The evening cooled quickly, and neither Max nor I were really dressed for staying out all night, so we reluctantly parted ways and came home around midnight.
Once I explained to my parents that I'd been with Max, they were completely fine with me having stayed out late. As much as they think Chance is trouble, they think Max is a good kid who can do no wrong — except not be the perfect son, in his dad's eyes.
Despite having had such a calm, unpressured evening with Max, my sleep's plagued with guilt. It infiltrates my heart and plays mournful melodies on my heartstrings.
When I'm with Max, I betray Chance — that's the thought that whirls around my mind in an endless blender, mushing up all my emotions into sickening inconsequentiality.
I can't decide who matters more: Chance or Max. Or maybe I'm the inconsequential one, and I really did drive Chance away.
Fucking hell.
I shake myself awake more than once in the night before I entirely give up the prospect of rest. The nightmares are the same; watching Chance fall off that fucking waterfall on purpose. Then it switches and Max is the one falling. And every time it's all my fucking fault; because I chased Chance away, and surely, I'd end up chasing Max away too if I continued whatever this is between me and him.
Groaning as I rest my groggy forehead against my palms, I decide there's only one way to numb the pain tearing me apart. Only one way to fall into oblivion, even if it's for a little while.
I stick to the walls, where the carpet meets the skirting boards to avoid any creaks in the floor. I slip downstairs quietly, avoiding the creaky step. The last thing my parents need right now is to witness me sneaking downstairs to numb my fucked-up feelings.
This is sad as fuck, I think as I reach into the back of a cupboard where I know my dad's favourite Christmas drink resides. My fingers close around the bottle's neck, and I lift it to inspect it under the bright glow of the streetlamp through the kitchen's blinds.
Glayva; it's a sweet, tangy, whisky-based liqueur that's pretty strong.
I tried some last Christmas with Dad, just a little evening tipple. I mean, I only had a splash and there were at least six ice cubes in my glass to water it down.
There's no way I'm trying to quietly get ice cubes or a glass out at 3 in the morning, so I take the bottle back up to my room.
It stings the back of my throat at the first sip, but I squeeze my eyes shut and take another mouthful. The second time, I let it rest in my mouth, adjusting to the sharp, warming sensation it causes to flood through my mouth and my face.
"Fuck," I murmur after my fifth sip, my head's already going cloudy, and it feels so fucking good not to be overthinking every single second.
I lie on top of my bedcovers, my back propped up against the headrest and my bottle clutched in my right hand.
For the first time in my life, I enjoy the blurriness that accompanies alcohol. I don't care anymore. I don't care about Max, and I don't care what Chance would think of me.
So, I keep drinking. Because it feels right; it feels so fucking good to be free of my insecurities, even just for now.
The sweet, orangey liqueur lulls me back towards sleep, though this time, I know it's going to be free of all dreams.
Before I drift off, I remember to screw back on the top and stash it under my bed. I have a strong feeling, which is hard to fathom through this relaxing fog, that I'm gonna be needing more of that stuff tomorrow.
The mini-hangover I have the next morning is worth it; it means I get a dreamless lie-in. The extremely bright sun is fairly high up by the time I get out of bed.
Last night's drinking session gave me something of an epiphany. I now know just how much alcohol can silence those stupid fucking voices in my head — the ones that insist I'll never be able to help Chance or make Max happy.
I guess it's like Lilia with her cigarettes, I make the comforting comparison as I half-stumble to the loo to relieve myself. It's hardly like I'm the only teenager ever who's found comfort in toxic substances.
I'm not yet at the point Chance was about drinking. I don't feel it killing me — not yet — but I can at least appreciate the wuzzy delirium before the inevitable fall.
"Morning, Rory!" Mum calls to me cheerily once I go to find some breakfast.
"Morning," I grunt back and reach into the bread cupboard.
Carbs. I need carbs.
"Were you drinking last night?" Dad steps into the kitchen. "While you were out with Max?"
