Even though I promised not to, I desperately want to tell someone — about Max's back; about what he gets put through at home. But I can't; so I won't.
There's no justifying it: nothing that could excuse it. I don't know the reason why, but Max's dad must be pretty stubborn to do that to his son.
By sheer miracle, I made it home last night without waking my parents. I passed out for a few hours before my education, ever impatient, beckoned. Still gotta make it through A Levels somehow.
And now, sitting in Maths with algebraic quadratic equations in front of me, I fight the prickling urge to tell someone about Max.
The battle that rages within me is simple, yet extremely complex. Tell someone and get Max the help he needs, putting my friendship with him in danger... or don't tell anyone and it continues, but we can maintain our friendship.
What are you supposed to do when you're shown evidence of domestic abuse? Tell someone.
What did Max make me promise not to do? Tell anyone.
I rub my forehead as the letters and numbers on the page in front of me begin to dance, a muted pain throbbing directly behind my eyes. Knowing the methodical nature of the equations will calm me, I try to focus. But seeing Max in the corner of my eye derails my concentration even further.
He sits opposite me, chewing a wad of gum, scrunching his hand through his floppy hair and frowning. I want him to look up and make eye contact with me so I can mouth 'you okay?'. But he doesn't look up, doesn't lock eyes with me; I know he's not okay. Not in any way.
The maths becomes irrelevant as I watch him. His eyebrows furrow downwards and inwards, he grips his pen a little tighter. It seems like a reasonable reaction when faced with algebra, except for the fact his eyes are glazed over, not focused on anything.
Then, in one quick action, he drops his pen to the table and throws his hand up. "Can I go to the toilet?"
The teacher, who's only covering the class while our actual teacher is on paternity leave, is unimpressed. She nods her head anyway. Max all but runs out.
I shoot up out of my chair, chair legs scraping against the floor; "I should go see if he's okay."
"That won't be necessary. Sit down, Rory." Ms Morley, the old hag leers at me.
She doesn't even have to be here, that's what bugs me most. As sixth-form students, we're trusted to get on with the work that our actual teacher has set. But no. Ms Morley has to stick her nose in and make sure we don't fuck around.
Scowling, I dig the toilet pass out of my pocket and flip it up at her — exactly how I'd love to flip my middle finger up at her. "How about now?"
My cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment as the other kids in my maths class shake their heads at me. A few murmurs — what the fuck happened to that Chance girl anyways? — hey, d'you think he makes every one of his friends suicidal? — dart around the room. Quiet enough to not be noticed by Ms Morley; loud enough to crunch the eggshells scattered around me.
She narrows her eyes but jerks her head towards the door. "Make it quick."
Huffing, I storm out of the classroom, refraining from slamming the door behind me. I burst into the nearest guys' toilet door; hoping that Max is in there.
The toilets are empty, and only one of the cubicle doors is shut. It has to be Max. I hope it's Max.
Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I walk towards the locked door, leaning against the sink. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Not particularly." Is the short reply; and yet I can't distinguish any type of emotion behind the words — no sadness, no fear, no anger. His words are emotionless.
"Well, I wanna talk about it." I fold my arms.
"Tough luck, Rory." He scoffs, unlocking the door and flinging it open.
The corners of Max's eyes are fringing on being bloodshot, tendrils of bleached red tainting the pure, white sclera. His brown irises avoid mine — avoid me entirely, for that matter.
He stands next to me and washes his hands at the sink, letting the hot water run over his skin for too long. His skin turns translucent before melting into an angry crimson.
"Max..." I frown at him. I grab his wrists when he doesn't listen, pulling his hands out of the hot water.
He clenches his fists together, tentatively looking up at me through the mop of curls that's flopped back over his forehead. My hands begin to tingle as I keep hold of his wrists.
Why would you do that? I want to ask him, but I doubt his pain threshold was even scratched by a bit of warm water.
We're only human, I want to tell him. But he knows that already.
Max, I don't know what to say to you.
"Why? Why does it happen?" I insist, finally deciding on words — hoping I won't regret them. I loosen my grip on his wrists a little, but don't let go; I can't seem to bring myself to let go.
"You want the truth, Rory?" He sighs, fixing his gaze on mine.
"Always," I mutter.
"I'm not loved. It's as simple as that," he tells me, not once letting his gaze falter or slip away from mine.
"But Max," I insist, frowning at him, "That's not simple — that's complicated and fucked up as hell."
Despite the insurmountable pain he must be under, he smiles at me. "All the best things in life usually are."
I shake my head in confusion, eyeing him. "Are we still talking about what you showed me the other night?"
"Not exactly." He slides his wrists out of my hands, before wiping them dry on his trouser legs.
But why? I catch myself hanging onto Max's every word, tripping over my own two feet searching for explanations to the inexplicable. It's as if part of me expects to find answers to the wonders of the universe in those cocoa-brown eyes. Especially when, even for a fleeting moment, they meet mine.
"We should get back to class." Max shrugs, and it's like whatever definitely just happened didn't happen at all. Although it really doesn't feel like I'm making things up again.
There are a thousand things I would rather do with Max than go back to Maths. I want to somehow reassure him that he could tell me anything and I wouldn't judge him. I want to tell him that seeing him hurting pains me so much — so much that I can hardly stand seeing him this way.
But I just don't have the words; not in the moment, not when it matters most.
And see, he's already slipping away from me. I won't— I can't let him fall, though. Not the way I fucked up with Chance and let her fall.
