Warren's cycled through four of his dress shirts before settling on the red one. Black feels too much like a funeral and this is supposed to be a celebration of Chloe's life. White feels too much like a wedding. Blue just looks too strange to him and he isn't even really sure when he'd bought a green shirt. He thinks Max had mentioned that it paired nicely with his eyes. He thinks he looks like a pine tree.
He tosses the rest of the shirts into a pile on his bed and finishes getting dressed. His hands move methodically, like seconds on a clock. He's not ready for this.
Max bangs on his door and he can hear her slump against the frame as she waits for him. "I got ready like an hour before you. What are you doing in there?"
He holds his tie between his fingers, fumbling as he tries to slide it over his collar. The door clicks open as the last of Max's patience runs dry. "You don't need a tie," she says bluntly, grabbing hold of it and pulling it from his shirt. "Joyce says it's casual. Friends. Family. Just lunch." Her eyes are guarded and he knows just as well as she does, that this is anything but just lunch.
They drive to the cemetery first, Max with a small bunch of flowers she'd gotten from the ones she'd picked up for Joyce earlier.
"I can't hold this," she whispers and passes the flowers to him. Her hand shakes on the door handle and he leans over to open it for her.
Watching Max walk to Chloe's grave is like watching her move through mud. Her limbs are heavy, her feet dragging behind her, but he keeps his space behind her, only moving forward when she asks for the flowers. She passes them from hand to hand, as if they burn her fingers. She lays the flowers down, presses her hands against the headstone, and leans into it. Something breaks inside him and he can feel it rattle in his chest.
When the wind, cold and bitter this autumn day, swirls past them, he unzips his jacket and places it over her shoulders. It's not much, but it's something. She leans into him, and they are statues leaning into the wind. He's not sure how many seconds have passed. The wind has swallowed them up, leaving them immortal and unmoving. But more than thirty billion seconds have passed since Max has first stood here and beneath the statuesque stillness of her body is the thrumming of her heart and her breath warm against his chest. Seconds still pass and they always will. Time whittles away at everything.
The luncheon is as awkward as he imagined it would be. He smiles and shakes hands, offers hugs, moving through the motions because that's what he's supposed to do. But he feels out of place in this backyard, the smell of flowers and food too nauseating. He didn't know Chloe, except through Max's stories and photos, and he has nothing else to offer but condolences. Guests slip into stories and memories, passing the attention to another when they are done.
He folds napkins into swans because he doesn't know what else to do.
He feels the air change, the cold turn even angrier and his eyes flick towards the clouds, gray and heavy above them. "Storm's coming," he observes and Max nods.
"Joyce should probably move the luncheon inside," she adds and he helps to move the food and plates into the house, glad to have something to keep his hands busy, to keep him moving.
The rain is upon them just as they finish and Max is antsy to leave. She lingers in the doorway as she says goodbye, her eyes dragging across each room, before she tears them away towards him.
They run to the car as rain rips through the sky. He's completely drenched as he tries to find his keys and he feels Max let go of him, yell into the storm, as he finally grasps them. She stands behind him, arms outstretched, head tilted back, and he's struck with that first second he found Max in the rain. But she stands before him now, eyes alert, palms open to the rain falling on her and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
She's still laughing as she gets in the car, as he's digging for the extra hoodie he keeps in the back. She's still laughing as he helps her peel the wet jacket off and as she nestles into the dry one.
He kisses her as she pushes the hood back away from her face. "I'm proud of you," he whispers because he feels she doesn't believe it. She tries to push him away, which is what she always does when his intimacy is too much, and he kisses her hand before letting her go.
They drive away from the storm, the seconds passing like the raindrops dripping from the windshield. "Are you okay?" He's asked that far too many times this past year, but he will never tire from asking it again.
She turns to him, her hair damp against her cheek. "Yeah," she says, taking his hand and he squeezes her fingers lightly. "I think I am."