Page 11 of Out Of Time

“Iliveat the beach,” Remi said, popping a handful of blueberries into her mouth.

“As in you live close by, or you come often?”

“Both. I live in Huntington, close to where the farmers market is. I have a little rental. It’s tiny and out of date. I don’t think you would even fit in the bathroom, it'sthatsmall. But I always promised myself I would live close enough to smell the water when I got older.”

“And you kept your promise to yourself.”

“I did.”

“It's good to keep promises,” he said as she opened the bottle of lemonade to take a drink.

He watched as her pink lips pushed against the glass, her neck elongating so elegantly as she pulled her head back to drink. She was beautiful.

There, he had let himself think it.

It wasn’t as if he was on to something revolutionary. Any person within reason would look at Remi and see her beauty.

She handed the bottle back to him, and he hesitantly brought it to his lips to drink. It was more bitter than he expected but refreshing. When he finished, he decided against wiping away the sweetness that lingered on his mouth, because that sweet lemony reminder was all he might ever know of Remi’s lips.

“So, tell me, Max. Where did you grow up?”

She came in with such a simple question, completely unaware of how difficult it would be for him to answer.

He wanted an out: to say pass, next question, please. His leg began to bounce, shifting the blanket below him.

Looking over at her, her face was inviting, even as she squinted with the sun in her eyes. No one had ever been this nice to him, not since his college year at the Mayberry house, and Allison…

“I grew up all over the place,” he finally answered.

She shook her head in agreement. “Me too,” she said, patting his knee before gripping it and holding it in place, slowing his anxious movements, “we already have something in common.”

“What other states have you lived in?” he asked, wanting to keep the attention off himself.

“Only California, but I never stayed anywhere long. We bounced around a lot. My mom had issues, so we were constantly getting the boot.”

“What kind of issues?” he asked, then immediately took it back. “Unless you don’t want to talk about it.”

Remi dipped a thick pretzel stick into the hummus and took a bite while she considered his question.

“My mom was a bit of a mess,” she started.

“Oh,” Max said, assuming that was all he was going to get—it was all he would have given if the tables were turned.

“I mean that literally and figuratively. She was an absolute mess.”

“How so?” he pressed.

“She wasn’t healthy—she had some mental stuff going on—so she drank a lot to mask her problems. She was a hoarder.”

Max felt his facial expression falter with shock; Remi began to laugh.

“Didn’t see that coming, did you?” she asked, busying herself by picking through the bag of trail mix to find all the chocolate candies hidden amongst the nuts, raisins, and pineapple chunks.

“Ididn’tsee that coming. I think I always assume people have a perfect life because I…” He paused, struggling to admit what came next.

“You what?” she encouraged.

“I don’t ever get to know anyone well enough to know these sorts of things actually exist. I thought hoarders only happened on reality TV.”

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