Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maxine Baker had been hiding in her room since summer break started, watching the world continue while she sank deeper into her bed.

She was supposed to be at musical theater camp. She’d planned for months, but after Marcus left for rehab and her friends decided she was too much, she ditched everything. Every plan, everything she loved, felt like a reminder of people who didn’t want her around.

At first, they texted a few times. She left them on read. After that, nothing.

She’d scrolled past Norah’s Instagram without liking it. The three of them at the lake, smiling. The caption: missing one with a flamingo emoji. She stared at it for twenty minutes before closing the app.

Max knew what everyone thought. Don’t be so dramatic. Your feelings are too much. The Max Show. The words echoed, even though all she’d done was care. How could she change what she’d always been? They didn’t notice how much she’d been hurting. Easier to treat her like background noise than admit she might be falling apart.

Marcus had been in rehab for four weeks. She visited two, three times a week, and it stung every time. At least they were making progress. They’d gone from anger and heavy silences to something like connection, once he stopped blaming Max for sending him there.

Last visit, he’d actually looked at her, said her name without it sounding like an accusation. It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was something.

Their parents were trying, but no one knew what to do with this version of her. The one who stared at group texts and barely left her bed.

The phone she'd once wanted surgically embedded in her hand now felt like a wound. She’d stopped checking her notifications. The lock screen probably showed Abby’s camp stories (forced fun, glitter crafts), Norah’s Hamptons updates (her mom’s new meditation guru), Ginny’s Seoul adventures (her and her dad eating things Max couldn’t pronounce). Or maybe Instagram reminding her she didn’t matter anymore.

She ignored it all, which wasn’t easy when her mom texted her from downstairs. Ellen’s messages escalated from concern to panic to all-caps threats. Real emergencies came with actual knocking.

Or, apparently, with mothers who’d lost patience.

The door flung open. “You’re getting up.”

Max pulled the blanket over her face. “Nope. Not today.”

“Yes.”

Ellen stepped fully into the room, holding cutoff shorts.

Denim. Frayed at the edges. Faint glitter still clinging to the fabric.

Max squinted. Oh no. Not those.

“There’s a new girl in town. French. Artistic. Your age. Staying with the Viards, knows no one. I knew her mom in high school.” Ellen’s smile carried that particular quality: this was happening.

Max didn’t respond. She was still staring at the shorts.

“She’s been keeping to herself. Figured you two could be weird together.”

Max peeked out. “Because I’m the town welcome committee for sad teens?”

“Because you haven’t left this room in days and it’ll be good for you.”

The shorts landed on her bed. Maximum Legs. Abby’s nickname after the open mic disaster. Back when screaming was fun, when Max felt like a functioning human.

She pulled them on with her Mousse sweatshirt. Opening night she’d felt invincible. Closing night, everything fell apart: the secret group chat, Sophie’s kiss, telling her parents about Marcus. The look on his face. Abby saying don’t be dramatic like Max’s world wasn’t actively burning down. She wore it anyway.

Her hair was a mess. Whatever, this bandana would work. The outfit screamed I’m doing this, but I don’t want to.

An hour later, Max stood outside the Viards’ black Victorian. The dark siding made the tangle of flowers in the front garden pop. A greenhouse hugged the side yard. Juliette Viard’s flower shop had been a Wellsbury staple forever; she’d done the flowers for Max’s parents’ wedding.

Max was halfway to the front door when she saw her.

Sitting on the porch swing.

Dark blonde hair with messy violet ends. A black slip dress with a bleeding heart enamel pin on one strap. Faded blue ballet flats. Nail polish to match. A sketchbook rested on her knees, surrounded by the kind of markers Max wouldn’t even touch in an art store without budgeting first.

The slip dress had thin straps. A neckline that dipped just low enough to make Max forget why she was standing there. She stared at Esme’s collarbones. Three seconds. Four.

Oh. Shit. Yeah, I want to—

The girl looked up.

—die. I want to die.

She hadn’t noticed Max yet. Thank God.

Max caught her reflection in a car window. She’s giving ‘mysterious artist who reads Sylvia Plath.’ I’m giving ‘forgot it was picture day.’

Esme glanced up from her sketchbook. Stared. Half smiled.

Oh. No. Nope. Not emotionally stable enough for this.

“Ah, you must be Maxine.” Her accent was barely there, but enough to make Max’s name sound like it belonged in a French poem from the 1800s. “I’m Esme.”

Max found her voice. “Most people call me Max.” A small, traitorous part of her wouldn’t mind hearing Esme say Maxine again.

A surprised laugh escaped Esme. “You drew the short straw?”

Max laughed too. She hadn’t meant to. “It was either this or surgically fusing with my mattress.” The way Esme kept looking at her, that quiet, intrigued expression, made her nerves spike. Max fell back on instinct, slipping into theater mode. “Welcome to Wellsbury! Home of too many yoga moms, a few decent coffee shops, and the most emotionally repressed teenagers in New England.”

Esme considered this, her expression deadpan. “Maybe I’ll make a zine about it. Wellsbury’s Emotional Repression: A Field Guide.”

Okay, she’s not what I expected. Funny. Weird. Really cute.

“I’ll help. I’m great at captions. ‘This flamingo has seen things.’”

Esme laughed again, and for the first time in weeks, Max felt a little like herself.

“You’re…” The word slipped out. “Unsettling.”

Oh, what the…? Way to go, Maxine.

“… unsettling?”

“Yeah, I mean… like… creepy-hot. Which I did not mean to say out loud.” Max ran a hand through her hair. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to see through me.”

“Please don’t stop talking,” Esme said, amused but serious.

Max felt herself flush and scrambled for a topic. “So… coffee? There’s a place, Blue Farm. Best iced latte in town.” She paused. “And by best, I mean literally the only iced latte in town.”

Esme closed her sketchbook. “I’d like that.”

They walked toward downtown, Esme taking everything in while Max kept up a running commentary.

“That’s Gerald,” she pointed at a gnome in sunglasses. “He used to be a hedge artist in Portland. Now he judges mailboxes and passersby.”

Esme snorted. “Tragic. He deserves a second chance.”

“Don’t we all?”

They pushed through Blue Farm’s doors. The bell chimed. The warm, sweet air hit Max all at once. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this. Joe looked up from behind the counter, did a full double take.

“Well, well. Maxine Baker, back from the dead.”

“Rising from the grave for one limited appearance only.” Max swept her arm like she was taking a bow. “This is Esme. She’s French, cool, and probably too good for this place.”

“Is that so?” Joe said, solemnly. “Brave girl.”

“She’s been warned.”

“And still here. For now,” Esme said.

They sat by the window. Max reached for her drink too fast. Some spilled over the edge. She steadied the cup. And her hands. Hopefully.

Esme leaned forward to grab her coffee. The curve of her neck, the way her hair fell over one shoulder. Max’s eyes followed the line of it before she could stop herself.

She jerked her gaze to the window. Tried to care about a parking meter. Failed. Looked back.

Esme was watching her. Half-smiling.

Busted.

“So what landed you in suburban purgatory?” Max asked. “Bad grades? Bad breakup? Witness protection?”

“Not exactly.” Esme winced, barely. “My mom lived here when she was a senior. She stayed with the Viards. Same room I’m in now. She thought this place might help.”

“Wait. Your mom lived in that house?”

“Same bedroom. Same weird wallpaper.” Esme paused. “My mom’s eccentric. Edgy. The kind of person who fills a room before she speaks. People love her, but when you’re standing next to her, there’s no air left.”

“Sounds familiar,” Max said, mostly to herself. Would that be what people think of me?

“She notices everything, even when you’re trying to hide. She's always watching, always seeing too much.” Esme’s eyes met Max’s. “I guess I do that too now. I can’t help looking for what people aren’t saying.”

“Not creepy at all.”

“Only if you get caught.”

Max laughed, nodded toward the sketchbook. Safer territory. “So you make art?”

“Zines mostly. Sketches when I’m restless. Miniatures when I hate myself.”

“Emotionally repressed teenagers?”

“Basically.” She laughed. “My most intense inner thoughts and random obsessions.” She opened her sketchbook to the most recent double page spread.

Max leaned closer. Close enough to see paint stains on Esme’s thumb, the freckle just below her ear, permanent marker bleeding through page edges.

She should probably be looking at the art.

The left page was quirky. Squirrels, Starbucks, ironic Wellsbury stuff in bright neons. But the right side. The self-portrait was raw, haunting. Muted colors like a secret trying to get out. So honest it hurt.

Max hated how it made her feel exposed, even though it wasn’t about her. She wanted to roll her eyes. She also wanted to frame it.

Of course Esme could make existential dread look like art. Max turned hers into noise and got told to shut up.

“Okay, this is badass.” Max shook her head. “I honestly don’t know how to describe you.”

“Most people don’t.”

Something about the way she said it made Max want to figure it out.

“What about you? Why are you here with me and not… elsewhere?”

Max snorted. “Because my bed and I are in a codependent relationship and my mom staged an intervention.”

Esme’s mouth twitched. “So you’re hiding.”

“Gold star.” Max gestured at her jittery energy. “Turns out doing nothing is exhausting.”

“Yeah,” Esme said softly. “I don’t sit still well either.”

Max stared into her drink. She wasn’t sure what this was turning into, but for the first time in weeks, she didn’t want to be somewhere else.

"You know…" Esme stirred her coffee. "You're the first person in a long time who didn't—" She stopped, shook her head. "Never mind. You'd probably think I'm crazy."

Esme's smile was small, almost challenging. "We'll see how long you can stand me."

Max was about to respond when Esme said, "So, what's next? More streets to explore?"

“There’s the historic district,” she said, the idea taking shape as she spoke. “Old houses, a graveyard from the 1600s, and my favorite bookstore if you’re into that.”

“Okay yeah that sounds great. And thanks for not asking too many questions.”

Max shrugged. “I’m saving them.”

Esme laughed, and Max decided that sound was worth whatever came next.

Later, as she walked Esme home, Max kept catching herself looking. Esme had this way of moving through space like she wasn’t quite committed to being there.

Max probably should’ve left it alone. Should’ve gone home, climbed back into bed, let this be another day that didn’t happen.

Instead she was already making plans. Tomorrow she’d show Esme the bookstore. Maybe the weird antique place that sold taxidermy mice dressed as Victorian ladies. Normal tour guide stuff.

She watched Esme disappear around the corner and realized she’d forgotten to be exhausted for the first time in weeks.

This feeling, whatever this was with Esme, she wanted to keep it for herself a little longer.

Chapter Text

The first week, they met almost every day, sometimes planned, sometimes unexpected.

Esme sent links to obscure bands, photos of oddly shaped clouds, and sometimes a single, unexplained question mark. Max always showed up.

They browsed the bookstore, reading different books in comfortable silence. They walked the same downtown streets until Esme knew them by heart, and spent an afternoon at the thrift store, picking out accessories for each other with surprising accuracy. Most days ended up with shared croissants at Blue Farm.

