Page 40 of Out Of Time

He felt anger rise up from the calm composure he often kept, and before he could settle the rage growing in his chest, he punched the steering wheel of his jeep, his knuckles busting on impact. “Tell me who my father is, or I’ll drive to your house right now and rip every picture from the walls until you answer me. Just answer me. Just once in this lifetime, give me what I want, and not what you think I need. You have never protected me, you have only ever protected your new life without me, and if you think keeping him from me is helping me, it’s the most delusional, selfish shit you have ever pulled as my mother, and you’ve been pretty fucking awful. So, I’ll ask one more time, Mom,” he calmed his voice, “tell me who my father is, please.”

“Are you threatening—” she started.

Max screamed as loud as physically possible, his own eardrums rattling at the roar of his voice, “Tell me his name, I swear to fucking god woman.”

“Jim,” she said, cutting him off. “Jim Alan Miller. Last I heard he was in Arcadia,” she said in her fake, calm voice. “I hope you're happy with yourself, Max, you just acted exactly like him. A perfect example of why I want nothing to do with you or him ever again.”

“No, Mom. You pushed me to act like this. And honestly, I’m starting to think that his leaving had nothing to do with his character and everything to do with your lack of any.”

“I have to go, Max, Justine has—”

“Yeah, I know, you have family shit to do.”

“Max, one last thing,” she said, her voice low, calm, and unwavering from the emotionless tone she had always managed to use with him.

“What, Mom?” he asked, his voice cracking, raw emotion taking over.

“I never want to speak to you again.”

A solitary drop of blood rolled from his battered knuckle onto the fabric of his jeans at the same time that a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he managed.

“I have to go,” she said firmly.

“Yeah, you said that already.”

The line went dead, and his vision blurred.

This time it had nothing to do with his eyes and everything to do with his heart.

Remi waited patiently, but the passing of time led her to impatience and finally anger. It was then that she let herself worry, just a bit. Her racing mind spiraled into worst-case scenarios and filled her with a fear so deep in the pit of her stomach she thought she might actually puke up the burrito she had just eaten.

Every text left onsend.

Every call met with an automated voicemail.

Every breath she took felt like a punch to the gut.

She had been ghosted; by men, by employees, by friends, by her own fucking mother, but something about Max doing it, after he had made her silent promises, and kissed her with his eyes closed so tight, hurt differently. It felt personal.

She hit call one last time.

It rang and rang, and on the third ring, it went to voicemail.

“Max, I don't know what's going on, and maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just you pushing me away, and if that's the case I can handle it, I’m a big girl. You don't owe me anything. But I’d be lying if I said it didn't sting. Idodeserve to know you’re okay.Idodeserve to know that you’re safe. So, can you, just for my peace of mind, tell me you’re okay and that I don’t have to show up at your house for a welfare check. Because I will. I’ll fucking drive over there unannounced to make sure you’re not hurt. So, yeah, shoot me a text. I’ll even settle for a thumbs-up emoji at this point, and I hate those. Anyway… okay…”

She hung up, pulled on her checkered Vans, and headed to the only place she knew how to be alone, the beach.

***

Max declined her call, again, hating the notification for her voicemail. The temptation to listen was too much. The temptation to call her back, to drive to her and fall into her arms, to let her comfort him, it was all too much.

He searched for the name: Jim Alan Miller.

Jim Alan Miller, Arcadia.

His father’s name was, oddly enough, a fairly popular name.

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