October 9, 2013
Arcadia Bay, Oregon

"...back to your chlorine brand t-shirt and generic jeans."

I can't help but grin at the playfully indignant expression on Max's face. It looks exactly the same as the one she used to give me when we were kids, and for a second it's like I've been thrown five years back in time to one of our countless sleepovers.

"You suck!" she laughs. "I like my shirt and jeans."

While I'd never admit it out loud, Max's whole look does fit her nicely. Somehow she manages to make the 'hipster waif' thing look cute as hell. Though after our little adventure last night, I'm a little preoccupied with what she's got going on underneath it.

I suppress a groan and remind myself, not for the first time in the last couple of days, that I left that particular childish crush in the past. I'm not going to fall for Max all over again just because we took a midnight dip in the Blackwell swimming pool. Who cares that she's saved my life at least three times since Monday?

Or that she totally took the fall for that weed with step-douche, less than an hour after I almost ran her over?

Or that she straight-up pulled a gun on Frank Bowers and threatened to cap him, just to protect me?

Or that she made a pipe-bomb, like a fucking badass, to break into Wells' office like it wasn't even a thing?

Or that it's taking a lot of willpower not to imagine what she'd look like naked?

...I might be in trouble.

"It would be cool to try on Rachel's clothes," Max comments, ignorant to my staring as she roots through my closet like the big ol' snoop she is. "Just to see if they fit."

This is a great idea. I'm sure dressing Max up like my missing ex-girlfriend won't stir up a confusing tangle of emotions that I'm completely unprepared to deal with right now. Thinking about it, maybe the best idea would be to just run Max's regular clothes through the wash. I know Mom won't mind and we've probably got lots of time before El Step-Douche gets home.

I'm about to suggest it when Max pulls a dark green flannel shirt from the closet, holds it against herself, then hangs it up again. I can't help but imagine what it'd look like against her gentle curves, which immediately leads to remembering what those curves look like without a shirt.

I haven't felt this frustrated since the last time Rachel spent the night. It was just a couple of weeks before she disappeared and months after we'd gone back to being 'just friends', which was something she seemed to get used to a lot quicker than I had. Fuck knows I'd been trying my hardest, too, because I definitely wanted to keep her in my life. But Rachel was always a naturally flirtatious person, and having a beautiful girl playfully flirt with you all evening when you know it isn't going anywhere is pretty rough.

Having to share the same bed with a beautiful girl when you know it isn't going anywhere is even worse. And doing it while your brain refuses to stop reminding you of what she looks like without her clothes on? That's just cruel and unusual punishment.

Fuck.

I'm definitely in trouble.

New plan: Get Max dressed, right now.

"Stop second-guessing yourself, Max!" I take her by the arms and give her a playful shake. Her skin feels warm and soft under my palms and I immediately let go. "Put this on and let your inner punk-rock girl come out! You can afford to take chances! Whenever and whatever you want to try."

She still looks a little uncertain and I decide she needs a push. Just a little nudge to kick off that trademark Max Caulfield shyness and make her want to put on some damn clothes and go downstairs before I do something stupid.

"For example...I dare you to kiss me!"

Oh, look. I did something stupid.

"What?"

She looks stunned at my suggestion. The sudden flush in her cheeks makes my heart do a nervous little flutter, and I privately admit that was probably a bigger push than she needed. I'm not going to back down now, though. I don't care whether it's been five years or fifty. If there's one thing I know about Max, it's that she's a total wuss when it comes to stuff like this.

"I double dare you," I press, moving a little closer, not letting her break eye contact. "Kiss me now."

I know exactly how her brain works. I guarantee that in a couple of seconds she's going to start stammering. Then she'll look down at her feet, make this adorable little frustrated sound, glare at me like an angry kitten, and toss out some lame-ass excuse that I'll tease her about. We'll both laugh, finish getting dressed, then we'll head downstairs for some breakfast.

Maxine Caulfield. As predictable as the tide.

I'm one hundred percent certain that she's going to be the one to back down, which is probably why I'm so startled when she rises up on her toes and quickly presses her lips to mine. Pulling away from her and retreating a step, my brain starts screaming something along the lines of, 'Holy fucking shit she actually did it! She kissed me! Max just kissed me like it wasn't even a crazy thing to do and it felt amazing and I'm totally blowing it!'

Thankfully, on the outside I manage to get away with a stammered, "D-damn...you're hardcore, Max."