There was the morning at the lake when Max dared Esme into the cold water and Esme shrieked, shoving her under in retaliation. That laugh stuck in Max’s head for days.

Esme spent most afternoons at her aunt Juliette’s flower shop, trimming stems and fixing bouquets. Once, Max found her in the front window, sleeves rolled up, bent over white roses. The arrangement on the counter was unusual and wild, but it worked. Even Max, who thought dandelions counted as a bouquet, could tell Esme wasn’t following any rules.

Their conversations felt easy. No pressure, no need to overperform. They’d covered the basics: Max had mentioned Marcus and of course musical theater. She’d even touched on the friend group drift. Beyond that lay a quiet line neither seemed ready to cross. Max loved watching Esme get passionate about indie movies they both loved and weird art stuff. Esme made her laugh at the most unexpected moments.

They smiled every time they saw each other. It wasn’t a big thing, but Max started looking forward to the next plan before the last one even ended. She rushed out the door in better outfits each time. Her parents pretended not to notice. They definitely noticed.

Ten days in, Esme texted:

i make killer crepes and mildly disturbing art. want in? my place tomorrow, 1pm.

Max didn’t bother playing it cool.

The next afternoon, she sat at Esme’s kitchen island watching her flip crepes like it was nothing.

Esme was barefoot in a black tank top and a teal skirt, her hair in a messy ponytail. She moved like she owned the space.

“The secret ingredient,” Esme dropped batter into the pan without looking, “is orange blossom extract.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “That’s a specific flex.”

“You’ll see.”

Another perfect crepe hit the plate.

“How hard can it be?” Max rolled up her sleeves. “Let me try.”

Esme stepped aside, bowing. “Be my guest.”

Max flicked the pan confidently. The crepe folded in on itself.

“Okay, warm‑up round.”

Esme grinned. “Sure.”

Attempt two: total disaster.

They burst out laughing.

“You’re insulting generations of French women,” Esme said.

“I’m giving them character development.”

Esme stepped behind her. Close. One hand covered hers on the pan handle, the other rested at her waist.

“Wrist, not elbow,” Esme said quietly.

She stepped back. The warmth was gone but Max could still feel it.

Neither of them said anything. Esme looked at her like she was trying to figure something out. Max met her eyes and immediately regretted it. Too intense.

“Well.” Max cleared her throat. “You’ve officially ruined me for every other kitchen.”

Esme’s laugh was soft. “Glad I could help.”

They finished the crepes trading bad jokes and worse cooking attempts. Max offered to do dishes, but Esme waved her off.

“Come on,” she said, drying her hands. “Let me show you my world.”

The walls of Esme’s room were a layered collage: film stills, art book pages, sketches, photographs all layered over each other like she’d built a world from everything she didn’t want to forget. A beautiful mess.

Under the window sat a huge craft table buried in paint tubes, wire, and tiny scissors. A row of strange dolls lined the edge, each with hand-painted faces and clothes made from scraps. One had a cigarette made from rolled paper. Another wore a crown of safety pins.

Max leaned in. “Okay, this is either amazing or serial-killer-level weird.”

Esme snorted behind her. “Depends on the day.”

Photos above the desk caught Max’s attention. A woman with high cheekbones and messy dark hair, caught mid-laugh. A blonde bearded man with piercing blue eyes, cigarette dangling from his lips. A younger woman, maybe twenty, with darker hair than Esme’s, grinning against a fence. A couple of fluffy cats, one grey, one black.

“Is that your mom?” Max asked.

Esme glanced over. “Yeah. Vivienne. And that’s my dad, Vincent. The other one’s Margot, my sister. And that’s Flore and Poe.”

Vivienne’s smile was bright and alive, the kind you accidentally stared at too long. Max recognized that same messy spark in Esme.

“She looks cool.”

“She is.”

On the windowsill was a row of black-and-white zines. Max picked one up. With Love and Squalor — Issue #5.

Inside, a poem was written in looping cursive over a photo of a girl hiding her face, her bare legs in the foreground:

I touched her.
She let me.
I stayed the night.

She called it a dream.
I stopped sleeping.

She called it a lie.
Made a ghost of me.

A haunting.
A void.
Devoid.

I am only alive when I sleep.
But why am I not
in all that I got?

I can’t find anyone else to blame.

Her pulse kicked up. She turned the page, but Esme’s hand closed over hers and shut the zine.

“I get to pick which one you read first.”

She set the zine back. 

Max hadn’t needed to ask So… do you like girls? The answer was right here in black and white. She fumbled trying to switch topic and gestured at the tiny dolls. “So what’s their deal? Witch army? World domination?”

“I sell them or gift them. Zines, stickers, buttons, that kind of thing.”

“Overachiever.”

"Says the girl who turned a coffee order into performance art."

Esme sat cross-legged on the floor, sweeping thread into a dish. “Sit with me.”

Max flopped down. “Do I get to make a cursed doll of my enemies?”

“No curses. Attention to detail.”

“I’m wildly under-qualified.”

“I’ll show you.”

They worked quietly, shoulders brushing.

“Yours has… character,” Esme inspected Max’s lopsided creation.

“That’s code for terrifying.”

Esme smiled. “I like it.”

Max tapped the doll’s yarn head. “Do they all have to be so full of feelings, or is that mine?”

Esme’s finger brushed her wrist. Barely there. Max forgot what she was doing.

“Only the ones that matter.”

Their hands bumped again. Max glanced at Esme’s mouth. Bad idea. Then her collarbone. Worse.

Esme’s lips parted.

Max leaned forward.

Holy shit, she’s leaning in too.

DING-DONG.

Max jerked back. Esme smoothed her skirt, suddenly busy with imaginary lint.

Max glared at her disjointed doll. “Laugh it up.”

“Doorbell, I should probably get that.”

“Yep. Totally.”

Esme left. Max stayed frozen on the floor for five full seconds, then let her head thunk against the craft table leg.

“Cool,” she muttered to herself. “Real smooth, Baker.”

“It’s your mom,” Esme called from downstairs.

Max hit the bottom step as Ellen’s voice floated in: “Maxine, shoes on. If we leave now, we’ll actually be on time for once.”

Outside, Esme stood in the doorway, tugging her tank top. She caught Max’s eyes.

“Didn’t think you’d find me this fast,” Esme said as pink crept up her neck.

“Is that a warning or a thank-you?” Max asked.

Esme’s laugh was quick and breathless. “Both, maybe.”

“See you soon?”

Esme nodded, her eyes saying more than her mouth.

Ellen leaned out the car window. “Esme! Dinner and a movie Friday. Your pick.”

Esme blinked, surprised, then smiled at Ellen. “I’d love to.”

Max sank into the passenger seat, wishing for spontaneous combustion.

Ellen looked pleased, like she’d just solved a mystery Max didn’t know was being investigated.

As they pulled away, Max stared out the window, barely seeing the turn onto Eastwick. The rehab center wasn’t far, but it always felt like another world. That moment on Esme’s floor kept replaying in her head.

We almost kissed?!

Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe Max was doing her thing again, like with Ryley, reading every look like a secret message, seeing signs that weren’t there. Maybe this was French art-girl friendliness that didn’t have to mean anything.

Or maybe she hadn’t imagined it. The way Esme’s eyes stayed on hers. The way she’d leaned in too.

She pulled out her phone and opened the MANG group chat.

Last message: Norah’s dog in a cowboy hat, three days ago. Before that, a Spotify link from Abby. A Seoul selfie from Ginny. Max had hearted it. Nothing real. Nothing that felt like them.

She started typing. Deleted. Again..

I met someone and it’s weird—gone.

So… something kind of happened—nope.

Her thumb hovered. 

Then, fast, before she could talk herself out of it:

Is it still MANG without me or just... ANGry?

She hit send, heart pounding. Added:

Anyway. I’ll just be here dying of social starvation.

Pause. Then:

...Miss you guys.

This time, she didn’t delete it. She locked the screen and stared at her reflection, waiting for her phone to either explode or, worse, stay silent.

Chapter Text

Max had visited the facility enough that the front desk woman nodded without asking for names. Ellen clipped on her visitor sticker with muscle memory while signing them in. Max stuck hers to her hoodie.

They’d come twice weekly for five weeks—Marcus had supposedly made it through the ‘adjustment phase.’ Whatever that meant beyond more eye contact, less silence. The place looked generic: sleek furniture, calming art. Teens roamed the halls like it was summer camp. It worked until you paid attention.

They crossed the common room—lively, messy, a welcome contrast to the hollow hallways. In one corner, teens hunched over cards, someone’s laugh cutting through chatter. Near the window, a thin girl sat with an open book.

“Hey Dina, finish that book yet?” Max asked softly passing by.

The girl looked up, grinned. “Chapter nine.”

“Proud of you.” Max grinned back, kept walking.

Near the far wall, a tall boy in black hunched over an acoustic guitar, fingers picking out something soft, hesitant. He gave Max a brief nod.

“Sounds good, Andy.”

He offered a rare smile, kept playing.

They found Marcus in the courtyard on a low brick wall, notebook balanced on his knee.

“Look who dragged herself here,” he said without looking up.

Max dropped beside him. “Relax. Not like I missed our weekly emotional check-in.”

Ellen gave them a be nice look, more habit than heat.

Marcus deadpanned, “You only come for the free therapy you don’t have to witness.”

Max rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Ellen shook her head, but her smile gave her away.

They slipped into their rhythm—trash-talking a show they watched, swapping town gossip. Max told him about the skateboard-library-stairs-trash-can incident, a classic Wellsbury fail. She threw her hands out in exaggerated reenactment. Marcus smirked. Ellen shook her head, smiling. He talked about group, his weird roommate who claimed astral projection, the guy who wrote exclusively weed poetry.

“At least he’s not rapping it,” Marcus noted.

Ellen squeezed Marcus’s shoulder. “I’ll be right over there.” She crossed to a shaded bench, already pulling out her book.

Neither spoke for a while. Max didn’t mind, not with him.

“They think I might get out in two weeks,” Marcus said quietly.

Max straightened. “For real?”

He shrugged, not looking at her. “If I keep it together. Finish the program. Keep bullshitting through group.” Then, quieter: “It’ll be nice. Being home.”

Max nodded slowly. Neither seemed convinced.

“You’re doing that bracelet thing again,” Marcus observed.

Max’s hands stilled. “What thing?”

“The winding. Only happens when you’re overthinking.”

She shoved her hands into her hoodie. “So annoying.”

“And you’re predictable.” He kept sketching, pencil scratching paper. “So. You’ve been hanging with that Esme girl a lot?”

Max blinked. “Weird segue.”

“Thought oversharing was your brand.”

She squinted at him, a reluctant smile playing. “She’s cool. I like her.”

Last time they’d talked, Max had barely mentioned Esme. Today, words came easily. “She makes these creepy-brilliant art dolls. We were ‘painting’ at her place before this.” Air quotes around painting.