"Uhm... Yeah." I nod, thankful my brain is too slow to get thrown by the first half of his question.
"You're off to the bonfire tonight, right?" Mum grills, eyeing me like she's onto me. "Do you think you'll be drinking there as well?"
"Yup." I shovel half a piece of bread into my mouth.
"Just be careful," Mum tells me. "The woods can be dangerous late at night..."
"It's fine, Mum." I brush past Dad out of the kitchen, muttering to myself, "I won't pull a Chance."
At this point, though, I don't even believe myself.
The bonfire is held on the autumn equinox every year, as a sort of last hurrah of the summer. Everyone at New Ridge Secondary School who's over the age of 15 goes, and of course, there are always a few stragglers in their early twenties who never really got out of New Ridge.
It seems like pretty much everyone wants to get out of New Ridge as soon as possible, but I don't think it's too bad of a place. As long as I stick to the half-decent parts, of course.
The remainder of the day passes quickly, which I'm thankful for. My parents go out shopping, then they take a ton of Mum's cooking over to the neighbours and soup kitchens. So I avoid their questioning.
Before I can leave to walk up to the bonfire spot half an hour late, the Count barrels into me with his lead hanging in his mouth. He cocks his head sideways at me.
"Sorry, pal." I ruffle the fluff on his head. "No walkies. I'm off out."
Of course, all he heard was 'no walkies', so he slinks off back to his bed and plops down with a heavy sigh.
I leave. I don't walk past her house. I don't think about him.
The metal of the hip flask in my back pocket is cold and reassuring. There's gonna be tons of cheap alcohol there, but in case it's not quite strong enough, I've got a backup option.
As I hike over to where the bonfire site is, I start getting pissed off at the number of random teenagers wandering through what literally feels like my neck of the woods. But I remind myself that it shouldn't matter.
The liquor hits the back of my throat before I realise I've decided to have some.
I breathe out into the rapidly cooling night, watching as my breath appears like half-visible steam.
"Hey, loser," Lilia's voice calls out to me through the trees.
"Hey, Lilia!" I shout back, tucking my flask back into my pocket.
"How've you been?" She throws her arms around me and stumbles a little.
"Never better," I lie easily. There's another thing I like about drinking; how easy it becomes for me to cover up the truth.
We follow the orange glow burning through the woods and the sound of fellow teenagers to be confronted with what's quickly going to turn into a raging party. There are distinct groups, but everyone's still gathered in a crowd around the blaring fire.
The wood must be stacked at least 10 feet high, and the flames are roaring.
To our right, there are three camping tables set up that are covered in all sorts of cheap, shitty drinks. There are red plastic cups too like we're all trying to be cool, interesting Americans, not the boring Brits we are.
"C'mon, Rory, let's go find Max." Lilia grabs hold of my hand before I can refuse and drags me around the bonfire.
I don't particularly talk to Max. Part of me insists that I'll only fuck things up between us even more.
Max is sitting on the log of a fallen tree. Lilia plonks herself down next to him, and I sit down next to her.
Sighing heavily, I unscrew my hip flask and take a large swig out of it, screwing my eyes tightly shut as I swallow down the acid-like beverage. I'm suddenly nervous as fuck near Max.
"I'm gonna go get drinks and mingle..." Lilia announces, springing up to her feet with bounds of energy. She has to half-shout above the sound of chatter and pounding music. "Want anything, you two?"
Chance back, I think through the alcohol haze.
"Sure," I say.
"Nah, not for me," Max's voice is husky and immediately stirs something inside of me.
It's time I have some more to drink.
Lilia disappears through the masses of people as I raise my flask to my lips again. I might run out sooner than I expected if I don't slow down soon.
I don't want to slow down though; I want to let it all go and forget about everything — live my life in muted inconsequentiality.
"Take it easy," Max speaks up. "It's a long night, Rory."
"I'm just dealing with shit," I tell him bluntly. "You of all people know what that's like."