Trying to ignore my racing heart and hoping I don't look half as flustered as I feel, I turn to pick up my phone and flop onto the bed. Looking back, I give her my practiced Chloe-don't-care smirk. "Now I can text Warren and tell him he doesn't stand a chance. Y'know...unless he's into girl-on-girl action."

I guess it's a pretty good recovery because she laughs softly and rolls her eyes. I don't know how I can find that so annoying and so attractive at the same time.

"You're such a...whoa..." She wobbles on her feet a bit. And I'm not sure whether it's my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear she sorta...flickers. Like when a video skips a frame and even though you really see it, your brain is still telling you something weird just happened.

"You okay, Maximus? Haven't blown a fuse on me, have you?" I tease, because teasing Max is safe and familiar territory. I mean, except for that one time about thirty seconds ago when I teased her and it accidentally-on-purpose led to her kissing me. "Aw, did I make you swoon with one little kiss?"

"No," she murmurs. "Just a head rush."

"You sure?"

She nods, a little unsteadily.

I try to laugh, but something nervous is tightening in my chest. "Look, if this is about the dare, I'm sorry. I was just messing with you, y'know?"

"No, that's not...I... uh..." She's starting to look really shaky now. Even though her eyes are pointed right at me, it's like she's looking right through me. She starts blinking rapidly, breaks out in a sweat, and her breaths are coming fast and short.

If this were anyone other than Max 'straight-edge' Caulfield, I'd say it looked like she's having a bad trip. But at least I know how to handle a bad trip. I'll just pretend that's what this is. It'll be just like that time Rachel took that fucked-up acid. If I can talk Rachel Amber out of a tree while she's tripping balls, I can handle whatever this is.

"Okay, Max." Standing up, I slowly take both her hands and give them a gentle tug; she's a little reluctant, but eventually starts following me toward the bed. "We're gonna get you laying down, okay? Then we're gonna take some nice, deep breaths."

"I think something weird is happening," she whispers. "I don't...I don't feel right."

"I know, but you're gonna be fine. Just follow me."

"I...wait, stop." Pulling her right hand out of mine, she looks down at it with confusion and slowly flexes her fingers. "Is this my hand? I...I don't think this is my hand."

I clamp down on the urge to freak out. I've heard plenty of stoned people do the whole 'hands are weird' bit, but they never actually doubted whether their own hand belonged to them. They never sounded scared that it wasn't, either. "That's totally your hand, Max. Promise."

"No," she shakes her head. "No, this isn't my hand. This is someone else's hand."

I grab her hand again and hold it up between us. "You feel that? I'm holding it, see?"

She looks at it, then at me. "I...I don't think you are."

Okay, that probably isn't a good thing. Lowering our joined hands, I lean down a little to look her in the eye. "Hey, you trust me, right? You know I wouldn't lie about something important?"

She blinks, then nods hesitantly.

"Then I need you to trust me when I say that's definitely your hand, even if you can't feel it, okay?"

"But I can feel it." She sounds really scared now. "It's just not mi-"

Her voice cuts off mid-word, like someone just hit her pause button, and suddenly she's staring at me like I just appeared out of nowhere. Her panicked breathing slows right down as her stunned expression shifts into something more like awe.

"...Max? You still in there?" I give her another gentle tug toward the bed, but it's like trying to pull a statue. She doesn't respond and I'm starting to think this actually might be a good time to freak out.

Then she blinks, raising her hand to cup my cheek and smiling so brilliantly that the entire room seems to light up. It's absolutely breathtaking, and there's an undisguised joy in her eyes that my poor pre-wake-and-bake brain has no idea how to handle.

"I made it," she whispers, almost too softly to hear. "You're alive."

"I am?" I laugh nervously, worried that Max might've just gone a little crazy. "I mean, yeah. Last time I checked."

"Chloe," the way she breathes my name sends a rush of goosebumps down my arms. She looks like she's about to cry, but she's still smiling so brightly. I'm getting some serious mixed messages here, and the warmth of her palm against my cheek is making it really hard to figure them out. "Oh god, I've missed you so much."

"Y-yeah?" I don't know why the words make my mouth go dry. I know she missed me. I missed her, too. It's been a long five years, but we've talked about this already.

"So, so much. I can't even tell you how much."

"Well, that's not exactly breaking...news..." I trail off when I realize that she's a lot closer than she was a second ago. So close that we're just one deep breath away from touching. "Uh...Max? W-whatcha doin'?"

"Showing you," she whispers, knotting her fists in my shirt, pulling me down and pressing her lips to mine.