“You don’t say.” Marcus nodded at her hands, faint green still stained her cuticles. “Esme’s fault.”

“So… haunted, reclusive, uses art to avoid feelings?”

Max groaned. “Don’t.”

Marcus grinned. “God. You found me in girl form.” Fake shudder. “Both disturbing and weirdly flattering.”

Max rolled her eyes, half-laughing despite herself. “Shut up.”

“Not judging. Observing.” His voice shifted from teasing to curious. “You like her?”

Max hesitated a second. “Yeah.”

“She like you back?”

“I think so.”

He nodded, processing. “Okay. Don’t make her your Band-Aid, though.”

The words hit hard. “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” she repeated, smaller, less certain.

They sat in silence. Other families’ chatter filled the space.

Then Marcus said, so low she almost didn’t hear him, “I talked to Ginny earlier. She misses you.”

Max’s voice was a whisper. “She said that?”

He nodded. “Didn’t sound fake.”

“She probably doesn’t know what to say.”

It stung. Ginny showed up for Marcus, not her.

Max didn’t answer. She wrapped an arm around her brother’s shoulders. He didn’t lean in immediately. Then, slowly, he did.

They stayed like that until a nurse called the end of visiting hours.

Ellen clicked her seatbelt, glanced in the rearview. “He seemed lighter today.”

Max nodded, tugging her belt across. “Yeah. He made a joke that didn’t suck.” Her thumb found her bracelet, twisting out of habit.

“I’ll take it,” Ellen said with a small, hopeful smile.

As they pulled out, she turned up the radio—Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide”—and started humming along.

Max slumped against the passenger door, watching trees and power lines blur. Her phone buzzed once. Again. She didn’t move.

Finally, she pulled it out. Lock screen lit up.

[Group Chat: MANG]

(Still pinned. Optimism or masochism?)

Abby: Look who finally unghosted the group chat 

Norah: do you even remember how to text  
or should we send instructions

Ginny: Plz confirm you’re still alive  
or at least mildly funny

Max let out a quick, startled laugh. It felt like before. The jokes flying fast, no silence to earn.

A new message popped up.

Abby: jury’s out on both

Max grinned. Instinct kicked in, her fingers itching to reply. She could already see the comeback:

I died! Came back hotter!

Or maybe:

sorry for ghosting, I was busy having a crisis in three acts.

Or a blurry bathroom selfie captioned:

“emotionally unstable, but still the hottest in the group chat.”

But she didn’t hit send.

Because under the smile, the ache was still there. The truth was simple: when she had fallen apart, they hadn’t shown up. Not one late-night call. Not one “Are you actually okay?” Not even a knock on her front door. They had let her disappear.

Her screen dimmed, then lit up again with a new notification.

Esme
today was weirdly great  
also the doll looks like you. not in a creepy way. i think.  
hope it went well with your brother

A moment later, another text.

Esme
i’ll be in rockport tomorrow with juliette  
funeral flowers  
might be gone overnight  
but yeah  
text me if you want

Max reread them. Pictured Esme’s paint-stained fingers, her laser focus, that half-laugh when Max said something stupid. Started typing:

guess you’re stuck with me even in doll form lol

She deleted it instantly. Cringe.

She let the screen go dark. She didn’t feel like thinking and didn’t want to mess it up.

Back in her room, hoodie still on, Max lay on her bed with her phone face down beside her. The day had stretched in opposite directions, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

This afternoon, she’d been on Esme’s floor, accidentally liking a girl she hadn’t meant to like. It felt easy. New.

Then Marcus. He seemed more himself. Lighter, maybe. It should have lifted her. It did, for a second. Then the weight of it all came back in a different shape.

Then the texts. From her friends who hadn’t been there.

And from Esme. Who joked in her own way. Who didn’t demand a performance. Who checked in, as if Max simply being was enough.

She should have felt better. Lighter.

Instead, the fog rolled back in. She told herself she’d reply later, but the truth was, she didn’t know how. How to reenter a space she’d abandoned. How to be wanted without having to perform for it. She didn’t trust the good things not to vanish the second she leaned on them.

She changed into sweats, brushed her teeth, crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

She was tired. The kind of tired that went deeper than sleepy.

So she didn’t text back. Whatever. The world could wait.

Chapter Text

Max woke up in a tangled tee shirt and the sudden memory of not texting anyone back. She groaned, face-first into the pillow.

Morning. Think. Prioritize. Coffee first? No, teeth. Definitely teeth. Wait, phone. Did anyone text? No, bad idea, abort.

She rolled over. Immediately regretted it. Her hair slapped her in the eye.

"OW," she announced to the void.

She sat up. Regretted that, too.

Her phone was still on the nightstand, facedown. Classic trap.

She picked it up, stared at the home screen for two seconds, changed her mind and hit the side button. Nope.

Yesterday. Everyone texted. I didn't respond. So now it's been too long and I can't casually say something because it'll be a thing. But if I don't say anything it'll be… also a thing. There is no winning. I have ruined texting. I am texting poison.

Focus. Teeth first.

But Ginny said she was glad I was back. So that's… something. A breadcrumb. A tiny, hopeful crumb. And Abby didn't call me a menace, so basically she loves me. Probably.

Unless… I mean, "glad you're here," no exclamation point. Three words. Flat. Neutral.

What if it was obligatory glad? Or pity glad. Like, "Yikes, Max is broken, better be nice to her."

Still. Marcus said she missed me. She wouldn't say that if she didn't mean it, and he wouldn't tell me if he didn't think she meant it.

She opened her sock drawer. Closed it. Reopened it. Pulled out one sock. Put it on the bed. Walked away.

I should reply. Send something dumb. "LOL missed you losers." Or "Maxine Baker has entered the chat."

What if they think I'm still mad? Or worse, being dramatic. Classic Max. Ignoring people. Making it about her. Being too loud. Being too much. But I wasn't being dramatic, I was being…

…I don't even know. Sad? Lonely? Emotionally nuked?

She sat on the bed. Stared at the sock. Realized it wasn't even hers. Was it Marcus'? Why was it in her drawer?

Ugh. Marcus. He saw it. Not all of it, but enough. But he was busy also falling apart so maybe we fell apart in parallel, like synchronized spiraling.

And cue the other half of my emotional crisis: Esme. Yeah. Let's ruin my whole morning thinking about that.

She walked into the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Closed it. Opened a cabinet. Cereal. Food. Normal person behavior. She poured it in the bowl. Immediately forgot the milk.

"Today was weirdly great." What does that mean? Who says that? What is the vibe? Is it like, "I like you" or "I like you like a friend" or "I like that you helped me glue hair to a haunted doll" because those are not the same and the ambiguity is killing me.

Her mom appeared, chipper. "Morning, Max. I'm heading to Target in ten, you wanna come?"

Max: "Mm-hmm."

Still no milk.

Wait, what? What did I agree to?

Anyway she's in Rockport. Funeral flowers. Because of course she is. That's so Esme. I don't know what that means, but it is.

She finally added the milk. Too much.

I could text her. "Same." "Miss you already." "Hope the funeral flowers don't die on impact." Nope. That's insane. That's deranged.

But did we almost kiss?

Because it felt like a Moment. Capital M. She leaned in. I swear she leaned in.

Unless it was friend energy. The worst kind. The queer kind. The doomed kind.

But what about the poem. The zine. That poem wasn't a poem. She slammed it shut like I'd caught her naked.

Unless someone else wrote it. What if she was like "Here's a cool gay zine I found." And I read it like it was a love letter.

Wait, is she straight? She cannot be straight. I refuse. That is not a straight girl vibe. No straight girl looks at me like that. No straight girl makes dolls that look like me. That's not a straight girl hobby.

Unless she's straight but exceptionally confused and I am the confusing part. The emotional landslide in lip gloss.

Ellen walked by again.

"So. Yes or no on Target?"

Max blinked once. "Yeah."

A moment passed.

She looked up. "Wait, what?"

Ellen stared at her from the doorway, bag already on her shoulder.

Max blinked again. Buffering.

"Oh. Right. Yeah. I'll get ready."

She stared down at the soggy cereal: tragic.

I need a sign. A laminated sign. Like:

YES SHE LIKES YOU

or

NO YOU'RE DELUSIONAL, PLEASE UNFOLLOW

Maybe I'll just exist today.

Chapter Text

At Target, Max trailed two steps behind her mom, a lukewarm latte in one hand, the other shoved deep in her hoodie pocket. Bright, overwhelming aisles.

Ellen stopped in front of a rack of graphic hoodies, pulling one out. "This would look good on you."

Max flicked the sleeve of a random tee on the rack beside it. "Is this your subtle way of saying I dress like the sad aftermath of a garage band breakup?"

"Only when you're trying this hard not to care." Ellen didn't miss a beat.

Max shrugged, aiming for a casualness she didn't feel. "Kind of my brand, I guess."

"You know, you could always try this radical new thing called talking to your friends."

"Wow, next you're gonna tell me I should go outside and touch grass."

Ellen gave her that look. The one that said, I see more than you think I do. "I saw the way you looked at Esme the other night during dinner."

Max's shoulders tensed. "We're… friends."

Ellen raised an eyebrow. "Right. And I was just 'friends' with your dad."

Max groaned, dropping her head back to stare at the fluorescent lights. "Gross. Thanks for that mental image."

Ellen's focus drifted from the clothes to her daughter. "She reminds me a little of her mom," she said, her voice softer now. "Vivi stayed with the Viards our senior year. I was the one who picked her up for school that first day, showed her around." A pause. "She found her people. Eventually."

Max toyed with the tag on a pair of jeans. "Did you guys… hang out?"

"Not really. Different crowds." Ellen's voice went somewhere else, somewhere thirty years back. "But I liked her. I stood up for her once… when some kids got ahold of her diary and were passing it around."

Max went still. Ellen said it like it was nothing, a fact from decades ago. It landed on Max anyway, heavy and sudden.

Her voice softened. "I never liked seeing people torn down for sport."

Max shot her a look, surprise bleeding into something closer to respect. "So you've always been the designated bodyguard for the weird new girls, huh?"

She meant it as a joke, but it didn't come out that way.

For a moment, they looked at each other. Something rare passed between them, quiet and understood.

Ellen smiled, tapping the hoodie she was still holding. "Let me buy you this. Consider it a social re-entry bribe."

Max rolled her eyes, but this time, she took it from her mom's hands.

An hour later, Max was back in the kitchen. Phone in one hand, yesterday's guilt in the other.

Her half-eaten bowl of cereal sat forgotten behind her. She was halfway through a blog post titled "Planning to Be Spontaneous: An ADHDer's Guide to Faking It" when a notification lit up her screen.

New message.

Esme
did i get it wrong
or weird you out
it's fine if i did
just maybe don't leave me guessing

Ouch. Max winced. She deserved that. The directness was both painful and, honestly, a relief.

