Chapter Text
The cemetery grass squelched under Max’s worn Vans, cold seeping through the canvas. Dad’s voice cut through the fog in her head like a knife. "Seattle’s off." His words were steady, but exhaustion dug trenches around his eyes she’d never seen before. "Called my boss… explained about William. Said if I couldn’t start by Friday, the job’s gone." A heavy sigh, like stones dropping. "So… we’re staying put."
Max hugged herself tighter. The stupid black dress Joyce lent her scraped like sandpaper. Didn’t do squat against the deep-freeze inside her bones. Everything blurred—grey sky, quiet faces, that raw rectangle of dirt where Mr. Price should be—all smeared into watery nothing by shock. Dad’s hand landed on her shoulder. Felt like a shadow.
"House is sold," he kept going, voice low. "Ocean View Motel for now. ‘Til we find a place." He paused, looking over at Joyce and Chloe. Joyce looked hollowed out. Chloe looked… gone. Empty. "Just… couldn’t bail. Joyce lost William. Chloe…" His voice faded. The weight of Chloe’s broken world pressed down between them, thick and suffocating. "She needs her friend, Max. Be there for her. Your mom and I… need air. You’ll bunk with them a few days. Okay?"
Staying. Not leaving. Be there for Chloe. The words rattled around, hollow. Max forced her legs forward. Sneakers scuffed wet grass. She stopped beside Chloe, who was clinging to Joyce like she was the last solid thing on earth. Chloe’s face was buried in her mom’s black coat, shoulders jerking with silent, ugly sobs. Joyce rubbed her back, tiny circles against a vast, sucking emptiness. William Price—warm, goofy, there—gone. Just… vanished days ago on some rainy road. His absence sucked the air right out of the world.
"Hey, Chloe," Max whispered. Her throat felt shredded. "I… uh… wanted to say…” Words crumbled. Nothing fit. Nothing could.
Chloe lifted her head slow. Her blue eyes, usually bright as summer sky, were swollen, red-rimmed holes. Tear tracks shone wet on her pale cheeks. Without a sound, she turned and threw her arms around Max’s neck, collapsing into her. A raw, choking sob tore loose, her whole body shaking violently against Max’s smaller frame. Max’s own tears, dammed up by shock, finally broke. Awkward, hesitant, she wrapped her arms around Chloe, holding tight. For a blink, the cemetery, the people, the crushing wrongness of it all—faded. Only Chloe existed. Warm. Shaking. Broken. Max had no words. No plan. Just the frantic drumbeat of Chloe’s heart hammering against her own ribs. It was enough. For now.
Thirteen-year-old Max was shy. Clumsy. Preferred framing the world through an imaginary viewfinder—lost in old movies or composing shots in her head she’d never take. Chloe, fourteen, was her opposite: loud where Max was quiet, brash where Max froze, her sharp tongue already fluent in curses way too old for them. And scary smart. Math problems solved in a blink, arguments sliced cold, pirate stories spun on the backyard swing set that left Max breathless. Now, that whole world felt cracked wide open.
Just days ago, Max’s biggest panic was telling Chloe about Seattle—Dad’s job ripping her from Arcadia Bay. Hours hunched over her old cassette recorder, spilling jumbled fears onto tape: Sorry. Promise we’ll write. You’re my best friend. More than? Stuff she couldn’t name. A goodbye left behind. Then the accident. The move canceled. The tape, heavy as guilt, still sat in her dress pocket, its message useless now but heavy with truth.
Holding Chloe, feeling the tremors of grief rock through her, a flicker of guilty relief stabbed Max’s numbness. She wasn’t leaving. She could stay. For Chloe. This—the raw hole where William should be—was the hardest thing. But they’d face it. Somehow. Together.
They clung as the coffin lowered. Max stared ahead, face blank, warmed only by the damp patch soaking her shoulder from Chloe’s tears. Joyce wrapped an arm around them both, pulling them into a fragile, swaying huddle.
"We’ll call in a few days, Max," Mom said later, eyes puffy red, squeezing her hand too tight. "Anything. Anything you need."
After the stifling funeral reception—awkward pats, strange faces, cheap coffee smell—Max’s parents lingered with Joyce, voices hushed. Max guided Chloe to the car. Chloe’s tears had stopped, replaced by a scary stillness. Her face was wiped clean, movements slow, shuffling like a ghost. The silence between them thickened, sticky as tar.
