There was something about not doing dishes completely by hand that felt a little lonely. I refused to let Vanessa and Ryan clean up after taking me in and of course, Max didn't want to leave my side. I didn't want her to, and it was weirdly comforting to see her hop up and sit on the counter while I wiped things down and loaded the dishwasher. I used to help my mom at the diner occasionally after my dad died. It was before I was driving the truck, and she didn't want me wandering around all day, and sometimes it was a punishment for sneaking out and coming back with smokey clothes and beer-scented breath. I never told her, but that "punishment" was a really fun time. I was, frankly, an asshole a lot of the time; I would give her grief while helping with closing. A lot of the time it was just me and her, mostly in silence, but I loved seeing her busy and not weighed down by losing dad and worrying about what I'd say next to David. God, I wish she knew how nice it was to see her shoulders relaxed while humming, "Walking After Midnight." I'd find myself humming it with her, and she'd look over with such a satisfied smile. God, I know she loved me. I knew David did too. I didn't think it'd ever stop hurting. I knew it never really would.

Tonight, at the Caulfield's, I found myself softly singing instead of humming the tune. Max gave a breathy chuckle. "Patsy Cline? I didn't know you liked her."

"I only know this song. It's sweet and mom loved it. She and dad did their first dance to it at their wedding." I sighed, but what came out wasn't sad. It was more surprising because I began to wonder what our song would be. What would we dance to? I didn't realize I had stopped washing and had my hand on Max's knee.

"That's...That's really sweet. I like the song too, it's hella vintage." She hopped down and started the dishwasher for me and then took my hand to her room. She handed me an oversized Hawt Dog Man shirt and pair of panties. He was giving a big thumbs up saying, "Work hard. Mustard big." I gave her a huge hug. "I guess William thought I'd grown to be like six feet tall. I'll throw your dirty stuff in the wash. We'll go shopping tomorrow. I can't imagine that there wouldn't be some punk style shop. If I threw a dart, I'm sure I'd at least hit a Hot Topic." I just smiled. If it weren't for everything tonight, I probably would have said some smart ass comment, some Jim Halpert shit, but everything was so damn sweet since getting here. God, Max was lucky to be among so much comfort. I only had her, and I wasn't complaining. If I could only have one thing to comfort me for the rest of my life, it would be her. Maybe wearing that shirt. It'd be like a two-for-one.

There was something in Max's face that knew why I was quiet. She'd always known me so well, and she'd never forgotten. "I'll be back. The hot water is really nice, and dad gave me some of his shower stuff for you, in case you wanted something a little less girly." Jesus. Even Ryan could pick what I wanted out of a crowd. Max wasn't as much of a perv like me, and she blushed as I started undressing in front of her, and quickly left the room with my dirty clothes. What a dork. We'd already had sex, but I think she'd always be bashful, or at least it was part of her schtick. I barely paid attention to what I looked like without clothes on because I'd never really liked what I saw. My face was grimy, my hair knotted, and my feet were red and raw from my boots with no socks. At least they weren't blistered from wearing wet ones. I didn't shave my legs very often, and just the smallest amount of stubble was growing from when I wanted to be seductive when we broke into Blackwell's pool. The worst part of it though was seeing the horizontal scars on my thighs, the bunched together ones on my hip bone, the stretch marks after mom threatened to send me to the hospital if I didn't start eating again. History was written on my body, and Max spent time studying it. She was smart and had an eye for images. She had already known every bit.

The shower was fucking great, and Ryan's stuff smelled like sandalwood and tea tree oil. Mom always used the oil on me when I got eaten up by mosquitos. It was always a dab of that and some calamine on top. There was one summer where I couldn't help but scratch, and some of the bites split open, and I put some on top thinking it would help it. It burned like a sonuvabitch, and when mom got home she laughed her ass off when I told her what happened. David just scoffed, but knowing him now, it was the best he could do to laugh with her. I didn't really go camping after dad died and Max left. I still went to the woods, but it was more for partying and folk punk stuff. I think Max would've liked it there. Folk punk always has some cool instruments like the washboard and banjo which she would've eaten up. The lyrics were punk enough for me, those damn train-hopping crust punks were pretty fun to be around if you could stand the smell of their unwashed battle jackets and tattered patched-up jeans. I knew I hadn't smelled that bad when I got to the Caulfield residence, but I'm sure it wasn't that much better. Wading through rubble and oil-slicked water doesn't have the most pleasant aroma.

I let the water drip down my face; the warmth was soothing on my puffy eyes and scraped arms and legs. I could see the dirt go down the drain, and I pushed the water with my foot to clean it up faster. It seemed like the mud and grime was all I could get rid of from the storm. It was one of the only things I could wash away from it. When I dried off, I saw that Max had put a toothbrush on the counter for me. I cracked a smile from the corner of my mouth and grabbed hers. Sure, she used mine as payback from me having used hers when we were younger, but I definitely couldn't let the game die. I couldn't help but wonder if she would get me back again. I couldn't help but wonder if this was just going to be normal for us. I wiped the steam from the mirror. What would normal be for us?