Ellen appeared at her side, grocery list in hand. "Hey, do you know if Esme has any food allergies? Or is, like, a secret vegan? I'm trying to plan for dinner tomorrow."

"Uh… she's not a huge meat person, I think?"

Ellen scribbled it down as if Max were a reliable source. She kind of hated how good that felt.

As her mom turned away, muttering about tofu options, Max looked down at her phone. This time, she didn't overthink it. She acted.

First, she opened the MANG group chat.

MANG 🌟🌟🌟

Max
hi again
this time I mean it
probably

She hit send before she could second-guess it, then immediately switched to Esme's text.

Max
you didn't weird me out
you're awesome, honestly
everything went sideways yesterday after I saw my brother
it wasn't about you
and I'm sorry I should've texted
how's rockport?
and you're still coming for dinner tomorrow, right?

The three dots appeared.
Paused.
Vanished.
Came back.

Esme
ok
was starting to think i imagined the whole vibe
rockport's fine. flowers are dead people chic
and yeah. i'm still coming. if that's ok

Another message popped up immediately.

Esme
unless your mom has a strict policy against people who wear too much eyeliner and bring bad energy into her home

Max grinned.

Max
she'll love you
but if not, you can sit next to me and we'll make snide commentary through the whole movie

Esme
deal.

Max
and fyi
the eyeliner's a plus.

She locked her phone and set it face down on the counter, the smile still there.

Okay. Maybe this could actually work out.

The thought stuck with her, a small hope she didn't quite know what to do with.

Chapter Text

Max stood before the mirror, contemplating the crime scene on her bed. Seven outfits lay like casualties in a pile. A fashion massacre.

Okay. Breathe. It's dinner. With your parents. And Esme. In your house. Where she might notice you exist. No big deal. Everything's fine. This is fine.

She yanked on her sixth skirt of the evening. This one passed the test: yellow plaid, short enough to be considered brave but not tragic. She added the cherry sweater. It was cute, weird, and almost enough to feel like herself again.

Her hands hovered over a pair of glitter socks, then the boots, then back to the socks.

"I can't wear something that says 'please like me' in all caps."

She sighed, frustrated.

"Okay, maybe I can. But I won't like myself for it."

Max stepped back for a final assessment. She looked like a walking rainbow that had been electrocuted by anxiety.

Naturally. Nailed it.

She grabbed her phone, smoothed her hair for the tenth time, and muttered, "Do not be weird. Do not be weird."

Then came the knock, and every practiced expression she'd prepared abandoned her.

Esme stood on the porch in head-to-toe black: sweater, boots, jeans, and a heavier swipe of eyeliner that made her eyes look even darker.

Ah. She's doing murder librarian tonight. Great. I'm overdressed.

In one hand, she held a bouquet of wildflowers so tasteful it bordered on smug. In the other, a glass jar filled with something thick and purple. She held them out like this was totally normal.

"Hi," she said.

Max pointed at the jar, mostly to avoid staring directly at Esme's face. "Is that… alive?"

Esme glanced down. "Pretty sure it's jam."

"Pretty sure?"

"I bought it from a woman named Birdie who sells preserves out of a tent behind the Rockport cemetery. It felt like fate."

Pause.

"I was morally obligated."

Max bit back a laugh. Was that a joke? With Esme, humor was a foreign language she might be translating phonetically. God, she was so weird and Max was so completely, irrevocably screwed.

From inside, Ellen's voice sailed through the door: "Is that Esme? Bring her in!"

Max stepped aside. "Too late to run."

Esme passed her, close enough that Max caught the faint scent of her perfume or shampoo or soap, and forgot whatever she'd been thinking.

She paused in the entryway, her eyes sweeping the room.

"This place feels familiar," she murmured, almost to herself. "Deja vu. Weird."

She didn't elaborate and kept walking.

Max stayed in the doorway, watching Esme move through her house like she already belonged there.

The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and parental effort. Esme handed the jam and flowers to a beaming Ellen.

"For dinner. One of these is probably edible."

Ellen placed the flowers in a vase. "Finally, someone who understands my kind of weird."

A few minutes later, they were seated at the dinner table.

Ellen set down the salad bowl. "I have to say, you are officially invited back. Max didn't warn me you were charming."

Esme unfolded her napkin and placed it neatly on her lap. "She likes to downplay my strengths."

Clint signed something with a wide grin.

Ellen translated, "He says this one's dangerous. Quiet and funny."

Max groaned. "Great. My dad's already a fan."

She turned to Esme. "He's usually more subtle when he's showing off."

Clint signed, That's slander.

Esme didn't look over. She took a sip of water, observing them. "Fascinating." Her voice dry as salt.

Max narrowed her eyes. "Okay. Rude."

"I'm observing."

"You could've said you like looking at me."

"You'd look back."

Max stared at her. "What does that even mean?"

Esme smirked. "Nothing."

She was already sipping her drink, like she hadn't said anything weird.

Ellen gave them both a knowing look, then pivoted.

"So," she turned to Esme, "do you have any siblings?"

"One sister. Margot. She's four years older but acts like it's thirty."

Ellen smiled. "Older siblings. Nature's built-in humility training."

Esme paused. "She once edited my diary for grammar."

Clint raised his eyebrows.

"In red pen," Esme added.

Max let out a snort. "That's psychotic."

Esme shrugged. "She meant well. Probably. She's the responsible one. Always has been."

That earned a nod from Clint.

"Let me guess," Ellen said, her eyes on Esme. "You're the art kid, she's the academic."

"Something like that," Esme replied.

Max added, "The classic combo."

Ellen refilled her glass, looking between the two girls. "I swear, all the interesting kids find each other eventually."

They moved through salad and roasted vegetables. Clint refilled water glasses like they were bourbon. Max failed spectacularly at her mission to not look at Esme for longer than three seconds at a time.

Halfway through the meal, Ellen translated: "He says you're holding up well under interrogation."

Max muttered, "She likes pressure."

Esme's eyes met hers, one brow raised slightly.

"I definitely do," low enough that it was clearly meant for Max.

Oh. Okay. So we're doing this.

Before Max could respond, Ellen asked, oblivious, "Max says you make dolls?"

"Sometimes. And zines. Sometimes I sew miniature clothes for extinct creatures. It depends on the week."

Max supplied, "She has a doll with a broken tooth and knife hands. It stared at me from her bookshelf."

"She only looks creepy until you need her."

The conversation slipped between casual and weird. Esme answered like she'd rehearsed it, shiny on the surface, cutting if you looked close.

Once the plates were mostly cleared, Ellen said, "You're not what I expected, meeting Vivi's kid. In a good way, of course."

Esme didn't answer right away. When she looked back up, she was composed again. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

The tone was mild, but Max saw the tension in her hands, the way her fingers pressed white against her water glass.

Ellen continued, cheerful and unaware. "She used to show up to school events in a leopard-print faux fur coat and combat boots. With a Super 8 camera, obviously."

Max stared. "She what?"

"Filmed my science fair like it was Apocalypse Now. Every baking soda volcano got a monologue."

Ellen and Clint burst out laughing. Max smiled too, but she kept her eyes on Esme, watching her rebuild her composure. There it was again, a tiny crack, gone almost instantly.

Ellen gathered the plates, singing absentmindedly. Clint pushed his chair back, signing a quick thanks before heading to the living room.

Max was still tracing circles on her napkin when Ellen asked, "Movie?"

Max was on her feet in an instant. "Please. Before this turns into group therapy."

"Esme, you've more than earned couch privileges," Ellen winked.

Max followed them, her pulse erratic.

The movie had started. They'd settled on Reality Bites, one Ellen used to love. Max had always meant to see it, but tonight she wasn't paying attention.

Clint sat in his armchair, already invested. Ellen was in the kitchen, the clinking of plates loud enough to be a performance of giving them space.

Esme sat at one end of the couch. Max sat at the other.

At first.

There was enough room between them for three throw pillows and a very tangible ghost. Max tried to look casual, unbothered. Her knee couldn't stop bouncing. Traitor.

Half an hour in, the space between them had quietly disappeared. Max's legs were tucked up now, angled toward Esme without much strategy. Esme hadn't moved, stayed leaned into the corner, hand under her chin. She hadn't said a word since the lights went down.

Max, stealing glances, tried to match her calm. She failed, then tried again. No idea what was on the screen. Something something blah blah blah. Two girls on a couch. On screen, too. Go figure.

There was a change. Esme leaned in, and now her hand was near Max's, her pinky resting close enough that the slightest movement would cause them to touch.

Max held still.

Then, it happened. A tiny, almost imperceptible brush as Esme's pinky settled against hers.

It didn't move away.

The contact was light, but somehow louder than everything else.

Esme didn't pull back. The touch stayed, unspoken, intentional.

Max didn't dare twitch.

When the movie scene cut, she risked a glance.

Esme was still watching the screen. Focused, or pretending to be.

Max bit the inside of her cheek, eyes forward again.

Her hand stayed exactly where it was.

So did Esme's.

Chapter Text

Ellen stepped toward the door, keys dangling from her finger.

“You sure you don’t want a ride home? It’s late.”

Esme shook her head. “I’m good, it’s not far.”

Max thought fast.

“Wait… uh… do you want to see something ridiculous? Like, truly, profoundly stupid-ridiculous.” Words tumbled out of her. “I have this dress upstairs. It’s… a situation.”

Esme raised one eyebrow. “A dress?”

“Disaster couture. You’ll see.”

Esme smirked.“Alright.”

Max headed for the stairs at what she hoped was a casual pace. It wasn’t.

Ellen called after them, “Don’t stay up too late, Maxine!”

Max pretended she didn’t hear.

The moment Esme stepped inside Max’s room, Max mentally facepalmed.

Suddenly, she saw it all through Esme’s eyes. The bright flamingo duvet. The RELAX BITCH pillows, which she had always loved but now felt painfully try-hard. Playbills curled at the edges, scaling the slanted ceiling. Even the wicker swing chair she’d begged her mom for at fourteen seemed ridiculous.

Her desk was a mess of open makeup compacts and spiral notebooks covered with doodles in the margins.

A corkboard covered with notes and photographs, including the banana-costume photo from sixth grade that she kept meaning to burn but somehow never did.

Her whole personality, pinned to the walls, but hey, wasn’t Esme’s room also its own unique chaos of clutter? 

“So, uh.” Max’s hands found each other, fingers twisting into knots. “Welcome to my shrine of personality overload. You can sit anywhere that isn’t covered in…” She gestured vaguely. “My entire existence.”

Esme laughed. “It’s very you.”

Was that a compliment, or a diagnosis?

She wandered to the bookshelf and stopped in front of a framed photo.

“Is this… Halloween?”

Max glanced over. Oh, great. There she was in a red vinyl Britney catsuit and a platinum blonde wig, flanked by Ginny, Abby, and Norah, all of them staring down the camera like they owned the night.

“Yeah, group theme. Last year.”

“I didn’t expect…” Esme studied it again. “You looked… bold.”

Max’s laugh came too fast. “Total joke.”

