As soon as we left the Harns', Chance's dad called my dad and complained about me being overly upset and overly excitable. Like I was a fucking puppy.
Knowing that there was no chance of being able to dissuade me from my self-imposed task, my parents simply grounded me for a week. School, and then straight home every night. No phone and no laptop. Dad would walk the Count and I would do my homework like the good boy I am.
It only adds to my inexplicable anger; I didn't do a single thing wrong. If anything, Martin Harn should be the one who's grounded. He's the one giving up on Chance so easily.
I'm not mad at my parents. It's not their fault 'Mr Harn' decided to have a go about me. Grounding me was probably the best way to alleviate his dissatisfaction with my 'unnecessary' behaviour and actions.
What bullshit.
The thing that probably sucks most about being grounded is not being able to properly talk to Max. Sure, there's school. But I can't exactly pull him to the side of a busy corridor and have a personal conversation with him.
Lilia's excuse for not making it was simple and completely justified. It was probably a good thing she couldn't make it anyways; I didn't need another bystander witnessing Martin Harn almost yelling at me for no reason whatsoever.
Max was quiet about it on the way back to mine; I was going to invite him in, but I scarcely stepped through the front gate before Mum yelled for me to come in. That was a sign that Max would not be welcome at the Brewer residence that Saturday night.
But, if it was up to me, he'd be welcome to my house (and, consequently, my room), every night.
I'm now four days into my seven-day grounding. I've made it to Wednesday night without losing my mind. All this fucking nonsense is making me feel like a little kid again.
What's worse is the fact Max now seems to be avoiding me in school. He's switched from having my back 24/7 to barely nodding hello in classes.
He could be doing this to keep his emotions in check.
But that begs a thousand more questions; emotions towards who? Emotions about what? What sort of emotions? Why can't I help him? Etc, etc. On and on.
We didn't even go skateboarding together this afternoon. Mum made me stay in school for extra study, and I saw him leave right at the start of lunch. Without a backwards glance.
A thud at my window forces me to jolt, spilling a little orange juice onto a physics textbook.
Frowning, I ignore it — probably just some stupid bird. I wipe the orange juice stain away, but it doesn't disappear.
It's almost impressive how many times pigeons can fly into windows and still not realise or adapt to know that just because it's invisible, doesn't mean it's not there. I'm not a fan of biology, but I'm pretty sure that that's one of the things separating humans and animals — emotions and being able to sense non-physical things.
I wish I could sense and understand the non-physical things that Max feels.
Another thud stops me in my thoughts once again.
It's definitely not a pigeon. Though I should've already ruled that out, considering the evening is darkening rapidly.
What the fuck?
I swear to God if Lexa is trying to get me to break out of being grounded, I'll—
Thud. There's more force in the third one.
Someone's throwing pebbles at my window, trying desperately to get my attention. Scratch that — it sounds like that person is throwing fucking boulders.
I can't think of a single person that'd want to see me this badly. Not now, anyway.
Of course, there's Chance, but it'd be a cold day in hell before she'd try to announce her presence so discretely.
There's also Max — but I doubt it's him. Mostly due to his suave indifference towards me since we went to the Harns'.
There's a fourth thud, then a fifth. It's late, almost midnight. It's only then that I realise that my parents might get woken up by whoever this maniac is. And I'd only end up in more trouble.
Irritated at their persistence, I snap my curtains open and peek through my blinds, squinting down into the streetlamp-lit and moonlit street. Eerie shadows are cast by contrasting natural and unnatural lights.
And there, standing directly below my window, with a handful of rocks clutched tightly, is Max. That's who this maniac is.
My heart lifts, even as my eyebrows cascade down my forehead to furrow over my eyes.
I throw open my window, hissing out into the night. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you!" He shouts back up, barely even attempting to quieten his deep voice. And that deep voice speaking those specific words to me makes my heartbeat quicken.
His words echo around the street and reverberate around my mind — I wanted to see you.
"Why?" I whisper-shout back, remembering the need to reply.
The art of conversation is drilled into us from birth: when you get asked a question you reply with an answer. Simple, right?
