The whales hadn't been washed up on the shore long enough to build up the gasses in their bellies. Well, that's what I thought before they were unzipped by rubble after being thrashed around, swimming one last time in the air. I had been on a fishing boat once with dad and one of his friends. I hadn't hunted or anything like that before, so when the paring knife slipped into the flesh, I hadn't expected what was inside.

It's sometimes a shame that I've lived my life only knowing the separated pieces of things. It's sometimes a shame-not always-but maybe it could be a good thing. It's that stupid phrase about knowing how a sausage is made, but when enough meat and fat is blended together, it doesn't resemble anything like animals being bled so the flesh doesn't go bad.

I don't think Arcadia Bay would've lasted much longer even if the storm hadn't happened. It would've been the same old story that any punk would shout into a mic about. The fucking rich eat the poor-or rather-the rich eat all the fucking resources so the poor starve and fertilize the soil with their corpses. I think it would've happened like this: the Prescotts would've built their stupid motherfuckin' complexes. The fishermen were already seeing a lack of fish, but I guaranfuckingtee that it would've just gotten worse. The Prescotts wouldn't stop at real estate, why not throw some oil rigs on our skyline? With development comes new residents, and the Prescotts would definitely not make their fucking complexes cheap. Then the rent goes up all around. Then people like my mom would be offered a nice sum of money to sell their house and land, and if they didn't, good luck affording groceries.

It would all just fucking escalate. My mom would die in that diner. David would break himself picking up extra shifts. I, well, I would've followed through with my pre-Max plan or accidentally ODed with Frank in his RV, the pup being the only reason anyone found us before we became bloated like beached whales in the sun.

I could see it all in Max's quiet room, in those shapes that you see when you stare in the dark too long without blinking. I wanted to puke thinking about how it might've been a good thing everyone died. I hated that. There's survivor's guilt like Max, but there was something sickening in me, a festering. I couldn't help but wonder if a part of me was relieved that I didn't have anyone to answer to, any reputation, and only Max to take care of. I knew it wasn't healthy to think that way, codependency and what not, but I think the biggest fear I had was trying to fix my own damn self. Without any of the things that made me angry I was only left with shaping my memories into something that were more pleasant than they probably were, but I guess that's the thing about nostalgia.

It's like there were good times with Max, the tape skips, Max came back, the tape skips, I'm here in her room with her asleep on my chest.

I hate that I fooled myself into thinking everything would be better after one good night. I wished there was something that would tell me that Max would be alright. I hoped she would sleep well. Even though I chose to not know David well, when I'd sneak in at night I'd hear him yell in his sleep. I'd press my ear to their bedroom, and I'd hear mom comfort him. PTSD is a bitch. I knew this shit about David, and I was still a shit bratt teenager. At least he knew I loved him before he died. I knew mom and David would've wanted to see me be successful at whatever it was that I was going to do—I had no fucking idea what yet—but what if I was a disappointment as usual? The only person I hadn't seemed to let down was Max, but I couldn't even know that for sure. She'd seen so many different timelines and realities. I'm sure I was a fuck-up in a good chunk of them. To be fair, I was a fuck-up now too, but she still loved me. I hoped to whoever was listening that it was unconditional. What if I came home too drunk and made her feel like shit? What if I couldn't find good work? What if she were to hate who I would become?

I knew Max would be more successful than me in all regards. She was always so much more talented than me in anything that didn't need some brute force. Would I just become the jar opener? The one to kill spiders? I knew I couldn't focus on those what ifs and shit like that, and I knew I just needed to focus on myself. Getting better to be better for others or something like that.

I used to hate that I hated everyone so much. That was the kind of thing that made me want to thrash and mosh. There's a common misconception that the moshpit is just to let out aggression and rock the fuck out, but I liked getting knocked around, wasted with the ceiling spinning, with an elbow to the eye, tripping into someone spilling their drink, pulling out some bitche's hair just so she'd fight me outside. I lived for that shit because then I didn't have to blame myself for my own injuries. It was the moshpit. That's what it was, right?

