Page 5 of Out Of Time

It was the way she wore a t-shirt and tattered jeans like some women wore ball gowns. And the way her sun-bleached hair sat atop her head in the most perfectly imperfect bun. The way her skin looked like a walk on the beach when the sun was almosttoohot, creating a warm inviting glow. And the way her cheeks had a faint hint of pink under her crystal blue eyes. She looked like the sun gods kissed her every morning when she woke.

He wondered if he got close enough to breathe in the scent of her, if she would smell like salt water and the cool ocean breeze.

Breaking his gaze, realizing how intently he was staring at her—reallystaring at her—he looked away. Remi shot him a sort of cocky, all-knowing smile before she left with the broom and broken lamp in tow.

“Finish that protein bar,” she called over her shoulder playfully as she made her way down the hallway that led to the kitchen.

He wondered if she would come back to check on him. Would it be presumptuous of him to sit on his bed and wait for her to return? Or, were they done talking? How do conversations end between two strangers?

His leg bounced anxiously. Under his breath, he began to count, “One, two, three, four…” If she wasn't back by sixty, he would leave. He didn't know where he would go, but he would leave. She could get back to cleaning his house in peace, and they could pretend none of this happened: The nearly naked encounter, the tripping over his own feet, the caring for him, the way his entire body heated at the simple brush of her fingers against his… “Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty.”

Of course they were done talking. Of course she wasn’t coming back. Max knew that talking to him was like talking to a tree stump. He stood slowly, pushed back his disappointment, and headed straight for the garage.

Remi didn’t usually watch hockey, but she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Max since the other day. She wouldn’t say she was star-struck over him, but there was definitely a lingering element of wonder. And sure, she had googled him in the past, but meeting him made her curiosity towards him intensify. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Max was sad, lonely, or going through something in secret. It was always a bad idea to go meddling in your client’s dirty laundry, especially when their actual dirty laundry paid your bills, but she couldn’t resist. She couldn't look away. She had seen too much, or maybe not enough, and if she was honest, what she did see in Max, aside from a man who looked very good in tight black undies, was a man who might be a little broken—like the shattered lamp.

Black briefs aside, Remi found herself wondering more seriously about Max. Her curiosity had turned into concern since she had met him. Who did he have in his life that cared for him, and if they cared, how come they never came to visit? Cleaning his house was proof enough that he never had anyguests over. There was never any trash to be taken out, no signs of parties, or holidays being held there. She wondered if Max was the same with everyone else as he had been with her: awkward, shy, and a little withdrawn.

He said he was bad at talking; she agreed.

He said there was nothing interesting about him; she begged to differ.

Remi found Max to be a cabinet of curiosities just begging to be opened.

The hockey game started on her TV screen, and Remi found herself smiling as she watched number 31, Max Miller, get the start in front of the net, despite his awful stats this season so far. His helmet made her smile; matte black with a shiny cartoon Condor on the back, outlined in silver. The bird’s eyes were silly, looking in opposite directions, with shiny black pucks coming at it from all directions. She thought it might be the best goalie mask she had ever seen.

The puck dropped and the game was off to an intense start. The Condors were playing their rivals, the Los Angeles Knights, and as usual things got chippy as soon as the puck hit the ice. Remi was born and raised in Anaheim, California, so she considered herself a Condors fan by default.

She opened her laptop to get some work done while the game played as background noise in her little beachfront house. It wasn't actuallyherhouse; it was a rental. She had always promised herself that one day when she was old enough to have a real job, she wouldn't live anywhere where she couldn't hear the waves from her porch and smell the ocean breeze through her open windows. Even if that meant living in an overpriced one-bedroom hut in Huntington Beach. She couldn't complain though, it was enough space for her and Bozo, her 4-year-old betta fish.

Remi had started her company, Busy Bee Cleaners, alone and had since hired three women to clean for her small and humble company. Her love of cleaning all started as a way to process her childhood trauma. Growing up with a hoarder for a mother wasn't always the cleanest or safest environment, so she started cleaning houses in high school for practically nothing. After she graduated, she took all the steps she needed to have an officially licensed business.

She found it therapeutic really, to see the before and after. Some days were harder than others as a cleaner. Some houses were dirtier than others, and some clients were pickier than others. But it wasn't just a job, it washerjob, and her future, and she held a lot of value in knowing that she had done it entirely on her own. Busy Bee Cleaners was helping to break a generational curse that Remi knew had been handed down to her mother from her mother’s mother, and so on.

And sure, Remi knew her mother loved her growing up, but love wasn’t the issue. The issue was one bag of trash turning into a heap of filth. Love didn’t keep the rodents out. Love didn’t stop the mold from growing. Love didn’t protect Remi from her mother’s mental illness. A home should feel safe, and Remi rarely felt safe growing up. It was hard to feel safe at night when the roaches fell from the ceiling into her bed. It was hard to feel safe when mold lived on the very countertops she was supposed to eat from. It was hard to feel safe when the stuff, the trash, the debris, piled up to her waistline. It was hard to feel safe knowing the next eviction notice was coming because of her mother’s hoarding.

She remembered praying every time the landlord brought the pink slip, telling them they had thirty days to go, that things would change. That her mom would get help, and talk to someone about her mental illness. She imagined each time thatthey would leave the junk behind and start over, a clean slate, a fresh surface.

But it never failed, each new apartment, rental, trailer, or condominium ended up destroyed by her mother's inability to throw anything away, to stop hoarding.

Remi ended up spending her childhood and adolescence feeling isolated, unable to make real life friends over the fear that they might find out her dirty little secret, no pun intended. She lived her childhood and adolescence terrified someone might see what her life looked like behind closed doors. So, she kept everyone at arm's length, with each move, each eviction notice, each change of schools, as she continuously reinvented herself as her mother stayed the same.

Was that why Max tried to live a secret life as well? Maybe he had a reason to keep people at a safe distance like she had at one point in her life. Maybe he was too afraid to let someone see into his world, and she couldn't blame him if he was. She could only imagine the anxieties that came with being a sort of celebrity, hell, she herself was guilty of googling him on several separate occasions.

Remi looked up from her laptop to watch as a Los Angeles player skated the puck up the ice. The commentators’ voices were amped up on the TV, the game was finally picking up as they said aloud on a live broadcast what Remi was thinking,“Can Max Miller make the save?”She held her breath and watched as Max readied himself for the shot in front of Anaheim's net. The Los Angeles player took the shot and Remi let out a sigh of relief as Max made the glove save for the Condors.

Maybe he really had just gone through a rough patch for the team's first few games of the season. She sure hoped so; she didn't know the guy per se, but that didn't mean she wasn’t rooting for him to succeed.

The game was just getting started and Max held his breath as he watched the Condor’s captain, Patrick Carter, battle for the puck against the L.A. Knights captain, Roman Graves, behind the Knights’ net. Graves regained possession of the puck and Max tried like hell to follow it as he made a clean pass across the ice to Liam Harvey, Graves’ right-hand-man.

Max blinked frantically. The corners of his vision blurred.

He blinked again.

Harvey skated right at him, giving Max nothing more than a split second to get into position, focus, and take a deep breath, readying himself for his first big save of the night.

Max watched as Harvey weaved through the Condor’s defense. He was fast. Too fast. Where was the puck? Where was Harvey’s stick? What was his body language giving away?

Max felt his heart race, as his vision strained.

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