Except it's not so simple or easy when it comes to the important shit. Questions over deep personal emotions and situations leave us speechless and incapable of forming words, even mentally. Certain people can do that to us too.
"I figured you might wanna get out of the house for a bit!" He yells back and staggers slightly, frowning up at me. "You coming or not?"
I've agreed before I give myself time to think over the possible consequences. Max, and the prospect of spending time with him, seems to negate those consequences. Somehow. In some way or another.
"I'll be down in a minute!" I hiss down at him, no longer irritated but still wary of my sleeping parents.
"Good!" Max shouts back, a grin spread wide on his face.
"So, you wanted to see me, huh?" I smirk slightly across at Max as we walk away from my house, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched up.
"I still want to see you," Max tells me very pointedly, and I can't help but feel he means something else; something more, perhaps.
My face warms, even as we turn a street corner and are met by a blast of the cool night air.
The daring, outgoing part of me wants to ask, 'and what part of me do you want to see?' But with the lack of communication between him and me recently, I don't want to cross that line. I don't want to fuck up our... friendship again.
"Where are we going?" I ask instead, but in all honesty, I couldn't care less where we're going. Being in his presence is fulfilling enough.
"Somewhere where it can just be the two of us for a while," he responds, taking the left-hand turn that'll take us towards the beach; probably one of his favourite places in New Ridge.
"Yeah?" I refrain from adding on 'I'd like that'. Even though I do like that. A lot.
"Yeah. We never really get a chance to talk properly at school." Max shrugs like it means nothing to him; too nonchalant to care. It means something to me. "Plus, I brought some gin." He taps the breast pocket on his checked shirt, indicating a metal hip flash.
I didn't even know he had a hip flash.
It's not too long before we reach Max's destination. He stops for a moment and breathes in the fresh sea air, which is both sweet and salty — like popcorn, but a million times better. It settles on my tongue as I let my mouth open a fraction; simultaneously invigorating me and steadying me.
Max then tilts his head towards one of the sand dunes, "C'mon, just a bit further."
At the top of one of the tallest sand dune mounds lies an old wooden pallet. Undoubtedly driftwood — a fact which is cemented when I sit down on it and run my fingers over the smoothed timber.
Max sits down beside me, suddenly very close — our knees touching. He shuffles away a little, head in his hands. But before I can say anything he's got his hip flash out.
Unscrewing the top, he takes a sip, throwing his head back as he does so. "Want some?" He holds it out to me.
"Fuck it," I murmur, grasping at the thin flask and raising it to my lips.
The bitter pine taste hits the back of my throat hard and fast, making me cough a bit. Which is embarrassing as fuck.
"I probably should've warned you it's straight." Max shakes his head, laughing at me a little as he takes the flask back.
"I'm not exactly a big drinker." I huff but end up savouring the bitterness in my mouth anyway, swiping my tongue over my bottom lip.
"Neither." Max takes another sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he squints at the sandy ground. "My parents aren't exactly fans of it."
I raise an eyebrow; Max never, and I mean never, never talks about his parents. I stay quiet, hoping my silence will prompt him to talk about them a little more.
"You know they're Christians, right?" He fills in the blank I left.
"Um, no I didn't." I shuffle, starting to feel uncomfortable. Stupidly, I state the obvious, "You don't really talk about them."
Setting down the flask in a mound of sand, Max leans back, tucking his hands behind his head. And if he didn't look so sad, I'd say he almost looks attractive— what the fuck am I thinking? Snap out of it, Rory.
"Yeah, well. They're pretty strict." He sucks on his bottom lip, and I can just tell so many thoughts must be churning behind those brown curls. "And I don't mean just like normal parents of teenagers. Like, proper strict."
"In what way?" I swallow at the lump in my throat as I lie down beside him — staring up at the starless sky. Clouds obscure the countless galaxies that lie beyond ours.
"They're not exactly—" He stops speaking, and I see him sit up quickly for another swig of gin. A long swig, this time.
Sitting up, I take the flash from his hand and sip some more myself.