It wasn’t. It had felt like oxygen.

“Still bold.” Esme’s voice dropped, becoming quieter, more intimate. “And hot.”

She stepped closer. This close, Max could see flecks of gold in Esme’s green eyes.

“Yeah?” Max’s voice barely made it out.

Esme’s gaze fell to her lips, then back up. 

So, of course, Max closed the distance. She kissed her, a quick, uncertain press, to prove she hadn't imagined the whole thing.

And then, Esme kissed her back.

It started soft, both of them testing the same thought. Max placed her hand on Esme's hip, and Esme's fingers grazed the side of Max's neck.

Everything grew warmer, closer, until Max's knee bumped hers and she laughed against Esme's mouth because of course she would be clumsy right now. She tugged Esme toward the bed, because standing suddenly felt impossible.

Max leaned back into a pile of panic-discarded clothes. A skirt twisted under her, a stray bra strap practically made eye contact. She swept the whole mess to the floor with a groan.

"Smooth. So hot," she muttered.

Esme laughed and kissed her again. They tipped sideways into the mattress.

Esme moved closer, one leg sliding between Max's, and suddenly there was pressure exactly where Max needed it. Heat shot through her, and her fingers found the hem of Esme's sweater.

Max's hand drifted up her side, fingers tracing the subtle curve where her ribs met the soft skin beneath her arm, slowly, back and forth, until she let her palm settle, gently cupping Esme's breast. The world seemed to go quiet. There was only the thump of Esme's heart under her hand and a single thought: This is real. A sigh escaped Esme's lips, and she leaned into the touch, closing the last bit of distance between them.

They kissed like this for a while, Max's hand under Esme's sweater, legs tangled, staying in this one perfect, breathless moment for as long as it would last.

Then, Esme pulled back.

Max became suddenly, painfully still. Oh no. I broke it. She's leaving. I'm going to die in this sweater.

"You okay?"

Esme nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I… wasn't planning on this."

Max managed a tiny, dry laugh. "Yeah, me neither."

Wasn't planning. Was desperately, foolishly hoping.

Esme's voice was strained. "I'm usually good at keeping things separate."

Cool. Love that for you. Hate it for me.

Max bit her lip. "Sorry for… ruining that."

"You didn't ruin anything." Esme looked away, fussing with the hem of her sweater. She hesitated. "If I stay, I'll want more. And I can't do that tonight."

She stood, and the air rushed back into the room, cold and empty. "I should go."

Max nodded, way too fast. "Okay."

Say something. Preferably not the dumbest thing you've ever said.

At the door, Esme half-turned. Her mouth opened, then closed.

Max blurted, "Cool! Great hang! Thanks for stopping by my emotional minefield!"

Esme laughed despite the sad look in her eyes, and then she was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Max leaned her forehead against the wood.

"Great hang," she muttered to the empty room. "Great. Hang. Genius, Max. You absolutely nailed it."

The kiss was already replaying in her mind on a relentless loop, every frame, every sensation. And, stupidly, she was already hoping for a sequel.

"God," she whispered. "I am so screwed."

Chapter Text

SATURDAY MORNING

(The morning after.)

MAX — 9:12 a.m., her room

Max lay on her back, phone inches from her face.

Esme
thanks for dinner. it was nice.

No emoji. No exclamation mark.

“Nice.” The safest, most non-committal word in existence.

She read it again. And again.

As if maybe, on the fifth read, it would transform into:

last night ruined me and i’m in love with you.

But no. Still: it was nice.

What does that even mean? “Nice” is for when someone shows you their dog photos. Not after they make out with you on your bed like you’re the only person who matters.

She should text back. She tried composing something:

lol same

No.

I had fun too :)

Absolutely not.

are we good? did i misread everything or

Delete. Delete. Delete.

She tossed the phone onto her comforter.

Maybe Esme hated it. Or didn’t. Maybe Max had been too much. Again.

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it reflexively.

MANG 🌟🌟🌟

Ginny: are we still pretending that doll doesn’t look like you or

Max smiled without meaning to.

Norah: you alive or are we grieving again

Abby: say you missed us and be normal for once

Okay. That she could handle. Group chat chaos, low stakes, familiar.

She typed:

sorry I ghosted I was busy having a sexuality crisis in silence

Sent. Immediate regret. But done.

She didn’t answer Esme’s text.

Not yet.

She couldn’t figure out what kind of girl you had to be to earn more than it was nice.

And whether she’d ever been that girl, even for a second.

ESME — her bedroom

Esme sat on her bed’s edge, thumb hovering over the screen.

She’d typed five versions already:

last night was a lot. in a good way.

i liked being with you.

you make it hard to think clearly. in the best way.

i haven’t felt like that in a long time. maybe ever.

do you think we moved too fast? or was it perfect? because i can’t tell if i’m freaking out or floating.

She deleted each one. Every version sounded like confession.

Each gave too much away.

She didn’t want Max seeing how rattled she was.

Or worse, how badly she wanted to go back and do it again.

Instead, she typed:

thanks for dinner. it was nice.

It looked boring and distant. She knew it would land wrong.

She sent it anyway.

She set the phone facedown, then flipped it over three times.

She hated how she went still when things got real.

Chapter Text

All morning, Esme's text had been flashing in Max's mind, taking over every thought, and she wanted to forget about it for now. She pulled up the MANG group chat, exhaled, and wrote: MANGout at my place this afternoon? 

They all said yes, and the waiting began. By late afternoon, Max had tidied the living room twice. The snack bowls overflowed, and the soda cans stood in perfect formation. She adjusted a throw pillow for the fourth time.

This was normal, right? This is what people did when their friends were coming over for the first time in weeks. When everything felt like walking on broken glass, but you had to pretend it was the floor.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped.

Ten minutes later, all four of them were sprawled across the living room, but carefully. Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor, unusually quiet. Norah perched on the edge of the couch, ready to flee. Abby scrolled her phone like a shield. Max hugged a pillow and tried not to think about how different this felt from before.

Norah broke the silence. “So… are we gonna talk about your dentist-text girl, or is that off-limits?” Her grin was pure mischief.

Max frowned, hugging a pillow to her chest. “My what?”

“You know,” Norah widened her smile. Behind her, Abby snorted. “The girl who thanked you for a make-out session like you’d replaced her molar.” 

“‘It was nice.’ Savage.” Abby didn’t look up from her phone.

Ginny, ever the diplomat, shifted to face her. “Are you… okay with it?”

“Pfft, yeah. Totally fine.” Max waved it off, her voice a little too bright. “She’s… minimal. Mysterious. European. I bet she still sends telegrams.”

Norah raised an eyebrow. “Or she’s not that into you.”

Max gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “How dare you. You’ve seen my face.”

They laughed, but the sting settled behind Max’s ribs. Stop. They’re here. They showed up.

She tried to sound casual. “I don’t know what it is yet. She’s hard to read. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely mysterious or if I’m bad at this.”

“Or both,” Abby offered from the floor.

“Cool. Thanks. That helps,” Max muttered. After a pause, her voice came out smaller. “I really thought I read it right. Now I keep replaying it, wondering what I missed.”

Ginny’s expression was gentle. “Maybe don’t decide what it is until you actually talk to her again.”

Max clapped her hands together. “Great plan. Anyway. Subject change before I emotionally free-fall in my own living room.”

She grabbed the remote, latching onto the first distraction she could find. “We’re playing Dance Dare.”

A collective groan rippled through the room. “Not this again,” Norah mumbled.
“You’re serious,” Abby looked up, eyes narrowed.

Ginny’s brow furrowed. “What’s Dance Dare?”

Max stood as if accepting an Oscar. “An ancient, sacred ritual. You pick a cursed song. You pick a random object. Then you interpretive-dance your truth until someone breaks. If they laugh, you win. If they stare blankly? You’re boring.”

“Public humiliation as performance art,” Abby grumbled, but she was smiling too.

“Precisely,” Max grinned, her smile wide and genuine for the first time all day. “Now, someone hand me a salad tong.”

Twenty minutes later, the living room looked like it had survived a pop-music riot. Norah had turned “Baby Shark” into a gothic ballet of profound despair. Abby had nearly flipped the coffee table during a feral performance of “Fergalicious.” Ginny’s possessed-mug rendition of “Teenage Dirtbag” had them gasping for air. Max had closed it out with a Beyoncé tribute that was both heartfelt and completely deranged.

They collapsed in a heap, breathless. For a moment, it almost felt normal again.

"That felt like before," Norah said softly.

Before the fairies hangout thing. Before Tris. Before the group chat she wasn’t in. Before Marcus went to rehab and Max disappeared.

Max sat up slowly. "Before I went radio silent, you mean?"

The careful atmosphere shattered.

"Max..." Ginny started.

"No, it's fine. I know that's what this is about." Max set the pillow aside. "You're all here because you feel bad I disappeared for five weeks."

"We're here because we missed you," Norah said.

"Did you though? Because it seemed like you were doing fine without me. Again."

Abby finally looked up from her phone. "You shut us out. Just like you did after the Marcus and Ginny thing."

"I shut you out because I was tired of being the last to know everything about my own friends' lives."

"That's not fair," Ginny said.

Max laughed, but it came out hollow. "What's not fair is having to find out about your group chat from a phone notification. What's not fair is you three going off and having adventures while I'm home trying to keep my brother from drinking himself to death."

"We tried to include you—" Norah started.

"When? When you said 'we didn't want you to feel left out' after I'd already been left out? When you made me feel like I was too annoying to hang out with?"

Silence.

"Marcus was threatening to never speak to me again if I told our parents about his drinking,” she said, quieter now. “My mom basically made me responsible for keeping him alive. Then Sophie kissed me while I was still with Silver. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to talk to someone… I needed to talk about everything… and nobody noticed.”

She looked up, her eyes wet. “And yeah, I was hurt. That you didn’t tell me about Tris. About you, Abby. I was hurt that I was being left out, and no one even asked how I was. I spent all my time worrying about you, and when it was me falling apart, I got told, ‘don’t be so dramatic.’ That my feelings were too much.”

"That's not what I meant—" Abby started.

“You know what’s really messed up?” Max’s voice cracked. “You keep deciding what I can handle. When Sophie dumped me and I was crying in my room, you saw Ginny kiss Marcus. And you told her not to tell me. Because I was ‘too fragile.’ Because it would ‘kill me.’”

Abby looked down.

“you were right to keep Tris from me,” Max’s voice was breaking. “Because apparently when I care, it’s a problem. When I’m excited, it’s embarrassing. When I love something, it turns into a circus. God forbid I feel anything too hard.”

“I just wasn’t ready for… the full Max Baker Experience,” Abby muttered.

“Yeah, exactly.” Max’s voice went flat. “Too much. Again.”

She turned toward Norah. “And you talked to me like you didn’t know anything, you didn’t catch me up.”

“I didn’t know how,” Norah said softly.