"So…" Max’s voice sounded tiny. "Wanted to say… again… I’m so sorry, Chloe. Can’t… can’t imagine." The words felt like tissue paper.
"Thanks," Chloe rasped, eyes fixed blankly on the car door handle. "Thanks, Max." Flat. Empty.
"My parents…" Max blurted, the words tumbling out. "They’re not moving. Anymore. Staying. With you and Joyce. For a while. So…" She turned to face Chloe. "If you wanna talk… or not talk. Or scream. Or… anything. I’m here. Right here." She pulled Chloe into another hug. Chloe’s arms locked around her waist like steel bands, desperate strength.
"You’re my best friend, Chloe," Max whispered fiercely into her hair, smelling salt and floral shampoo gone sour. "I love you."
A shudder rocked through Chloe. "Love you too, Max," she whispered back, voice cracking like ice. She buried her face hard against Max’s neck, new tears scalding hot. Joyce found them then, guiding them wordless into the back seat, her own face a mask of held-together pain.
The wake blurred into a smear of strange faces and mumbled condolences that sounded like gibberish. Chloe moved like a sleepwalker, shaking hands without seeing. Max stayed glued to her side, a silent anchor. The Price house felt cavernous, freezing, too quiet. William’s booming laugh, his warm bear hugs, were missing. Like the life had been sucked right out of the walls.
"Girls," Joyce finally said, exhaustion weighing down the word as the last guest trickled out. She rubbed her temples like they might crack. "Upstairs. Bed. No calls tonight." Her voice was thin wire.
Chloe offered a sad, empty twist of lips. Nodded. Max’s chest ached just watching her.
On the stairs, Max tentatively reached for Chloe’s hand. After a heartbeat that stretched forever, Chloe’s cold fingers laced through hers and squeezed, hard. Chloe looked back, eyes wet and huge in the dim hall light, a fragile, trembling smile touching her lips for just a second. Together. Max squeezed back. "Me too."
Inside Chloe’s room, familiar chaos—band posters, scattered clothes, art supplies—felt different. Charged. The lock clicked shut, a final sound. Chloe grabbed her dress hem and yanked it off over her head, tossing it violently toward the laundry basket. It missed, crumpling on the floor like a dead thing. "Fucking hate dresses," she muttered, the words sharp with tired fury.
Max’s face flushed hot. She looked away fast, suddenly super interested in her own stupid zipper. Chloe stood there in just her underwear and bra, raking a hand through her tangled blonde hair. They’d changed together a zillion times since kindergarten. But this? This felt… weird. Different. A strange flutter kicked low in Max’s stomach, warmth crawling up her neck. She kept her eyes glued to her duffel bag.
Chloe flopped face-down on her bed, curling towards the wall like a question mark. Max dug into her bag, pulling out her softest band tee and comfy shorts. She changed lightning-fast, folding the scratchy black dress with stupidly precise corners, smoothing every wrinkle like it mattered. Placed it neat as a pin on her bag.
"So…" Max’s voice sounded too loud in the quiet. She tugged her shirt. "Brush your teeth?"
Chloe didn’t move. Then, a slow head shake against the pillow. No.
"Pajamas?" Max gestured lamely at the dresser overflowing with chaos.
"Later," Chloe mumbled, voice muffled by the bedding.
Max undid her ponytail, brown hair falling messy around her shoulders. She coiled the elastic tight. Glanced at Chloe’s still form. "Gonna brush mine. Bathroom."
Chloe turned her head slightly. Fresh tears glistened in the low light. "Why tell me?" Flat. Empty.
"Dunno," Max mumbled, staring at her socks. "In case you wondered where I was."
"Why so fucking weird? Just go." A hint of the old Chloe impatience, but dulled. Blunted.
Max slipped out. In the bathroom, harsh light buzzed like angry bees. She brushed methodically, mint sharp on her tongue, mind spinning. One day, packing for Seattle. Next day, this. How? How? The sound of Chloe’s raw, animal scream when Joyce told her slammed back—agony no words could hold. Tears welled hot. She splashed cold water on her face, dried rough on the faded pirate towel—sail, treasure map, a relic. The grinning skull suddenly looked stupid. Mean.