After dad died, I stopped eating. I couldn't bear to have a family meal without him, so I'd just walk straight upstairs and light a cigarette with my back pressed up against the door. At first mom didn't say much, but it was pretty apparent I had a problem when I dropped down to ninety pounds at five-foot-nine. I liked feeling like I could pass out at any time, and the acidic burn in my gut and acrid taste in my mouth was the physical manifestation of what was happening in my head. That was mom's first concern. She'd make me eat something once a day and watch me eat it, and then she'd keep an eye on the bathroom to make sure I didn't puke it up. She thought, cool, this is fine.

Then came the cutting. That was easy to get away with because it's not like it was visible-at first. Then mom noticed we were going through Neosporin weirdly fast. At first she thought it was because of me skating around town, but she caught me trying to stitch my leg after cutting too deep. That's when I started therapy. She didn't send me to inpatient, but she probably should've. Who could blame her though? She was a single mom with shit health insurance, so she managed the best she could. Then she started dating David, and I went out to get fucked up in the woods, sometimes by myself, sometimes with Frank or others. Meeting Rachel helped me get my shit together, for the most part. Then she went missing.

Mom's last straw was when David saw how often I was pacing around his gun cabinet when nobody was home. Looking back, I think I'm glad he had cameras everywhere because otherwise it would've been way too fucking easy. I hated thinking that if I had done it, Max wouldn't have had to save my life, she would've never gotten her powers, she would've had time for Kate to prevent her death, and the storm wouldn't have happened. At least those were the things that rattled in my mind. It was selfish because I hated admitting how important I was. Fuck. If it weren't for me, then Jefferson would've—

I loved feeling Max's breath on me. I even loved the bit of drool that would crust on the corner of her mouth and on my chest. I was gross as fuck, and Max would most definitely be embarrassed.

If I had just driven out to visit her. If only I had called her parents. Fuc,k if only we had been together sooner. Fuck me though, was this the only way things could've happened to keep Max safe from Jefferson? Fuck me, she wasn't exactly safe. I'm sure Max's nightmare yesterday was just a symptom of Jefferson's disease. If I could just keep her happy, calm, and loved, then maybe he would be enfeebled, his power castrated.

What could someone like me do though? I knew I liked being a grease monkey, but I've seen the old dudes get sick from the chemicals and metal dust. I guess I was already walking down cancer alley though, so what would be the difference? I just wish mom and dad were here. I wanted to call them so badly. I wanted to call David and say sorry. God, when would I stop killing myself with these thoughts? They told me in therapy that it's okay to feel our feelings and to sit in them like some scummy hot tub. Right now though, it was just thoughts. I was numb except for my nausea. At least, I thought I was numb.

Max sat up and put my head on her lap. "Chlo, what's going on?"

I was struggling to get a breath in, and when I did I just coughed it out. My body was feverish and my sweat cold in all the places it pooled. The sheets were wet where my back was, and my thighs felt stuck together. Max stroked my forehead, pushing away the bangs that clung to my face. I kept trying to talk, but I couldn't. Hot tears on cold sweat on hot skin is such a shit feeling. I still couldn't catch my breath and I started to dry heave. "Chlo, come on, I'm here!" She pulled me up towards her, or was it that she slid down next to me? I had no way of telling at that moment.

"Chlo, please, I don't want my parents to hear. I don't want them to be afraid." There, that's what I needed to hear. I clenched my jaw and bit my lip that was busted from Max's nightmare. I bit it until I tasted that familiar iron. Feeling pain was pure bliss in my veins. "Chlo. Chlo. Come on." Max got up and came back with a cold wet washcloth and wiped down my face, arms, and chest. "Chlo, breathe in with me. One, inhaling. Two, inhaling. Three, inhaling. Four inhaling. Exhale, one, two, and three. Again Chlo." I had no idea how long this was going on, but I remember that when my ears stopped ringing, I saw Max with her cheeks wet, her eyes wide and terrified looking down at me. I was cradled, held to her chest. We fell asleep like this. She, too afraid to let go. I, too afraid to move.

At some point we woke up with daylight coming in through her blinds. There were some spots of blood on her pyjamas and sheets. I had bitten deep into my lip, but not through. Thank God not through. "Max. I'm so sorry." My voice was hoarse like I had been yelling through the night.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. We're in this together." Even though I trusted Max with my life, it was still difficult to be this vulnerable. I had vowed to be her protector, but I had yet to accept that this meant I needed to be the best me in order for me to be the best for her.