“But you knew. And I didn’t.” Max shook her head. “You all knew. You got to react. I got to feel like the idiot who didn’t notice her own friend’s relationship.”

“We weren’t trying to hurt you,” Norah said.

“But you did.” Max wiped her eyes. “Keeping things from me doesn’t protect me. It just makes it worse when I find out. And I always find out.” She looked at Abby. “I get it. I’m a lot. I feel things too hard. I celebrate too loud. But I shouldn’t have to apologize for caring.”

The room went quiet except for the sound of Ginny crying softly.

"I'm sorry," Ginny whispered. "I'm so sorry, Max. We messed up. All of us."

"I know you're sorry," Max said. "I just... I can't keep being the friend who cares more. Who tries harder. Who gets called dramatic when I'm hurt and too much when I need support."

"You're not too much," Norah said firmly.

"Then why do I always feel like I am around you guys?"

Nobody had an answer for that.

"I met someone," Max said suddenly. "Someone who doesn't make me feel like I have to apologize for existing."

"Esme," Abby said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. And she likes me. The actual me. Not the version of me that's easier to handle."

"We like the actual you too," Ginny said desperately.

"Do you? Because the actual me is intense and feels everything and worries about people constantly. And for the past year, you've all been telling me that's a problem."

"It's not a problem," Abby said. "We were just... I didn't know how to handle my own stuff and yours at the same time."

"So you handled yours without me."

"Yeah," Abby admitted quietly. "I did. And I was wrong."

Max looked around at them. Ginny wiping tears, Norah fidgeting with guilt, Abby finally meeting her eyes.

"I don't know how to do this," Max said honestly. "I don't know how to be friends with people who might decide I'm too much work and disappear."

"We're not going to disappear," Ginny said.

"You already did. For five weeks, I felt like I didn't exist to you."

"You didn't exist to us," Abby said bluntly, then winced at how harsh it sounded. "I mean... you shut us out so completely, we didn't know how to reach you."

"I was protecting myself."

"From us."

"Yeah. From you."

The weight of that admission settled over them.

"So where does that leave us?" Norah asked quietly.

Max was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. I want to fix this, but I can't go back to feeling like I'm on probation in my own friend group."

"You're not on probation," Ginny said.

"Then prove it. Stop making me feel like my emotions are an inconvenience. Stop making decisions about what I can and can't handle. And for the love of God, stop having a secret life without me."

"We can do that," Norah said quickly.

"Can you? Because this isn't the first time. Remember when you all knew about Marcus and Ginny before I did? I have a pattern of being the last to know things, and you have a pattern of keeping things from me."

"We'll do better," Ginny promised.

"I hope so," Max said. "Because I really missed you guys. Even when I was furious with you."

"We missed you too," Abby said softly. "It wasn't the same without you."

"One more Dance Dare?" Norah suggested tentatively. "For real this time?"

Max managed a small smile. "Only if someone picks something embarrassing for Abby. She owes me."

"Deal," Abby said, and for the first time in weeks, it sounded like the beginning of forgiveness.

Later, as the room got quieter, Max’s phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Esme.

Her heart leaped. She stared at the screen.

“Is that her?” Abby asked, leaning forward.
Max angled the screen away, her pulse hammering as she read the two short lines.

Can we talk tomorrow in person? The park?

She panicked internally. Vague texts were bad enough, vague texts with a specific, public location were a prelude to disaster.

“That is… formal,” Norah observed.

“That’s break-up-in-a-Lifetime-movie formal,” Ginny added.

“Why in person?” Max muttered, her mind already spiraling. “Why the park? Is she going to—”

“—stage your public execution?” Ginny offered.

Norah nodded sagely. “Honestly? Kind of romantic.”

Max ignored them, her mind racing. “Okay, so… Hi! Totally! What time works for you? I can bring snacks or a fondue pot—”

“No.” Abby snatched the phone from her hands. “You are not sending her a novella. You’ll sound like you’re proposing.”

“HEY!”

Abby typed with military precision and hit send before Max could wrestle the phone back.

Yeah. See you there. What time?

She tossed the phone back to Max like a live grenade. “You’re welcome.”

Max looked at her, betrayed. “I was going to be casual!”

“You were drafting a peace treaty,” Norah grinned.

Ginny nudged her. “So… what are you gonna do until tomorrow?”

Max stared up at the ceiling, her eyes wide and every worst case scenario already playing in her mind. “Panic. In twelve-hour, color-coded shifts.”

“Try not to make it weirder before you even get there,” Abby advised.

Max sighed dramatically. “Way ahead of you.”

Chapter Text

Max sat on the park bench, sneaker tracing lines in the dirt. They’d agreed on noon. She’d arrived at 11:22, giving her exactly thirty-eight minutes to spiral. 

She’s going to say it was a mistake. That she didn’t feel it. That she thought I was a terrible kisser and wanted to warn me before I traumatized anyone else.

Max groaned into her hands. Perfect.

Someone appeared at the edge of the path. The eighth person to do that, but who was counting?

There she is. 

In the stark midday light, Esme looked pale, her hair pulled back in a haphazard knot. She walked slowly, like she was dreading this.

“I didn’t know you had a bad hair day mode,” Max blurted without thinking. 

Esme shot her a look. “Maxine.” The full name… never good. “About the other night… I’m sorry.”

Max looked at her. “Ok, so is this the part where I get dumped? Or recruited into a cult?” She tried to laugh.

Esme almost smiled. “It wasn’t about you that night. I need to tell you some things first. Things I haven’t told you.”

Max nodded.

"I used to dance. Like, seriously dance." The words came fast, like ripping off a band-aid. "Street stuff. Battles. We'd go all night by the river, wherever." She picked at the bench's peeling paint.

“There was this group. This guy Hugo ran it. He was…” She searched for the right word. “Magnetic. Smart. Cruel in a way that felt like intelligence. And Clara, she was his… I don’t know. His favorite? His second? They had this thing where they’d pick people up and break them down together.”

Max stayed quiet, watching Esme’s hands clench and unclench.

“I stopped dancing to be with them. My old friends kept asking why and I couldn’t…” She shook her head. “Hugo would say these things that made you feel chosen. Like you were finally smart enough, cool enough. And Clara would look at you like… like she was deciding if you were worth her time.”

“They sound awful.”

“They were.” Esme laughed, bitter. “But when they wanted you there, you felt like you’d won something. Like you mattered. I became..." She shook her head. "Someone worse. Someone who watched and didn't stop what she saw."

The silence stretched. A jogger passed them, earbuds in, oblivious.

“Clara was the first person I was with.” The words tumbled out wrong, too blunt. Esme’s face flushed. “It happened after… Hugo wanted me but Clara got there first. Like it was a game between them. Who could get me to…”

She couldn’t finish. Started again.

“It was one night. I thought—God, I was so stupid. I thought she actually wanted me. But the next day she told everyone I begged for it. That she only did it out of pity. Hugo laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all year.”

Max’s hand found hers. Esme stared at their fingers.

“I’m sorry.” Max’s voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

Esme’s voice went hollow. “I think maybe she had to make it cruel. For him. To prove I meant nothing. Or maybe she just enjoyed it. I don’t know which is worse.”

She pulled her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself. “After that, I sank. I stopped dancing. Lost my friends. And the rumors at school didn’t stop. My mom said things that…” She stopped. “I was nothing for weeks.”

Max wanted to say something, anything, but every response felt too small for this.

She took a breath, steadier now. “Then I started making zines. Creating things again. And I met this girl, Leila. We dated but it was casual. She was kind. Respectful. We saw each other for a few months, just physical mostly, but it was healing. She helped me remember my body was mine.”

Esme glanced at Max quickly, then away.

“There was one other girl after. Just once. Testing if I could. And I could.” She turned to face Max properly. “When it’s just physical, when feelings aren’t involved, I’m fine. Good, even. I know what I want, how to ask for it.”

She looked down. “But with you, there are feelings. Real ones. And that’s when everything gets complicated. Last time feelings were involved, I got destroyed. And I…” Her voice dropped. “There are things I did then. Things I let happen to other people. You don’t know the worst parts yet.”

Max couldn’t imagine what could be worse. She wanted to ask, but Esme looked so fragile, like she might shatter if pushed.

“Esme…”

“I’m not saying this right.” She ran a hand through her hair, frustrated. “I want you. That’s not the problem. The problem is I want you to matter. And when things matter to me, I either ruin them or they ruin me.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Esme finally met Max’s eyes. She looked pale and tired, like this took everything out of her. Max’s brain scrambled for the right response and came up empty.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Max started ticking items off on fingers. “Secret dancer past, evil ex, a cult-like friend group, major emotional betrayal, and you’re also a former prodigy with trust issues.”

Esme let out something that almost sounded like a laugh. “That’s… not inaccurate.”

Max leaned towards her. “Esme, that’s a lot. For anyone. And I’m really sorry you had to go through it. But I’m also really glad you told me. Even if my brain is just spinning in circles.”

“What now?” Esme asked.

“I don’t know.” Max gestured vaguely between them. “This is usually where I make a dumb joke and hope the conversation dies. But I don’t want that. I want this to be real. And I don’t want to make it harder for you.” She paused. “You didn’t ghost me. You showed up. You said hard stuff out loud. That says everything.”

They sat with that for a moment. Then Max asked, “So it got too much?”

Esme nodded. “Everything felt performative. Dance. School. My mom, with her camera always on. I felt like a curated exhibit. Rumors felt more real than facts. It was like I was always being watched, but no one actually saw me. So I ran. It felt better to say ‘fuck it’ than get stuck. But I’ll be honest, it’s a little terrifying.”

Another breath. “I don’t know if I’m starting over here. But I think I’m letting myself exist again. A little.”

“Guess I got lucky, then.” Max said. “Met you while you were accidentally existing.”

Esme looked down, then back at her. “Guess you did.”

“The version of you I’ve gotten to know?” Max went on. “The one who rolls her eyes, quotes Baudelaire, pretends not to care? That’s you. So is the one who danced, and the one who got lost. Doesn’t mean it wins.”

Esme didn’t look away.

“None of them cancel each other out,” Max added. “I’m okay with the mess, Esme. If you let me be.”

Esme didn’t speak. Then: “I think… I’m ready to try.”

Max let herself smile. ““Good. Because if you ghost me again, I’ll recite poetry at you very loudly. In public. Terrible French poetry.”

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

Esme seemed lost in her thought. “you think it’s that simple?”

“No. But I think we get to decide what happens next.” She paused. “Also? The image of you dancing under bridges is deeply unfair to the rest of us mortals.”

They sat quietly for a moment. Max heard it: warped music, bells, laughter. She turned toward the sound. “Is that…?”

Esme listened. “Sounds like a carnival.”

“Even better.” Max stood up. 

“You want to go now?”

“After that soul excavation, I require funnel cake, neon, and at least one screaming child to remind me that life is fundamentally absurd.” She held out her hand. “Come on.”

Esme took it without hesitation. Their fingers laced as they walked toward the noise, toward whatever came next.

