Against my will, I wound up dreaming of Chance. Memories attacked from every angle, relentlessly bombarding me with snapshots of mine and Chance's childhood and teenage years together — the imaginary life we might have lived together if those tragedies hadn't caused everything to plummet into a bleak watery chasm.
Everything mattered with Chance; in her presence, all the inconsequential moments of life, that I never noticed before that night, became meaningful.
She stuck with me throughout high school, even when she was offered the opportunity of being one of the 'populars'. She gave up the opportunity of getting close to Heather just to stick with me.
Even when I got awful acne when I was 14, she spent hours researching skincare routines and dermatologist-approved fixes — not because of how my acne made me look ugly, but because she knew how badly it dragged down my already-suffering self-confidence.
How every time Baxter, an irrelevant kid at school, chatted shit about our friendship, she'd stick up for me — and defend me with words as I struggled not to use my fists to communicate my anger towards Baxter's constant misogyny.
What's wrong Brewer? Not managed to get her in bed yet?
You two should just fuck and get it over with already, you're old news
Rory and Chance sitting in a tree, doing things they shouldn't be—
Thinking about Baxter's comments, even now, makes my blood boil. Now he's inconsequential.
The only consequential events in my life have been with Chance. Even revising for our fucking GCSEs together made me smile, and made me enjoy life. Sitting in the back of her car as her dad tried to teach her to drive, with both of us pulling faces at one another in the rear-view mirror.
In all honesty, it's only been the last year or so that I realised how much I loved Chance. Our relationship was so natural and so easy; no complications or drawbacks to any of it. Even before I figured out the meaning of love, I'd loved her wholeheartedly and without any regret.
I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to admit it to her. Maybe I could've helped her sooner if she'd known just how much I care for her.
With a jolt, I realise that I saw some of these flashes of our life — of her life in the moments before she tipped off the edge of that waterfall on that fateful night. I wonder if she saw anything, or thought anything at all before she decided to fall.
Because here's the thing, she did decide to fall. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever about that. There's only one thing that will clear the fog that persistently surrounds that night — swimming in the same waters that 'drowned' Chance.
I have to find that waterfall again.
But first I figure I have to follow the tragedies in order; trace the landmarks in Chance's life that lead to that momentous decision to disappear.
No matter what else happens today, I can't delay helping Chance any longer. She has to be out there somewhere. Chance Noah Harn is too stubborn to give up, or so I used to think before that night. I refuse to believe she would leave this life entirely. Wherever she is, I have to at least try to help her.
Tears choke my throat as I stand in the shower, leaning a hand against the wall. I owe it to Chance. I was guilty of not realising all the things that were happening to her; guilty now of my negligence in my search for her.
I need to help her.
For the past couple of mornings, I've been ditching Dr Greene. Partly 'cos I had nothing new to tell him; partly 'cos I don't know whether I can really trust him. Sure, I let him read my journal of sorts explaining what happened that night — but that was a big mistake.
I got an email from him exactly at 7 this morning asking me — imploring me to come and have a chat. And since I don't want him to involve Mum or Dad, I decide to go.
I have nothing to talk about, which means I have nothing to lose. Other than time and energy, of course.
"I wasn't sure I was going to see you, Rory." Greene's grey eyes are stretched wide, but he's already got the kettle on and two mugs out.
I shrug and take the seat opposite his; my leg bouncing as soon as I sit down.
He raises an eyebrow, undoubtedly already psychoanalysing me. "How's everything going?"
"It's going," I reply, willing my leg to stop bouncing — yet it doesn't. My anxiety's showing through; why, I have no clue.
"Been thinking about Chance much?"
Not at much as I should be — is my immediate response, not the one I say, though; "Mhm, on and off."
"What do you want to do about her?" Even an attempt at being casual falls flat on its face. He should just stop tryna act like this is a casual chat instead of a fucking counselling session. Though to be fair to the guy, he's probably doing it for my benefit.
"Help her." I've seen countless spy movies; in interrogations, short answers are vital to survive.
"And how do you intend upon doing that?"
"By thinking like her. By swimming in the same waters that drowned her." I pause to internally curse myself for somewhat revealing my plans to him. "Metaphorically, of course."
Our conversation is halted as Greene makes cups of tea for both of us, the teaspoon tapping the sides of the mugs irritatingly. "Of course," Greene resumes as he hands my mug to me, "Just don't get yourself hurt by doing this."
Wait... he's encouraging me?
My confusion must have made its way onto my face, 'cos Greene says, "I'm aware of how stubborn teenagers — particularly you — can be. It's futile to try change your mind now."
"It's futile to try change a lot of things," I admit, scoffing at myself slightly.
"But you'll still try anyway?" He arches an eyebrow at me.
I know he's pushing me now.
I let a moment pass and watch the uninteresting beige clock on his walls count five seconds before I answer, "Trying in vain is better than not trying at all."