"Yeah, but I'm not a lightweight and I know when to stop," he retorts harshly, then tells me, "If you soften the edges to reality too much, you'll be bleeding out before you know it."
"What does it matter?" I question, managing not to slur my words. "I mean, it's not like I'm gonna help Chance right here, right now. And that seems to be the only thing I can do."
"Do you know what your problem is, Rory?" Max spits out, turning to face me for the first time.
"Go on." I turn to face him and his anger.
"You've got a fucking saviour complex, where you try and save everyone around you. You take responsibility for other people's actions. And while you're tryna save the world, you're forgetting about yourself." His voice softens slightly as he moves along the log closer to me, closing the distance between us. "You're forgetting that you're allowed to feel for yourself too."
"It's just that emotions are complicated..." My answer is weak as fuck, but it's all I've got.
Max tells me sincerely, "When a person shuts out emotions for long enough, they become numb to everything — even the good things. You're allowed to feel things, Rory."
I'm speechless — stunned into silence and suddenly feeling sober as anything. I don't reach for my flask though; I keep staring at Max.
At everything attractive about Max. The way his curly hair flops over his forehead no matter his best efforts. The richness of his cocoa-brown eyes, which are lightened by the fire's glow. The way his sumptuous, pale red lips part when he stares at me sometimes.
"What do you feel, Rory?" Max murmurs, drawing ever closer to me.
"I..." My mouth is bone dry and any words I once considered voicing are silenced. Then I turn it back around to Max, "What do you feel, Max?"
"I'll show you," he mutters to me and moves close to me until I can taste his breath.
And then I don't know if it's me or him who moves forwards first, but our lips meet.
The world freezes for a moment; no one else matters.
His lips push up against mine and our mouths melt together without hesitation. His tongue slips into my mouth and I swear to God I've never been so turned on in my life before — every inch of me wants him. Our kiss is desperate and fiercely passionate; countless moments of intimacy have been building to this and it is the perfect resolution.
It's short and sweet and passionate and it's over far, far too quick and completely, utterly world-shatteringly awesome.
Until I pull away and practically jump off the log away from him.
And the world starts spinning normally again, and my head is spinning around far too quickly.
"I love you, Rory," Max confesses desperately like he's running out of time. "I've loved you for ages."
"W-why didn't you tell me?" I question incredulously, raising my voice so it's audible over the hammering of my heart.
"Because I couldn't," he explains. "Chance... she saw the way I look at you and she threatened to out me to everyone if I tried anything with you."
I swallow, gasping for air like a fish out of water. Maybe it's because even though Max usually helps me to breathe, he's left me breathless for a change.
"Fuck..." Is all I can come up with, then I realise, "Shit, Max — your dad, and your back... Is this why?"
"Yeah." He nods but doesn't drop his eyes from mine. Seeing the confusion on my face, Max tells me, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kiss you. You just sort of have this effect on me... You make me spontaneous."
It makes perfect sense; Max is usually so collected and composed. I'd never seen him act in any way other than that. But I must've been the one that makes him lose control over this image of heterosexuality he works hard to keep up.
My stomach flips over as I think of the consequences of that single kiss — everything has changed with that one kiss. I can't look at Max as a friend anymore. I can't even think about what Chance would think — what she would say.
Why would she threaten to publicly out Max? She's gay too, she must've known what Max goes through...
Did I even know her at all?
"Max, I..." I lick my lips, trying to remember how to speak. "I have to get out of here."
Then I turn and I run up the side of the valley, scrambling over twisted bramble bushes and tripping over twigs. I don't know where I'm going, I just know I must get away from all those people.
I must get away from the fact that Chance blackmailed Max into staying away from me. Max, my best friend — Max, who loves me, who's loved me for ages.
He shouts after me, but I don't know if he has the guts to follow me into the dark woods. The dark woods that I know so well, and that he barely knows at all.
I run and I run and I run until my lungs are burning up and I'm gasping for air.