Max didn’t look back, and Esme didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Max had already wiped powdered sugar from her shirt twice and was halfway through a lemonade when Esme broke her bewildered silence.

“This is chaos,” Esme said, taking in the sensory assault.

Max grinned, handing her the cup. “Hydrate. You’re not truly American until you’ve chased joy with stomach pain.”

Esme took it as if it was a dare. They were surrounded by shrieks, bells, and a speaker overhead playing a pop song so distorted it was almost industrial. Her eyes landed on a blur of metal: a spinning, off-balance nightmare that seemed held together by little more than rust and hubris.

“That one is called the Gravitron,” Max offered, sipping from her own straw. “You get pinned to the wall by centrifugal force.”

“That doesn’t sound plausible.”

“That’s what makes it trustworthy.”

Esme frowned. "So you casually risk organ damage for fun?"

“Yes.”

“Is it fun?”

Max considered this. “No. It’s stupid and disorienting and makes you question your life choices. You’ll love it.”

The line moved fast. The ride couldn't have passed an inspection in years, if ever. Inside, the Gravitron was dim, its floor carpeted like a sad disco basement. They took their places, backs against the padded wall.

The hiss of hydraulics, a low thrum, and then the spin started.

At first, it was a pull. Then it was everything. Esme couldn’t move her head or lift her arms. Her body gave her no choice but to stay still. Every nerve fired. Every part of her felt wrong.

“FUN, RIGHT?” Max yelled over the roar.

“I HATE YOU,” Esme managed to yell back.

Max’s cackle was pure, unhinged delight. Esme would have glared if her face still worked. Ninety seconds later, it was over. Esme stepped off the platform, gravity all sorts of wrong. Max was already buying another drink, this one violently blue.

“Drink this. Pray for your insides.”

Esme drank it anyway. She looked dazed, but lighter somehow. Disarmed by sugar and near-death.

They passed a stand advertising deep-fried Oreos with flashing lights and a line of enthusiastic twelve-year-olds.

Esme stared. “That’s… that’s violence.”

Max paused mid-step. “You’ve never had one?”

“I wouldn’t eat that if it were the last edible thing on Earth.”

“It’s a cookie. In batter. With powdered sugar. It’s joy.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

Max grinned. “Okay, we’ve officially reached peak pretentious.”

Esme crossed her arms. “This country will fry anything.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. It’s deeply unhinged.”

Max leaned closer, her voice mock-serious. “Say ‘deeply unhinged’ again, but make it sound more French.”

“I’m not playing this game.”

“You already are.” Max caught a game booth in the corner of her eye and pivoted. “Alright. Time for vengeance.”

“On whom?”

“Physics.”

Max picked up three rings. The first bounced. The second hit the rim. The last landed square on the bottle, knocking it over. The booth attendant looked deeply unimpressed.

“I want that one,” Max pointed to a stuffed flamingo with dramatic eyeliner and one bent leg.

It was handed over with the energy of a curse. Max held it out to Esme.

“For you.”

Esme accepted it with suspicion. “I am not carrying this.”

“Yes, you are. It’s a symbol.”

“Of what?”

“Survival. What’s her name?”

A long pause. Then, reluctantly: “…Odette.”

A smile finally broke through Esme’s composure. “I hate how much I’m enjoying this,” she muttered, almost to herself.

Max’s grin was triumphant. “No, you don’t.”

“Okay,” Esme conceded, glancing sideways at her. “I don’t.”

“See? The system works,” Max said, tucking the newly-named Odette under her arm. “Now we need to find something even weirder to commemorate this victory.” Her eyes scanned the chaos, landing on a shadowy booth tucked away from the main thoroughfare. “And I think I’ve found it.”

They found Madame Aurelia half-hidden near the Tilt-a-Whirl, encased in dusty glass. The robotic fortune-teller wore a velvet turban and had a look that implied she knew your worst secret and found it boring.

“She’s intense,” Esme observed.

“Yeah,” Max murmured. “Somehow, I trust her.”

She fed a dollar into the slot. The machine clunked and whirred before spitting out a small card. Max handed it over without reading it.

“Your fate. Go on.”

Esme read aloud: “You are not who you were. But you are not yet who you’re becoming. Hold still. Something is arriving.”

She stared at the card for a long moment.

Max waited, then said, “So… fake-deep or actual witchcraft?”

Esme didn’t answer. She folded the card carefully and slid it into her pocket, Max noticed.

The noise around them intensified. Shrieks, distorted music, endless bells… no longer fun, just assault. Max scanned the crowd, desperate for a calmer spot. Her eyes landed on the Ferris wheel, turning in a slow, silent arc high against the bright blue afternoon sky. A moment of peace.

“How about we see all this from a safe distance?” Max suggested, nodding toward it.

Esme’s small smile was answer enough. They went, and soon they were climbing into a car as the wheel creaked into motion. As they rose, the chaos faded beneath them, replaced by wind and the calming silence of the sky. Near the top, their car paused, swaying gently.

“This is usually the part in movies where someone says something awkward,” Esme said.

“Then let’s not,” Max replied.

All the frantic energy of the day seemed to dissolve, leaving only the calm space between them. For once, Max’s brain went silent. She leaned in.

For a moment, the world disappeared into the soft pressure of Esme’s lips against hers. 

When they parted, Esme didn’t pull away.

“I’m still holding Odette,” she whispered.

Max glanced at its perpetually surprised face. “Yeah. That’s unfortunate.”

“Deeply.”

But she didn’t let it go.

The wheel began its descent, and the world returned.

Chapter Text

Part I - Max

Max was reorganizing her bookshelf by emotional damage when the Instagram notification appeared.

@esme.delorme accepted your follow request.

She froze, heart skipping.

Finally. She actually did it.

She tapped the profile immediately.

@esme.delorme

Esmé Delorme 

84 posts | 892 followers | 217 following

Bio: Artificial nocturne

Paris → nowhere → here

art stuff: @ctrl.esc

she/her

She remembered it said 148 posts when she first followed.

So Esme had cleaned house. Staged the space before letting Max in.

The first post was new. From last night.

Odette the flamingo, off-center on a plain bedspread.

Caption: She’s adjusting, but would rather be on the matching bedspread.

Max glanced down at her own flamingo-print duvet.

“Okay. Yeah. Definitely.” Her pulse hammered.

She scrolled slowly, taking in every detail. Every surviving post had been chosen.

Esme barefoot by the Seine river at dusk. Hair wild. Motion blur.

Mirror selfie: black eyeliner, a Polaroid tucked in the corner. No smile.

Esme and her dad on a fake New York street set. Both in denim. She’s holding a paintbrush. He’s holding coffee.

Caption: Papa said this one’s mine.

Her mom, mid-laugh, cigarette in one hand, camera aimed at Esme.

Caption: film mothers raise film daughters

Cracked pointe shoes on a hanger. No caption.

Street shot: Esme before a giant “Chicago: Le Musical” billboard in Paris, mid-laugh, one hand raised.

Video. Esme at fourteen, dancing in a tiled tunnel, laughing between moves. Untouchable, unbreakable.

Three girls collapsed in a park, tangled legs, a speaker half-visible. A crown drawn on Esme’s hand.

Max recognized the moment: best friend immortality.

Visible comment: “BFF” @manon.duval 78w

Recent months were scattered: notebook pages, cat photos, cropped close-ups, details over context.

Almost nothing from last year.

Earlier: Groups of friends. Dance clips. Street corners. Rehearsals. Esme with longer hair, brighter eyes, carefree.

Then Max almost missed it.

Three years ago. Stage lights. Esme mid-air, glowing.

Comment, 37w:

@claradx: innocence looks good on you 😏

Her fingers froze.

That’s not a compliment. That’s ownership.

Wait, is that THE Clara?

She clicked the profile.

@claradx — PUBLIC PROFILE

Clara de Brissac

372 posts | 7.8k followers | 118 following

Bio: not yours | Paris / sometimes London

The page loaded in pieces. Clara was devastating. Cheekbones that could cut glass, eyes that knew exactly what they did to people. Every photo suggested she either owned the party or was the party. Max scrolled faster, uneasy but unable to stop. This had been Esme’s world once: beautiful, cruel, exclusive.

She kept scrolling until she found what she was looking for.

10 months ago

Clara upright, black lace and sheer black tights. Chin tilted, lips pursed toward the camera. Esme’s head on her chest, smiling into the fabric, arm wrapped around Clara’s waist. Clara’s legs draped across Esme’s lap, careless and possessive at once.

They looked like they belonged to each other.

The caption hit Max in the gut: “my favorite pillow 💋.”

At first, it felt almost comically casual for something that looked so intimate. That’s what messed with her. The way Clara made it sound like a joke, like Esme was another accessory in her curated life, warm, soft, comfortable. Owned.

But Esme didn’t look like a joke in the photo.

She looked happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

That’s what unsettled Max most: the possibility that Esme let herself be folded into that world. That maybe, at the time, she wanted to be. That the person in that picture had once found comfort there, even if everything about Clara now read like a warning.

So Max spiraled, a little. Because she’d seen the glamorous poses, blur filters, and cryptic captions. She’d seen the Esme she was getting to know, gentle, a little awkward, the girl who seemed to be quietly unspooling right in front of her. The girl who posted about flamingo sheets and talked about dissociation like it was weather. That Esme didn’t look like Clara’s “favorite pillow.” She looked real.

But the image lingered. It whispered all the insecurities Max tried to keep buried:

What if I’m also temporary? What if I don’t fit into any version of her that lasts?

And underneath all of that:

God, she looked good in that photo.

I hate that I’m jealous.

I hate that I care.

But she remembered: It wasn’t bad because it was my first time. It was bad because it was her.

This, whatever it had looked like, was never safe.

Max set the phone face-down on her flamingo duvet, counted to three, picked it back up. Her hands were sweaty. She wiped them on her shorts before continuing.

Rooftop party. String lights. Velvet dress. Esme, Clara, Hugo, arranged for posterity. Clara’s hand on Esme’s thigh. Esme laughing off-camera.

Caption: Left hand, right hand. Both mine.

Fingers in Esme’s hair. Caption: Certains fantômes savent mordre.

Dance clip. Esme spinning, perfect. Clara’s caption: Amour fuyant. 

Someone licking Clara’s shoulder. Caption: She’s not you. Mais elle s’accroche.

Max stared at the photos. Esme looked stunning. Effortless. Like she belonged to that world of midnight rooftops and people who never looked back.

She felt miles away from the girl Max had gotten to know—the one who blurted absurd jokes, looked at her like she was some irresistible alien, who created tiny words, who kissed like it could undo you.

She even felt miles away from the girl in the photos Esme had chosen to keep.

Whatever she was with Clara, Max couldn’t see it in her now.

She closed the app. Opened it again. Scrolled back to Esme’s page. Back to Odette.

The flamingo on a plain bed, looking lost.