I had to keep choking back my emotions. "I think I need to shower again." I did my best to give a smile, kissed her forehead and walked to the bathroom. I stripped off my clothes, and turned on the water. While I waited for it to warm, I stared into the sink. I didn't want to see what my lip looked like. I was ashamed that pain was still something that brought me comfort. Pain and tobacco are the hardest drugs to quit because they take so long to kill you. I took Max's toothbrush again and closed my eyes, refusing to see myself. I felt Max's skin against mine, and I shuddered from the surprise.

"Is that my toothbrush?"

With a mouth full of foam I mumbled, "Yup."

Her stomach flexed against my back as she laughed. "You're hella gross." I rinsed my mouth and finally opened my eyes to the mirror. My lip was definitely busted and swollen, but what made things okay was Max naked climbing into the shower.

"Should I wait?" I could only think of her wanting to slow down on sex last night.

"Why?" I heard a smile in her voice. "The parental units won't be back until after twelve. They texted me because they wanted us to sleep as long as we wanted. They want us to take care of each other right now. They're meeting up with one of mom's friends for lunch to help with some job leads." Boy, was she good at lifting my spirits. I went in after her, and she hugged me while the water poured over us. "You're not alone in this, just like I know that I'm not. We got this Cap. 'Kay?" She took some shampoo and started massaging my scalp and pulling it through to the end of the strands. I was frozen by her care. Her tenderness could be terrifying. I took her lead, and after she ran conditioner through my hair, I followed suit. We washed each other's bodies, and she inspected my lip under the hot torrent above. "It could be worse. There's a little piece missing on the inside, but it kinda goes with your badass aesthetic."

"I-I'm sorry. I don't know—"

"Stop apologizing. I know you got my back. Don't be a dork. You yelled and thrashed a few times after you passed out. I just said some things about how your mom, dad, and David are here for you too, and you didn't stir as much. My parents are out trying to help us, and I'll help with the apartment search because I know the city fairly well. We've got a team backing us up. My parents already love you, and I don't know what you said to dad, but he hella cares about you." She rolled her eyes. "He said he wants to smoke you out later."

That got me to laugh hard. "Dude, your dad is sick."

I kissed her and ran my tongue along the ridge in between her lips. "There's my Chloe." She busted out in a laugh.

"Ms. Maxine, we've been together like this for such a short time, but it's like you've always known me as a horndog."

"What's the point of fantasizing if I can't play it out?" She nipped my collarbone.

I kissed her forehead and turned off the water. "You're cheesy as fuck."

"Should I roll back the tape on some of the things you've said to me?" She pinched my butt as I got out of the shower. I tossed her towel at her.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a stone cold killer."

"Sure you are. So when I washed your stuff last night, mom talked to me about our budget. They put money aside for payments to Blackwell, and that combined with some college money they saved for room and board, and with the money they're going to put in our account from Arcadia, we should actually be pretty good for rent and for you to start school. I'll be doing the rest of my classes online, and I think I'm just going to start at South Seattle College for art. They have a pretty good automotive program too. We visited the campus when I started high school."

"Damn, you and your parents are so...prepared." I was drying my hair off when Max tossed her wet towel on my head. From underneath it I said, "How...How are you so calm?"

"I don't mean this to sound shitty. But, I kinda have everyone I need in my life here in the house with me. I'm pretty freaked out about what it's going to be like when we move out together, but I know it'll be okay."

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up. We're living together, and I'll rewind time until I figure out a way for you to accept that."

"I don't think you need more blood on your clothes or sheets." She flicked my ear lobe as she left the bathroom. In a singsong voice I cooed, "I hate to see you leave, but I love to see you go."

She groaned. "It's 'I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave.' Get your flirt right." Again, that damn wide smile in her voice, she already knew how to make me swoon.

I went out to her room and started getting dressed. "Damn, you Caulfields use some mad nice fabric softener. Your sheets, now this?" I exaggeratedly rubbed my jeans against my face.

"Am I the cool one and you're the lame one now?" She gave a little giggle.

"I guessed we rubbed off on each other," I winked, "in more ways than one."

She flicked her wrist and simply said, "You're gross."