"If it will help you then you should do it," Greene states the obvious like the fucking genius he is. His attention slides away from me temporarily before his eyes flick back. "If there's anything you need, Rory, you can come to me."
"Actually..." Reaching for my bag, I bite my tongue as I pull out three extra-curricular trip permission forms. "There is something you could do."
It starts today, I tell myself.
"It starts today," I tell Max as soon as I see him. His eyes lit up expectantly at seeing me, before shadowing into a vague sadness that I can only half-comprehend.
"I thought it might," he replies, his gaze sliding away from mine as we are met by an onslaught of younger students rushing to class — driven by the shrill school bells. The crowds separate us; yet neither of us tries to reunite. Instead, I search for Lilia.
"It starts today," I tell Lilia as I pass her on a much emptier corridor on the way to form. At peak times, school corridors and hallways are like tides of busyness, with kids flooding in and out at a moment's notice of hollers and laughs.
"What does?" Her face crumples into a frown, "What is starting today?"
"Helping Chance," I tell her insistently, feeling hope being refreshed within me. "I got permission slips from Dr Greene so we can leave mid-afternoon... Look, Lilia; if you don't have to come if you don't want to. Max and I can just go, I'll understand if—"
"Oh shut up already!" Lilia snaps, scowling in the perfect picture of indignation. "Of course I'm coming with you, idiot."
"Okay, meet me at the front gate as soon as you can at the end of fourth period." As if it's contraband, I slip the permission form to her discretely. "You'll need this. Thank you."
Lilia only nods and smiles briefly, her eyes flicking past me and over my shoulder for a moment. "I'll see you later." She abruptly turns on her heel and stalks off down the corridor.
I turn to see Heather Towers on the other side of the hallway; leaning against the wall with her designer handbag slung carelessly — yet with delicate perfection, too — over her shoulder. She's watching me. Which can only mean she was watching mine and Lilia's conversation... though I highly doubted she heard anything.
Heather beams at me and waves slightly, the way cool, 'popular' people do. The memory of Heather's eternal frosty indifference towards Chance pushes itself to the forefront of my mind.
How dare she. How dare she try to be nice to me after the way she treated Chance.
Maybe I should add Heather Towers to a Post-it note as a reason for Chance's intentional disappearance. Yet I can't assume anything; unsubstantiated claims won't help anyone — certainly not Chance.
I resist the almost overwhelming urge to show Heather both my middle fingers and merely half-grimace, half-smile as I walk off. Thankfully, she doesn't follow me to class, but I wouldn't put it past her.
As expected, the morning and part of the afternoon pass slower than the rate at which continents drift; which is the same speed as the rate at which fingernails grow. Aka really fucking slowly.
Despite that, I try to make the most of my classes interesting. The key word here: try. I try; that's the best anyone can ever ask for.
Chance Noah Harn fills my head, so much that I struggle to focus on much else. I can only combat the hopelessness in my aching heart with the silent promise I made to myself. One thing's for sure: I cannot keep living with this anguish casting shadows over the 'best' years of my life.
Today, I can't even find relief in Max's concern for me. Although I do my best to avoid him, I feel his eyes on me throughout physics and maths. Fuck, I even spend lunchtime dodging him by pretending to be busy with homework.
When I'm so concerned by Chance, I don't know what makes me worthy of his attention.
All I seem to do is burden people. No wonder Chance didn't feel like she could talk to me before that night.
Lilia was right; I do struggle with letting people help me.
At least I'm trying to let Max and Lilia help me — though I'm still not entirely sure why Max is even bothered about all my messy shit.
His agitation makes itself apparent on the bus from school to Alexandra Street. Lilia, unsurprisingly, was a bit late. We still managed to catch the 2:36 bus into the centre of town, where Chance had her accident — the first one, I mean.
Beside me, Max's leg bounces non-stop, and he tugs at the skin around his nail beds until he catches on whitlows and thin streams of blood appear. The type of incisions that are easily blotted away.
"Are you alright?" Lilia asks him before I can figure out how to let the words leave my mouth without sounding irritating.
"Fine," he snaps.
"Max... I get this might be hard for you," I tell him, even though I don't get it — I don't get any of it 'cos he won't fucking tell me. "You don't have to be here; you can just go home—"
"I'd rather visit the crash site of someone who hated— hates me than go home right now." Max locks eyes with me, and for a moment I forget about Lilia sitting in front of us, I forget all the random people on the bus; I forget Chance — just for this one moment. I watch Max, his eyes forlorn and sincere at the same time, and his lips parting to say. "Trust me, Rory."
"I trust you," I mutter out, barely even audible and irrelevant to our conversation. His lips part once more to reply — but the bus stops and the three of us get off.
His words remain a mere thought.
The bus leaves us standing like three lemons on the pavement.