straight in for ambiguity and potentially something extremely personal: "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
He stares off into the trees, though his gaze isn't fixed — his cocoa-brown eyes seem to dart, perhaps watching a bird flit around, or watching a single leaf descend to the ground in painstaking slow motion. His thin, dark eyebrows shadow his eyes as he decides to speak, "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."
"I promise I won't," I blurt out, just like a little kid ready to make a pinky promise over it.
"Okay then." He pushes out a breath, not yet looking at me and still focusing on the trees. "The thing is Rory. I didn't cry when Jack died."
I blink, stunned. "You mean... Jack from The Titanic?!"
"It's bugged me ever since I first watched it." He nods slowly, turning his head to me as he tries to hold back the humorous smirk curving his face. "I think there's something really wrong with me."
A smile spreads across my face before it morphs into laughter. Unanticipated and unexpected laughter — the best kind. Max chuckles a little too, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of it all. The wonderful and brilliant stupidity.
It's not what I was expecting him to say. But I'm glad he joked all the same. It eases the tension between us and relieves the pressure of all those unspoken words piling up.
I can't help but wonder when — because it's only a matter of time and occasion — the avalanche of those unspoken words will come cascading down. Threatening to bury us both alive.
After that, we descended into more stupid jokes. Everything from 'knock-knock' jokes to 'why did the chicken cross the road?' It was perfect momentary relief from all the other shit going on. A distraction from talking to Martin Harn about Chance.
We run out of the woods to make sure we get to Chance's as soon as possible, wanting to intercept her dad before the afternoon melts into the evening.
"You ready?" Max asks, blowing some hair out of his face.
"Nope." I knock on the door and wait for Chance's dad to arrive.
He opens the door and does the exact same thing that Heather Towers does. He goes straight for my name. "Rory..."
"Hi... umm, I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute." Brushing away the disconcerting parallel between Martin Harn and Heather Towers, I try to calm my nerves. It's happening — the thought of commencing this journey on the truth is equally exhilarating and daunting.
"You read the... letter, then?" Something has changed in his disposition since that night. I haven't really seen him much since then, though there's an unsureness about him now.
"I did. Look, I don't want to drag things back up, but I just wondered if we could talk about the months before that night." We're still standing at the doorway; the door's only open ajar.
"Frankly, I'm not sure whether it's any of your business," he states, not even attempting to soften the blow of it.
"I don't understand..." I frown; what have I done wrong?
"As far as I and the police are concerned, Rory. You are the last person to see my daughter alive." With his voice hardening, Martin Harn fights to hold back from letting his eyes glisten.
"Woah, hold on." I shake my head incredulously. "You blame me for what happened that night?" Mouth drying, I check I'm understanding him right. That it's not another obscure delusion.
He nods curtly, steely eyes now beginning to glaze over and look right through me.
"But you sent me Chance's letter!" I exclaim, indignation boiling in my blood. "Don't you want to know the truth about why that night happened? And what really did happen?"
In one rapid action, Martin Harn's hands shoot forwards to grasp onto my shoulders tightly. His eyes re-focus. "Do you know what happened? Or are you merely coming up with pointless conspiracy theories about my daughter?"
"Mr Harn, I—. I want to figure out what happened. It's—"
"No. You were there on that night, Rory. You saw what happened. Hell, maybe you were the one who pushed her." I can see him struggling to keep a hold of his sharp anger; like it's spiralling into something else — something more.
"I didn't... I didn't push her. She fell," I insist, my pleas falling upon deaf ears and a closed mind. "She fell, Mr Harn. Chance chose to fall. There was nothing I could do, I—." My words, I realise, carry no weight and no meaning to him.
He's already made up his mind about what he thinks went down that night. And if I know anything, if I own any single shred of insight into the Harn family, it's that once they've decided something, it's nigh-on impossible to change their mind.
Martin Harn lets go of my arms, all the passion and anger slipping off his face. "Just go, Rory. Don't stir up trouble that just needs to be left alone."
Leaving me speechless, he shuts the door in my face. Max is still beside me; I'd forgotten he was still with me.
"C'mon, let's get you home." He takes hold of my arm and guides me down the Harns' drive, away from it all.
I don't even look back over my shoulder to see if Chance is there.