Back in the room, Max froze. Chloe sat on the edge of her bed in an oversized white tee. In her hands: the cassette tape. "I’m sorry" scrawled in Max’s own shaky handwriting across the label. Max’s heart dropped like a stone.
Chloe looked up. Eyes wet, face flushed—confusion and hurt warring. "Max. What’s this?"
Max couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. "What?"
"Saw it poking outta your bag." Chloe held it up like evidence. "Yours?" Her stare pinned Max down.
Max nodded. Her knuckles turned white.
"What’s on it?" Chloe’s voice trembled. "Why ‘I’m sorry’?"
Max took a shaky breath. Lying was impossible. She met Chloe’s eyes, bracing. "Made it. ‘Cause… thought I was leaving. Same day as… the funeral." Words felt like broken glass. "Dad’s job… started soon. Didn’t know… if I’d see you again. To say goodbye. Properly. Needed… to tell you stuff. Important stuff. In case…" Her voice cracked. "In case there was no chance."
Chloe stared. Went paler. "In case you never saw me again?" A whisper. Pure pain.
Max nodded, swiping at her own traitor eyes. "But Chloe," her voice fierce, sudden, "even if I had gone? I wouldn’t let us drift. Never." She stepped closer, needing Chloe to believe it. "You’re more than best friend. You’re…" She faltered. Shared history. Pirate forts. Dumb jokes. That confusing flutter in her belly whenever Chloe grinned. "...everything."
Chloe looked down at the tape. Turned it over slow. Thumb tracing the label like a blind thing. Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, sudden: she leaned and tossed it into the open cardboard box of wake trash—cards, crumpled napkins, dead flowers. A soft thud.
"Don’t need a tape," Chloe said, rough but rock-solid. A shaky, tearful smile touched her eyes, fragile as glass. "Got you right here."
Relief washed through Max, warm and dizzying. A real smile. Her chest loosened. "Right here."
A gentle knock rattled the door. "Girls?" Joyce’s voice, sandpaper-rough. "Know today… was hell. Try to sleep. Skip school tomorrow. I’m off. Maybe… do something quiet. Us." Tentative. Hopeful.
Footsteps faded down the hall.
"Guess we should… try," Max said, flicking off the overhead light. Glowy Bear’s soft green glow lit a path to the sleeping bag laid out beside Chloe’s bed.
"Night, Chloe," Max whispered, sliding in. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and home.
"Night, Max," came the muffled reply.
Sleep felt miles away. Images flickered behind Max’s eyelids: Chloe collapsing against her, the raw earth, Joyce’s hollow face, the quiet house pressing in. Her own grief for William—his terrible pirate jokes, the way he showed her his old film cameras—ached sharp beneath the need to be strong for Chloe. She locked it down. Private. Hers.
"Max?" A raw whisper sliced the dark. "Asleep?"
"No." Max sat up fast. Hitched breathing came from the bed above. Sobs breaking, harsh and gasping. "Max…"
"Yeah?" Max was already pushing the sleeping bag aside. "Here. What?"
"Can you…" Voice thick, choked. "Come up? Cuddle? Please?"
Max scrambled onto the bed, under the thick comforter. Chloe turned immediately, burying her face hard against Max’s chest, her whole body shuddering like a leaf in a storm. Max wrapped her arms tight, hand rubbing slow circles on Chloe’s back, feeling the knobs of her spine through the thin tee. "Shhh. Got you."
"Why?" Ragged, desperate. "Why’d he die, Max? Why?"
"Don’t know," Max whispered, thick with her own unshed tears. Only truth. She tightened her hold, cheek resting on Chloe’s messy hair. Chloe’s legs tangled with hers under the covers. Deeply comforting. Strangely new. Max’s heart raced, a frantic bird against her ribs, unexplained warmth mixing with the sorrow.
"Chloe?" Much later, the sobs finally slowing to hitched breaths.
"Mmhm?"
"I love you." Simple. Profound. The only thing that felt solid.
Chloe shifted. Lifted her head. In the dim green glow, her eyes were raw pain, but beneath it, a fragile warmth. Deep trust. "Love you too, Max." Raw. Clear. A promise.
They held each other. Limbs tangled. Breathing syncing slow. Shared warmth. Solid Chloe. An anchor in the storm. Exhaustion finally pulled them under, wrapped in a closeness neither understood yet both desperately needed, the green glow painting shadows on their faces as they slept.