"Max, why won't you tell me what Chance did to you?" I ask him as we leave the toilets, trying yet again to gain another fragment of truth.
"You love her, Rory. You love Chance. So, you won't wanna know it." He holds the door open for me but doesn't face me once. "Trust me."
My feet and my eyes move, carrying me back to maths class, but my heart stays entirely in this moment. I don't know how long for.
Lilia was waiting for me at the end of Maths and she all but attacked me trying to get my attention.
"C'mon," she insisted, "I need to talk to you."
She dragged me away from Max before I could get a word in; before he even realised what was happening.
Now we're sat in the performance hall, cross-legged under the musty space below the seats. It's funny how certain places can evoke so many emotions — negative or otherwise. The performance hall now holds regret and confusion for me, plus some odd clouding judgement and a certain unbidden lust fuelled by loneliness.
"I need some friendly advice," Lilia tells me, narrowing her black-rimmed dark brown eyes in the semi-darkness.
"Shoot." I nod, unsure why the fuck she had to drag me here for this conversation.
"Why is Heather Towers so bad? I mean, she seems like a pretty decent person." Lilia shrugs.
I prickle at the mention of Heather; the unwanted antagonist in Chance's tragedy — whether Heather did anything to truly contribute to the downfall of one Chance Noah Harn is beside the matter.
"You know that unspoken rule where if your best friend gets rejected by a crush, you are basically obliged to hate said crush's guts?" I brush imaginary dog hairs off my trousers, simultaneously searching for something to ease the prickly tension in my veins. "It's that. Well, plus some other stuff."
Absently, Lilia fiddles with the laces on her Doc Martin boots, like she's thinking of how to form the words. "So how long ago was it that Heather rejected Max?"
"The fuck? No, she rejected Chance, Lilia." I frown and shake my head incredulously — how the fuck could she have thought I was talking about Heather rejecting Max, of all people?
"Well, I just thought—" Her face crumples into dismay. "Have you seen the way she looks at him, though? I don't think that, given the chance, Heather would ever reject Max."
The way she looks at him. But about the way he looks at me? Isn't that what Chance said? — The way he looks at you...
"What the fuck is even going on?" I groan in frustration, clambering to my feet and leaning against a cool metal beam.
"What is it?" Lilia questions, coming close to me — placing a concerned hand on the side of my shoulder.
Resting my forehead against the metal, I shake my head; "I don't even know anymore. Relationships are just so fucking complicated."
"Let's make ours an uncomplicated one, then." Lilia smiles at me softly. "We can start by always telling one another the truth."
"Done." I bob my head in agreement instantly; lies make things complicated.
And whilst Lilia hasn't been back in New Ridge for that long, I already feel like I can trust her — she's not done anything untrustworthy so far. Hell, she even helped me figure out the list of things that happened to Chance... before that night.
"Do you think... Do you think we'll find Chance?" I look over at her hesitantly. "You gotta be honest with me, Lilia."
"Some things happen for a reason, and others have no reasoning whatsoever." She presses her lips together as she squints in thought. "I think that if you believe we can find her and help her, then we will."
"I just feel like," I sigh, feeling a barrage of emotions building like a tidal wave within me — preparing to destroy all in its path. "I just feel like I'm not doing enough, you know? Okay, so I went to her house at the weekend... But I've not been doing anything else to try to help her. And I know she's out there, too."
"Do you know for sure?"
"She left behind a letter for me..." I confess, realising I hadn't told anyone about it up until now. "She can't just be gone. She can't."
"So it's settled. We go to the places where things happened to Chance. Try and understand why she ran off on that night..." She mused aloud, eyes wandering, before darting across and locking onto mine. "In case you're wondering why I care so much about all this, it's 'cos I care about you, Rory. And Max. And Chance. I can't just... not help, knowing that there was something I could've done."
"I appreciate it," I tell her, removing my head from the beam and facing her fully. "I appreciate you being here for me."
"I think that more people would be here for you if you let them." She shrugs a shoulder.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I scoff slightly yet can't help but feel as if she has a point.
"You overcomplicate and you overthink things all the fucking time." She rolls her eyes jokingly, "Don't you know that if you don't start acting on things, you'll spend the rest of your life doing nothing at all?"
I'm not sure if that's quite true.
"Let me help you, Rory. Let Max help you too," she insists, "You can't figure this all out on your own."
"What if there's nothing to figure out?" Using the beam as support, I slide down onto the floor, my palms meeting my temples. "What if Chance was just... suicidal and she decided that jumping off that waterfall was the best way out?"
The word suicidal was an accident. But it stings; it pierces into my heart that I would ever have thought that about Chance. My bestest best friend. And here I am — not only doing nothing to help her but also dismissing her disappearance like it's nothing to me.
Like I haven't spent so many sleepless nights reliving those moments.
My life is rapidly becoming labyrinthine, all because of Chance. I long for simplicity; for the simplicity and the innocence of childhood. Aged beyond my years and tainted by predetermined fates.
"I don't know how to help her." The words pass through my lips, dropping to a hush.
"You'll find a way," Lilia claims, grasping hold of my shoulders and shaking me lightly.
I can't find a way to answer her — because what if I don't find a way? Will I ever be rid of this unspeakable void within me? This void that infects me with the punishment of ignorance, stupidity and blame.
I should've known.
That that night was going to happen.
I should've known.
Even with Chance's frequent unpredictability, I should have seen it coming.
But for some reason, I didn't — an error which may serve to haunt me for the rest of my days.