Whenever I've allowed myself to daydream about kissing Max (which still happens way more often than I care to admit) I've always thought she would start out soft, even a little timid. That I'd have to slowly coax her out of her shell. Gently fan whatever flame might be inside her into something bright and hot and passionate. I never imagined that I'd be the one hesitantly bringing my hands to rest on her slim waist, heat rising from my stomach and heart pounding in my chest. Or that she'd be the one to loop her arm around my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair while the other arm pulls me hard against her.

A soft moan rises up from somewhere low in my throat as her fingertips trace a feather-light line just above the waistband of my shorts. My whole world narrows down to just her; the soft feeling of her lips moving against mine, the heat of her body through the thin fabric of our clothes, the way her touch leaves my skin tingling in its wake, and even the faint smell of chlorine that still clings to her skin.

But just as I start to think I could happily dwell in this warm haze forever, Max violently lurches out of my arms and stumbles back with a choked cry, clutching her head like she's ready for it to fly apart at any moment. Our eyes meet for barely a second, and the expression of utter terror on her face chills me to the bone. Then her knees buckle and she collapses to the ground. I'm beside her in a heartbeat, pulling Max back into my arms as she whimpers and clutches at my shirt.

A small trickle of blood falls from her nose, rapidly growing into a steady stream. She's trying to speak, but all I can think about is the way the blood stains her teeth as her lips move silently. Hoping to stop the bleeding, I snatch a handful of napkins out of an old fast-food bag and press it to her face. Almost as soon as I do, blood begins to leak from her eyes as well, mixing with her tears as they flow down her cheeks.

"Oh, shit! Oh, fucking shit! Max! Max!"

With a faint groan, Max's eyes roll back and she starts to shake violently. I try to hold on to her, but I can't press the napkins to her face and keep a good grip at the same time. She jerks out of my arms after just a few seconds, her head hitting the floor with a dull thump and leaving a bloody half-print of her face on my cheap blue carpet.

The room suddenly seems to tilt on its side, and for a second I'm sure I'm going to puke. Everything feels weird. Everything feels wrong. It's like my heart is beating too fast and the air is too thick to breathe. It's got to be adrenaline or something. It has to be. The entire room looks like it's stuck on fast forward.

The American flag over my window is jerking back and forth. The motes of dust that had been hanging in the beams of sunlight look like their caught in a hurricane. Max lashes out blindly and her hand hits an empty soda can, and even though I swear it whips across the room like a bullet, it hits the wall with nothing but a light tap.

Then, almost as soon as the thought passes through my head, Max stops seizing altogether, her eyes falling shut as her entire body goes limp.

"Oh, no..." Icy panic starts to take root inside me. I give her a hard shake, hoping more than anything that her eyes will open, and she'll just be okay. "Wake up! Please wake up!"

"Chloe? Max?" I hear my mom's voice about half a second before she walks into the room. "What is taking the two of you so lon...Oh, my lord! Chloe, what happened?!"

Startled, I spin around so fast that I fall square on my ass. "I...I don't know! She just fell and started shaking! I didn't know what to do!"

Mom's eyes go ridiculously wide as she takes in the scene, and under different circumstances I might have actually thought she looked funny. She doesn't answer me, turning back to the open door. "David! David, get up here!"

What? When did the step-douche get home?

"Joyce?!" A half-dozen thumps follow as he takes the steps two at a time. He comes around the corner a second later, still dressed in his Blackwell Security uniform. "What's is it?! Is Chloe alrig...Oh shit!"

"D-David, I..." I'm stammering like an idiot, still clutching Max's limp hand as I look up at him. "I don't...I can't..."

"It's okay," he says evenly, kneeling down beside Max and gently shouldering me aside; I don't even try to resist. Pressing two fingers to her neck, he leans over to listen to her breathe. I watch his brow furrow as he silently counts off Max's pulse. It's been a while since I took that first aid course in school, but I feel like the number he's getting is way too high. After a few more seconds, he looks up to Mom. "Joyce, go grab the first aid kit from the kitchen." He turns to me. "Chloe, call 911."

"But..."

"Now, Chloe!"

Any other day I'd push back just on principle, but not today. Giving him a shaky nod as Mom rushes out of the room, I grab my phone from the bed and force my hands not to shake. Dismissing the half-finished text to what's-his-name, I dial the emergency line and press the phone to my ear. It rings once, then twice. Just as I think I might start screaming, somebody picks up.

"911, what is your emerg-"

I don't even let her finish. "My friend is hurt, or sick, or...or something and we need you to send an ambulance right fucking now!"

"Alright, miss. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I...she was fine, and we were talking and then she...she got dizzy. Then she just started fell down and started shaking and...and she...she's..."

