Page 42 of Out Of Time

“It’s Remi, yourhouse cleaner,” she said, making sure to emphasize her position.

The window coverings were drawn closed, and the typical inviting smell of clean linen and fresh ocean breeze was replacedwith something stuffy and thick, like old air and sweat. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was wrong, all wrong. Panic flooded her.

She should have reached out again.

She should have called again.

She should have shown up.

She reached for the light switch; the normally bright house was uncharacteristically dark, causing bile to rise in her throat as her stomach turned with uncertainty.

“Max, are you home?” she called out, this time her voice less informative, and more worried.

No response came. Flicking on the kitchen lights, she was shocked to find the house completely trashed, which wasn’t an uncommon thing for a house cleaner to walk into, unless it wasthisparticular house. Max Miller's house, which up until today, had always been pristine upon her arrival.

She opened the windows in the living room to get fresh air circulating, damn near tripping over dirty clothes strewn across the living room floor. Pushing open the slider that led to the beach, she allowed the bright sun to light up the living room around her. Following the sun's path over the trail of filth, like breadcrumbs from Hansel and Gretel, it led her to the massive, unmoving body of Max Miller laid out on the couch.

“Oh, fuck,” she cried, falling to the couch beside him. “Max,” she shouted, shaking his body, only to find him unresponsive. “Max, are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with panic. Reaching into her back pocket she pulled out her phone. “Please don’t be dead,” she said. Her hands shook, her fingers struggling to dial 9-1-1.

Right as she managed to hit the call button, Max reached out and slapped the phone from her hand, sending it flying across the room.

“I’m not dead,” he shouted. The voice of the operator boomed from Remi’s phone that had landed in a pile of dirty clothes, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

She crawled over to retrieve her phone, and in a panic, ended the call, hanging up on the operator. She looked over at Max, who was now sitting up on the couch, his red hair sticking up on one side where he had slept, his beard flattened against his right cheek while deep red indentations from the couch's throw pillow lined his face.

Her phone began to ring; it was the emergency number. She looked back up at Max searching for help.

“Answer it so they don’t send the cops,” he said, calmly. His voice was extremely even-toned and steady considering the series of events he had just woken up to.

“Hi,” she answered, “I’m sorry. It was a false alarm.” She looked over at Max who was now holding his head in his hands, his body hunched over, accentuating how massive his shoulders were.

The operator responded, “I thought I heard someone say something about being dead.”

Remi looked back over at Max who was currently massaging his temples. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the coffee table and her stomach lurched at the very thought of smelling it.

“I’m sorry for the confusion. He wasn't dead. Just… really fucking drunk.”

The operator went on to ask if they needed an ambulance and Remi reassured her it was just a misunderstanding before hanging up.

She sat back on her heels, her heart still pounding in her chest with adrenaline, fear, anxiety, and all the things one might feel when they think they just found a loved one dead on the couch.

Loved one?How had he so quickly become someone that meantsomuch to her?

A small sigh escaped her. Maybe it was relief that he was alive, but this caused Max to finally look up at her. She noticed he had dark circles that hung low on his cheeks, the whites of his eyes bloodshot.

“I’m mad at you,” she said after a moment, her voice cracking. And she knew it didn’t matter. His silence over the past few days had made it clear they weren'ta thinganymore. He didn’t owe her an explanation, but she was still mad, and her anger with him was valid. He needed to know that.

Max shook his head and looked down at his feet. “Not as mad as I am at myself.”

“You scared me,” she said weakly.

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were—” she started, only to be cut off.

“Dead. Yeah, I know.”

“I know you’re allowed to get shit-faced on your couch. I know that. I really have no right to be mad at you. It’s just, your house…” she stammered, unsure what her defense was. “Your house is never likethis,” she said, signaling to the mess all around her; empty bottles, take-out boxes, dirty clothes, black briefs, a porn magazine…

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