Page 15 of Out Of Time

Remi got ready for the Halloween party, The Strokes blasting and the windows open, the cool October breeze carrying the smell of rain into her small beachfront house.

Trying like hell, she failed to push back the disappointment that sat in the pit of her stomach. The disappointment associated with Max not accepting her invitation. And why would he? He was a professional athlete, and she was his housekeeper. He most likely dated models and celebrities. Shy or not, he probably had some big crazy party in a mansion he would be going to. Why would he want to come slumming it in Huntington Beach with her?

Her phone chimed, and despite not wanting to get her hopes up, she lunged for it, her heart sinking with disappointment when she read the name “Randy” on her phone’s screen. Randy was the bartender who was throwing the party, and the text was a simple reminder to bring a bottle of alcohol.

She sat her phone down and willed herself to accept that she would be going to this party solo, and that was fine, right?She would know plenty of people there, it wasn’t like she was going to be alone. If she drank enough, everyone would eventually feel like a friend or a date.

She pulled the pastel sequined bodysuit off its hanger and admired it for a second; she had knocked it out of the park this year, it turned out perfect. She stepped into the body suit, pulling it over her glittery white tights, it fit like a glove. She stood in front of the mirror, and realized she looked like Taylor Swift in her Lover era, but that wasn't where her costume ended.

She slipped her feet into a pair of pastel purple and white checkered Vans she had gotten to go with her costume, because give her Vans or give her death. Her phone chimed again with another text.

“I know, Randy, the party starts at seven,” she said, opening her phone, shocked to find a text from none other than Max Miller, the mutha-fuckin'-enigma.

Max:

Invite still open?

Remi laughed, and with shaky fingers, responded.

Remi:

Depends.

She waited, and when he didn’t respond, she remembered her audience and texted him again.

Remi:

I mean, it depends on if you have a costume or not.

She watched the three dots dance on her phone screen before they disappeared; no text came through.

“Come on, Max, don’t overthink this. For once in your life just say yes,” she said aloud to herself.

He responded.

Max:

I don’t have a costume.

She laughed. Of course he didn't have a costume. He didn't even have pictures hung in his house, he didn’t sleep on his own bed, and he was, well, he was so veryMax.

Remi:

Don’t worry about it, I’ll figure something out. Meet me at my house, and we can walk to the party. It’s only a block away.

***

Max found a parking spot a few streets away from Remi’s address and paid to park there until 2 a.m.—optimistically. He had never gone to a Halloween party. Hell, he’d never even dressed up for Halloween, his mother couldn't be bothered by such nonsense.

As he walked up the small beach road, he noticed the tiny houses sitting closely together that lined the street. Each of them had tiny porches and small patio furniture sets. Some of the homes were nicer than others. Some of the homes, it was obvious, belonged to people who had lived there since the day the house was built and had never done any upkeep since; themoist ocean air stripping what seemed to have been vibrant colors of paint. Remi’s house was the last on the street, the only thing separating it from the sand was a walkway, where a man on rollerblades flew past wearing a Minion onesie, blasting music from a small portable speaker.

Remi’s house was, as she had warned him it was,tiny. The exterior was pale blue, the paint chipped and faded. Her porch had a small wicker patio set and an abundance of potted plants. He opened the small gate that surrounded the patio and made his way to the front door, which was open, the only thing keeping him from being inside was a battered screen door. He could hear music coming from deep in the house and a breeze pushed through, carrying with it the lemony scent he associated with her.

The old screen door rattled under his knuckles as he knocked. He waited until he heard her familiar voice call out. “Come in,” she shouted from deep in the house.

Panic flooded him.

Instead of stepping inside, he stood there battling between entering her home like an old friend or waiting until she came to let him in like the stranger he was.

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