Max looks away from me and down the beach. "They're just one of the reasons I have to work on not being so outward with my emotions."
"You don't... don't—" I pause, then think fuck it, just say it. "You don't have to be like that with me. I mean, I won't judge or anything."
After what feels like enough time of due consideration, Max says, "If I show you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?"
And as much as it sounds like a cliché, there's so much gravity in his words. Like he wants to show me something that he's never shown anyone else before.
I nod. "Yeah, sure."
"I need your word, Rory." His eyes lock on mine and he turns to face me again.
"You have it. Of course you have it." Forcing more sincerity into my words, I nod again — trying desperately to ignore my rapidly beating heart.
Another swig of gin, and then Max shrugs his checked shirt off his shoulders and pulls his t-shirt off in a few swift movements.
"Oh my fucking God..." Shock and horror flood my senses instantaneously, as the glow from a nearby streetlight reveals Max's secret.
Because there, on Max's back, are what look like whip-marks. It looks like he's been beaten. Some of the lines are raw, red, and recent; others have faded to a dull burgundy. Vertical and horizontal lines merge to form what looks like a cross.
Not exactly what I expected.
"Max, I—" Max, I don't know what to say to you.
Words and thoughts depart me, leaving me dumbfounded. Nothing I could ever say or do would justify what's happened to Max.
"If they have long enough to heal, it just looks like I fell off my board and scraped my back." Max's shoulders tense up slightly, and he shivers as a gust of cold wind passes us by. "But that's if they have time to heal."
I don't need to ask; some pieces fall into place — his dad must do this to him. Repeatedly. I want to reach out and touch the lines, tracing them and whispering to him that I'm here for him, no matter what.
But I can't. I don't.
I can't believe I hadn't noticed this before; it's just like what happened with Chance. I ignore all the details until it's way too late... He must have kept his back turned away from me when we were at the beach together that afternoon, that's the only explanation for my recent ignorance.
The why nags at the back of my mind, but I can't bring myself to ask. I'm not sure I'd get an answer anyway. He must've already been drinking a fair bit before deciding he wanted to see me. Because him standing here in front of me — shirtless and showing me one of his secrets — is not something Max would do sober.
Max, I still don't know what to say to you.
Forcing myself to say something — anything, I tell him, "I'm... sorry."
It's pitiful and inconsequential, but it's the best I've got right now. My futile apology will mean nothing to him; it sure as fuck won't change anything.
He could tell me it's not my fault, or that I don't have anything to apologise for. He turns to face me, opens his mouth and two simple and unexpected words fall out: "I know."
A frown creases my forehead.
"I know, but I don't need or want your pity." Max looks down for a moment before he raises his cocoa-brown eyes to meet my cobalt-blue ones, steadily holding my gaze. And he makes me feel like it's just the two of us — just the two of us in the entire world.
Alone together.
"What do you need or want, then?" I ask, pushing past the countless anxieties rising like bile from the pit of my stomach up into my throat.
"I need to get on with life..." He hesitates, squinting at me through the darkness.
I raise an eyebrow. "And what do you want?"
"What I want doesn't matter," he states simply, before moving on entirely with the conversation and forcing that cocky smirk of his onto his face. "But it'd be nice if you weren't grounded. Then we could go out skateboarding together again."
"It'd be best if I got home then..." I don't want this moment to end. But I know the tighter I hold onto it, the faster it'll slip away. I'd rather savour this short moment and hope for more moments in the future.
Besides, I have no fucking clue what to do or say next.
"Yeah. That'd be best."
And then I see something flicker in his eyes, and I realise that maybe I'm not so alone without Chance.
Max has always been here; I've just been too blind to see it or recognise it. Too concerned with Chance and everything about her to notice him. Even now, it's like she's still making decisions for me — and maybe all this anxiety is due to fear. Fear of what she would think of what I'm doing, or thinking, or saying.
In the same way that Max claims Chance never recognised me; I realise that I haven't recognised Max enough for him being here with me.
Max and I sit back down on the battered driftwood pallet.
Alone and yet keeping each other company despite everyone and everything.