I pulled on Max's panties and thought how funny it was that we were so close in size. That was one of the many benefits of this relationship— our wardrobes would double in size. Well, at least it would for her. I don't think I'd wear her clothes unless she was away from our future home, and I wanted to feel her there with me. For a moment I just stood there staring in the mirror at the Hawt Dog Man shirt I had put on. We were so young when we'd sit on the couch eating Pop-Tarts and laughing our asses off. Our parents had to buy two boxes for us— Max was a strawberry girl, but I was a brown sugar bitch. I was using a Q-Tip to get the leftover globs of eyeliner out of my waterline when I heard familiar instrumentals. Then-I go walking after midnight out in the moonlight, just like we'd used to—I stepped into Max's room, and she snuck up behind me and put her arms around my waist and started swaying. I walk for miles along the highway, well that's just my way of saying I love you—

I turned around, and she still clung to me, her warm cheek against my neck, her body pressed to mine. I put my arms around her as well. As the skies turn gloomy night blooms will whisper to me— "Max. Thanks." Maybe you're somewhere walking after midnight searching for me— Max just stayed quiet and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, and I placed my fingers underneath her chin and guided her lips towards mine. For a moment, we just swayed softly kissing. I'm out walking after midnight, out in the moonlight just hoping— I slowly guided Max towards her bed, and we laid down on our sides next to each other with slight smiles while I ran my hand from her waist, up her shirt, and rested it on her back, pulling her closer to me. Maybe you're somewhere walking after midnight—She gave the smallest almost indiscernible tug at my shirt. When she blushed, her freckles contoured a pink band on her cheeks, as if she'd had a few drinks under her belt. I knew what she wanted, and I wriggled out the top I had just put on. Sometimes I wonder what the point of getting dressed is when you're going to bed with someone you love. Searching for me—

I pulled lightly at her top and she pushed it back down. She didn't look upset, just scared. "Chloe. I...I need some time after—"

"You don't have to. What I want is what you want."

"Thank you." She ran her fingers over my shoulder, over my collarbone, tracing the shape of my breast. I softly exhaled. I loved how gentle she was with me. She ran her finger across my piercing, the small barb moving, making me twitch. She let out a giggle, and I took my hand from under her shirt and cupped her cheek, my thumb making the slightest strokes to the edge of her nose and back again. She sighed and closed her eyes and her breath slowed while her chest fell and rose deeply. I ran my fingertips, barely touching her skin along her jawline and neck. Even with this I could feel her pulse like it was rising through my hand to the recesses of my ears.

I could watch her like this forever. All the pangs of guilt and sorrow dissipated as I focused just on her, her body and its rhythms. I was focused on her face, how it was utterly relaxed. I knew all she was thinking about was how I made her feel, in all senses of feeling and touching. Her hair was soft as I pushed it from her temples, following the ridge of her brow, down her nose, brushing against the fine hairs near her cupid's bow, and when I reached her lips they twitched as she slightly opened her mouth to exhale warm breath on my hand. She let out a long quiet sigh. Her hand had stopped moving and rested on my breast and, for a moment, she was suspended in time before moving in to kiss my collarbone.

They weren't heated kisses. Instead, it was like her lips were almost afraid of touching my skin. She was nervous to be sure. The first time we were naked together and exploring each other's bodies she was impassioned and looking to feel and touch another's body for the first time. I was her first, and she was terrified and looking for me to guide her through the moments safely.

Tonight she knew what she wanted, and just as her photographs were, she was subtle. She didn't demand or force anything into frame. She just wanted to appreciate what was in front of her. I wondered what she was imagining feeling my skin warm under her breath. I closed my eyes and paid attention to the smoothness of the sheets, her slight movements, my own pulse beating under her as she told me with her hands to lay on my back so she could get on top of me and look down. I rarely felt shy or embarrassed, but there was something about an artist's eye studying you that makes you aware of what they were framing. What was she capturing in her mind? Why did she seem to love what she looked down upon? "Could you...Could you close your eyes, Chloe?"

"As you wish." I knew she loved The Princess Bride, and Wesley was always my favorite. I would climb The Cliffs of Insanity for her. I was her Dread Pirate Roberts. The soft flutter of fabric fell next to my head, and she guided my hands up her body.

"I just need it on my terms, I'm sorry." She sounded ashamed.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. No matter what, it's a gift to me. I'm just a traveler." She was so thin I could feel the shape of her ribs as she moved my hands to her breasts. She moved my thumbs in small circles over their peaks, and she slowly rocked back and forth as her pulse quickened. She bent forward to place her lips on mine. "Can we wait before we do more?"

"As you wish."

"I love you, Chloe."

"I love you too, Max."