Slowing to a standstill, I lean over, grasping my legs above my knees. The air is cleansing with its freshness as I draw it into my lungs desperately.
The woods are quiet — but maybe my ears were ringing, because sounds slowly begin to creep back in. The bonfire party is a muted roar, an owl hoots above me and I hear the rushing of running water.
"Fucking hell..." I walk over to the source of the crashing water.
Steadying my shaky legs, I peer over to see a waterfall — the exact waterfall Chance disappeared down. Chance's waterfall: I found it.
I edge closer to the steep precipice, that quote buzzing in my head incessantly; to understand another person, you must swim in the same waters that drowned them.
If I ever want to find out what happened to Chance, I know I need to go over the waterfall. And hope I survive.
Fuck it, I think and let myself fall.
The water rushes down, carrying me in its relentless torrent. It feels like I'm flying before I crash down into the small lake at the base of the waterfall.
My weight plunges me into the cold, watery darkness, but thankfully I don't hit my head. I surface, gasping for air. Triumph floods my veins; I lived. Which means that Chance must've lived too.
She's alive. I know she's out here somewhere.
Dripping wet and freezing, I swim over to the pine-needle-covered bank and crawl out of the water. Sudden exhaustion insists I stay there, and leave searching for Chance until tomorrow.
But I've come this far. There's no way I'm giving up — not now. Not when I'm this close to finding Chance.
I drag myself to my feet, ignoring the sudden pressure throbbing in my head. My vision splits in two, the trees double as I stumble forwards, having temporarily lost coordination with my feet.
"I'm coming, Chance," I murmur to the empty darkness and pick my pace up to a steady stride through the trees — pushing aside the pain in my head.
I don't know how far or how long I walk, but I stay in a straight line, figuring that Chance couldn't have been in a much better state than me after diving off the top of that waterfall. The roots beneath my feet begin to feel familiar; like I've tripped over them before.
A memory from the summer pierces through my dark uncertainty.
"Where are we going?" My eyes were blindfolded; I tripped over roots and rocks that protruded out of the forest floor. Trusting Chance entirely.
In my blindness, the sounds of the forest in summertime truly came alive. The slight, warm breeze gently rustled the trees' lush green leaves, the trickling stream, and the chirping birds.
I feel so alive when I'm with her.
"My top-secret hideout, of course." She laughed, intertwining her fingers with mine.
Her treehouse, of course! That must be where she's been hanging out these past few weeks. I can't believe I didn't think of her favourite place sooner; though, to be fair, I had no clue of its location before now.
"CHANCE!" I holler into the woods as I see the rope ladder and the treehouse loom into view. "CHANCE!"
"RORY?!" She yells down at me, and pure and unrefined joy takes over my entire body at the sound of her voice. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
I'm standing at the bottom of the rope ladder now, but I don't think I can muster up the courage to climb it. Besides, my head is still spinning round and round like a carousel.
"Looking for you, of course!" I call up.
A wide grin stretches over my face as she pops her head out of the treehouse and frowns down at me. Then she grins back.
She looks completely normal; not at all like she's been living out in the woods for weeks.
"Hang on," she feigns annoyance as she tells me, "I'll come down."
My best friend starts stepping down the rope ladder carefully — more careful than I've ever seen her do it before, grasping onto the rope sides tightly. She's almost at the bottom when things worsen for me.
Wanting to give her some room, I take a step backwards, but end up stumbling over gnarled tree roots. My left heel catches and sends me crashing to the ground.
"Rory!" Chance shrieks, dropping down beside me. "Oh fuck..."
There's a piercing pain in the side of my temple and it feels like my entire brain was shaken around when I hit the floor.
"Rory, listen, it's gonna be okay... I'm here now — it's all gonna be okay." Chance's voice drops away as my ears start ringing and my vision swims in blurry forms.
I fade into uncertain oblivion. But it's not too bad, I don't mind so much.
Because I found Chance.