Page 12 of Out Of Time

“Nope. I’m the product of a hoarder childhood,” she said, pressing out her shoulders in a bit of mock pride.

“Is that why you clean for a living now?” he asked.

Remi brought her finger to his nose and tapped it as she said, “Ding-ding-ding.”

“Do you find it cathartic, cleaning up after others?” he asked.

“I do. I always wanted to clean up after her, but she was fragile, ya know? She hid under her trash, her pizza boxes, empty bottles, and filth. What a clean house does for my peace of mind, a mess did for hers. It’s hard to explain if you didn’t know her. She wasn’t a bad person; she was just trapped in something Icouldn’t help her out of as a child. It was a vicious cycle. Move, drink, hoard, evict. Over and over.”

“Where was your dad in all of this?” he asked.

“He would come and go. But usually, it was just to drink with her. They would go on a bender together, trash the place, and then he would be gone. Toxic love is a real thing, I saw it firsthand throughout my entire childhood.”

Max wondered if that’s what he had with his parents. Parents who on paper look like saints, but the older he got, he wasn't so sure they were all that great.

He looked out at the ocean. It was beautiful and terrifying, like this girl sitting next to him and the conversation they were having.

“You're burning. You need sunscreen, even in October,” Remi said, running a gentle finger up the warm skin of his freckle-spattered forearm.

“Redhead problems,” he offered, causing Remi to laugh.

“I like it,” she said, bringing the same finger that was just on his arm, up to brush a stray hair off his sweaty forehead. “The red hair, the red beard, and now, after fifteen minutes in the sun, the red cheeks.”

“I should have worn a hat.”

“Next time,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his.

Next time,he thought. Would there be a next time? Had he somehow convinced her to consider him for anexttime?

“Hey, Max?” she asked.

He turned to face her, the dimple on her left cheek was present; his heart raced.

“You're not as bad at this as you think you are.”

“I’m not?”

She smiled up at him, through squinted eyes. “Not at all. I think you just needed someone to give you a chance.”

“A chance to what?” he asked.

“A chance to talk.”

Max looked away. It felt like a lot of pressure. A lot of expectations to live up to. She had done the talking, he had only asked the questions, prying into the details of her past, one he wasn't even sure she wanted to share had he not been so nosy.

“Sorry for asking questions about your mom.”

“Don’t be. I think sometimes I only talk about her flaws, which makes her seem awful. How much she loved me often gets lost in all of that.”

It was crazy to think that Remi’s mom had managed to love her while struggling with mental illness, a toxic relationship with Remi’s father,anda drinking problem, while all his mother managed to do was send him away. His mother was healthy, and wealthy, and never left a dirty dish in the sink a day of her life. It made Max consider how he perceived love. He guessed it looked different for everyone depending on where you were standing.

To most people, they would have seen him as an entitled boy with a mother and stepfather who loved him so much that they invested in his hockey career—sending him off to the finest training camps and billet homes. But to Max, he saw a lonely child who didn't want any of that, one who only wanted his mom back, and her affection and time. Time, she didn't have with a new husband and new kids. It was a life Max suddenly didn't fit into. He would have done anything for a father who hadn’t run out on him. A father who told him “good game” and celebrated his wins.

“What about you? What was your family like growing up?” Remi asked as if reading his mind.

The sun suddenly felt much too hot, and his brain was starting to feel fuzzy as the sweat gathered on his forehead.

“To be continued?” he offered hesitantly, taking the uncomplicated way out. He wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not yet anyway.

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