The dispatcher's voice is cool and steady. "Ma'am, I need you to give me your address so I can send an ambulance."

"It's...uh..." In a strangely detached way, I'm a little embarrassed that I can't immediately remember my own address. "It's 44 Cedar Avenue. In Arcadia Bay."

"Got it. There's an ambulance on the way now. Are you calling from the phone number there?"

"Am I what?" The question throws me a little. How the fuck does knowing the number I'm calling from help Max? "Who cares?"

"Ma'am, I need to know I can reach you if the call drops."

"If the fucking call drops, tell them to fucking drive faster!" I know I shouldn't be yelling, but I'm scared and the blood on Max's face makes her look too pale. Max, who kissed me a few minutes ago and now she's on the ground and I seriously don't even know what's going on right now. I'm only half-aware that the woman on the phone is still talking when Mom rushes back in, first aid kit in hand. Pulling the small red bag open, she looks to David for guidance.

"Grab the gauze pads and hold them under her nose," he says, his voice as steady as the 911 operator's. "That should stop the bleeding. Be careful not to cover her mouth. Got it?"

Mom nods weakly, pressing the gauze to Max's face where it begins soaking up blood right away. I'm so busy watching pristine white give way to crimson that I don't realize I've lost my grip on my phone until I hear it hit the carpet with a dull thump.

The sound catches David's attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he takes one look at me before grabbing the phone off the floor and putting it on speaker. "Hello?"

"This is 911 dispatch," the operator responds. "Who am I speaking to?"

"David Madsen. You were just talking to my stepdaughter. I think her friend had some kind of seizure."

I can hear the woman typing on her end. "Is she still seizing?"

"No, but her breathing is fast and shallow, and her pulse is racing; I've got it at almost one-seventy."

"Is she awake or responsive?"

"No, I think she's unconscious. Hang on." He rubs his knuckles firmly against Max's sternum; she doesn't move or make a sound. Then he pulls his keyring from his pocket, leans to the side, and runs the tip of one key sharply up the arch of her foot; Max's toes twitch, and he lets out a relieved breath. "She didn't react to a sternum rub, but her foot reflex is normal."

"Good." She sounds relieved, and a little surprised. I know the feeling. "That's good. Does she have any injuries? Maybe a head wound?"

"Nothing I can see, but she's bleeding from her nose and eyes."

"Is there any blood in her ears?" I try not to freak about the sudden edge in the dispatcher's voice.

"None."

"Does she have a history of seizures or epilepsy?"

He turns to look at me, the same question in his eyes. I shake my head. "N-no. I don't think...no."

He turns to Mom and she shakes her head, too. "No, she doesn't." She hesitates, then adds, "At least, her parents never said anything."

"Do you have their phone number?" David has a familiar look on his face now. It's that same infuriating 'I'm in charge around here' expression I've seen a thousand times and it's usually enough to set me right off, but right now I actually find it a little reassuring. At least someone in the room seems to know what to do. Mom nods and he jerks his head toward the door. "Go call them. Just to be sure."

"O-okay."

As she rushes out of the room again, the operator asks, "Is she wearing a medical alert tag? A bracelet or maybe a necklace?"

David quickly glances at Max's wrists. "No, nothing."

"Alright." She hesitates, almost imperceptibly. "Do you know if she's taken anything? Drugs, or maybe medication that isn't hers?"

"I...hang on." He turns to me again. "Did she?"

"W-what?" I'm a little confused. This is Max we're talking about, for fuck's sake. She actually follows that whole 'maximum of 8 pills in 24 hours' thing they put on aspirin bottles.

"Drugs, Chloe. Did Max take any?"

"No! No, she didn't!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

I'm surprised when his glare softens. Pressing his palm over the phone, he glances at the open bedroom door and lowers his voice. "You need to be honest with me, Chloe. If she's taken something, lying about it isn't going to help her. I promise you won't get in trouble."

"She didn't...I don't..." I look away, my hands anxiously bunching the fabric of my t-shirt. "I don't think she did, and I don't think she ever would...b-but I don't know for sure."

"Thank you, Chloe. I believe you." He lifts his hand off the phone. "We don't think she's taken anything, but it's not impossible."

"I understand. I'll inform the paramedics, just in case. Will they be able to get in on their own, or does someone need to meet them?"

"The front door is unlocked. My wife will meet them there. We're on the second floor, first door on the right."

"Thank you, sir. The ambulance is just a couple minutes away."

"Alright." He looks up at me again and nods. "We'll be waiting."