She flipped to messages, clicked Esme’s, and typed:

hi

checking in on you

and Odette

hope you’re okay

also

no pressure or anything but

if you were going to text back

I’m home

on my bed

definitely not thinking about kissing you

definitely not replaying everything you said about wanting me

okay maybe every five seconds

also possibly overthinking that flamingo post

Esme 

She wasn’t subtle.

(I meant it.)

brb

Max stared at her screen, heart racing. She threw her phone across the bed, retrieved it ten seconds later. Her face burned. She was smiling.

She opened the group chat.

MANG 🌟🌟🌟

1:42 PM

 

Max

so hypothetical question

if someone (me) had a maybe-kind-of-a-girlfriend

would you guys agree to meet her

and act like people who aren’t insane

Abby

define “girlfriend”

wasn’t she ghosting you, like, 5 minutes ago

Norah

say Esme, Max

we already know

 

Ginny

okay

but do we like her?

like actually like her

or are we pretending because she’s hot

 

Max

I like her

and she likes me

think you’ll get it if you meet her

maybe tomorrow? blue farm?

 

Norah

say the word

we’ll show up

emotionally neutral and suspiciously polite

 

Ginny

seriously tho

we’ll be cool

probably

don’t make us regret it

 

Abby

too late

I already do

I give us 10 minutes tops before we scare her off

 

Norah

five

 

Max

cool

love the support

also she hasn’t said yes yet

I haven’t asked

but

I want to

 

Ginny

GASP

 

Abby

EMOTIONALLY RECKLESS

 

Norah

do it

Max closed the thread and opened Abby’s messages:

ABBY — PRIVATE THREAD

Jun 18
Abby

so that’s it then?

we just stop talking?

 

Jun 20
Abby 

cool. love closure.

Jun 21
Abby

heading to camp soon

(i’m a counselor, not a camper, you jackass)

anyway

for the record, I was going to tell you about Tris but on my own terms

 

Jun 29
Abby

you good?

 

Aug 3
Max

hey

I wanted to say

it was good seeing you yesterday

weird, but good

I know I was a little off

 

Abby

you were

but yeah

wasn’t terrible

missed you

even if I was bad at proving it

 

Max

I missed you too

and I acted like I didn’t

that wasn’t fair

you didn’t deserve that

 

Abby

thanks for saying that

it was my fault too

 

Max

you showed up

that counts

(for me, anyway)

 

Today 1:47 PM

Max

can you give her a chance?

she’s not playing me

I promise

she’s been through stuff

and she’s trying

and it would mean a lot if you met her without the walls already up

 

Abby

I didn’t say I wouldn’t

not sure I’m sold yet

you get attached fast

and you don’t always notice when people don’t meet you halfway

so yeah

I’m watching for you

but I’ll be there

and I’ll try

no promises about being nice

but I’ll be real

Max read the message again. Abby had always been the one who called her out, who refused to coddle her. Abby was watching out for her, even from a distance. The first real thing between them in months.

Chapter Text

PART II - Esme

Esme sat on her bedroom floor, Odette propped against her thigh, surrounded by a battlefield of craft supplies: scraps of velvet, embroidery thread, and clippings from old botany textbooks Juliette was discarding.

A new message appeared while she was texting Max:

Margot

maman’s calling in 5

consider this a mercy warning

Facetime buzzed.

She’d meant five literal seconds. 

Esme exhaled, smoothed her hair, and answered. 

VIVIENNE LÉVY filled the screen, framed by her signature chaos: book stacks without logic, velvet chair draped in fabric, walls of bold art and faded posters, music playing loud enough to distract. She wore a vintage band tee, one oversized earring, and held coffee. It was 8 PM in Paris.

VIVI

You live. Fascinating.

ESME

Hi, maman.

VIVI

You look pale. Or beige. Is that American lighting?

ESME

It’s Wellsbury. Everything here is beige.

VIVI

Évidemment. (sips) So. What’s made my dramatic daughter go silent four days running?

A conversation with Vivi was never a check-in; it was a performance review.

ESME

I’ve been seeing someone.

Vivi set down her cup, leaned forward.

VIVI

Oh? Continue.

ESME

Her name’s Max. Maxine.

VIVI

Cute. Gay. Go on.

ESME

She makes me laugh. Makes me smile when I don’t want to.

VIVI

Not easy. Practically miraculous.

ESME

I didn’t expect this.

VIVI

So she’s real. You’re in it.

ESME

Yes.

VIVI

And this is flamingo bed girl?

ESME

How do you do that?

VIVI

You think you’re subtle. You’re not. So, you miss her bed.

 

Esme blushed, glared. Vivi sipped, smug.

ESME

It wasn’t obvious.

VIVI

Darling. You posted a flamingo like a love letter.

ESME

We’ve only kissed. But… yeah.

VIVI

Good. I’m glad you’re letting someone in. Even partially.

ESME

She doesn’t judge me. I don’t have to perform anything.

Her mom said you knew each other. Remember her? Ellen Baker.

VIVI

(sitting back, eyebrows raised) Oh wow. Of course. Ellen Sawyer then. Haven’t thought about her in years. Blonde ponytail. Always organized. Terrifyingly punctual. Wore cardigans by choice. Teachers loved her. Everyone else assumed boring. She wasn’t.

ESME

You liked her?

VIVI

I respected her. That’s rarer.

She surprised me. Not many people did back then.

(Pause. Grins.)

Wait—my daughter and Ellen Sawyer’s daughter?

This is—! I love this. Jess is going to lose her mind.

(leans offscreen)

I’m calling her the second we hang up.

(back to the screen)

So. Will Max break your heart?

ESME

Maybe.

VIVI

Will you break hers?

 

Esme hesitated.

 

ESME

I’m trying not to.

VIVI

Good. Try harder.

 

CRASH offscreen. French cursing.

VIVI (yelling)

MARGOT, J’AI DIT QUE JE PARLE À TA SŒUR, BORDEL.

Back to Esme, softer:

VIVI

Juliette says you’re helping at the flower shop. Sleeping. Eating. Basic proof of life.

ESME

On and off. Mostly on.

VIVI

Progress. (Pause.) So, will I meet this Max next week?

ESME

I didn’t say that.

VIVI

You said her name. That’s practically an invitation in my world.

ESME

Margot said you weren’t coming until the 16th.

VIVI

Rescheduled. Had a dream. Felt right for emotional confrontation.

ESME

You’re the worst.

VIVI

Thank you, darling.

I’ll bring wine. Not American wine. Something respectable.

And I expect to be impressed. Not by her. By you.

ESME

Why me?

VIVI

Because I already know you’re brilliant. I want to see what version of you she brings out.

 

Ping. Esme’s phone lit up. Vivi clocked it instantly.

VIVI

Is that her?

 

Esme didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

VIVI

Go. You’re terrible at pretending not to smile.

ESME

Love you, maman.

VIVI

Je t’aime, ma fille. Don’t fuck it up.

The call ended. Esme let the phone drop to her lap. She tipped backwards until her head hit the floor with a soft thud, the echo of her mother’s voice still filling the room. It was always like this with Vivi—a brutal mix of connection and exhaustion. Everything ached. Her mom would be here too soon.

She picked her phone back up.

Max 1:49 PM

not trying to interrupt

just wanted to say

i trust you

 

Esme 

that’s not small

thank you

(pause)

whatever odette wants,

we should oblige

been thinking about kissing you too.

among other things.

and because i know it crossed your mind

i’m not hiding anything from you.

i just didn’t want you scrolling through a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore.

i left what still feels like mine.

 

Max

I figured there was more to the story

but thank you for telling me

I like what’s still yours

and I like that you wanted me to see it

also

kissing you is officially on the to-do list

somewhere between “buy shampoo” and “don’t freak out”

 

Esme

don’t get shampoo in your eyes

you’ll make it my problem

 

Max

Ok wow

so bossy 

now I’m nervous to shower at all

anyway

random

but

would you maybe want to meet my friends tomorrow?

Abby Ginny and Norah

I swear they don’t bite

totally fine if not

you can bring Odette as emotional support

Esme

oh

so you’re friends again

 

Max

wow okay

yeah

we’re trying

it’s new-ish

I want them to meet you

unless you hate that

 

Esme 

i don’t hate it

surprised

in a vaguely impressed way

But also a little worried

they hurt you before

don’t want that again

 

Max

they probably feel the same way about you

 

Esme

oh cool

can’t wait for this chill, completely judgment-free hangout with strangers who maybe hate me.

should be a riot.

but seriously

i do want to meet your friends.

they matter to you so i want to know them.

and i want to see you.

 

Max

great!

totally unrelated

but if you ever want to hang out

alone

like post-friends-meeting

I’d like that

a lot

but zero pressure

whenever feels right

 

Esme 

not unrelated

and not zero

but i do want that

i want to be less overwhelmed when i see you

because if it’s you and me

i’ll probably more than kiss you

and i’d rather not be half-dissociating when that happens

 

Max

yeah ok

that was maybe the hottest text i’ve ever received

it goes on the wall

next to “among other things”

I’m glad you want to

 

Max

btw

I was trying not to ask

but my brain isn’t letting it go

is clara your type

because if so

I am SO underqualified for this job

like i’m not even on the same planet

[Esme typing…]
[Esme stopped typing]

Max

sorry

that was dumb

you don’t have to answer

i saw her photos

and had a brief existential crisis

it’s fine

How did Max…?

She ran through her profile in her head, no Clara, she was sure. She’d scrubbed everything, blocked her months ago, deleted every trace she could find. It made her feel tired all over again. Sad. Resigned.

She almost left it unanswered. But then she reread Max’s second text, the way it tripped over itself, trying to take it back. She could almost hear her voice, fast and nervous and so painfully open. Max deserved an honest answer.

Esme 

clara wasn’t really a type

she was a literal vampire

she took things from people.

you just give.

you make me laugh when I don’t want to

also

you’re very much my type

if you couldn’t tell from my kisses.

i mean come on. 

She hit send and immediately regretted how honest it was. She didn’t know how to sound chill when she meant every word. Exhaustion hit suddenly.

From the messages, her mom, the memories. The wanting. So she added:

not sure why i said all that

maybe because it’s true and i wanted you to know.

anyway, i need to take a break from screens for a bit

don’t worry too much

 

Max

okay

thanks for telling me

talk soon 🦩

After setting her phone down, Esme opened her messages and stared at the list. All but Max’s were in French.

Max               
2:04 PM
talk soon 🦩

Margot
1:42 PM
consider this a mercy warning

Juliette
11:18 AM
Donne moi ton linge sale je fais la lessive ce soir.

Maman
9:01 AM    
Tu respires toujours ?

Papa
3:12 AM
Tu fais la tête ma puce ? Appelle quand tu peux.

Manon
7/6/25
anyway. thought you’d like to know. [Sent by Esme]

Leila
7/2/25
never thought I’d be missing you, go do fantastic things and don’t look back. xx

Maybe : Sabine Durand
5/22/25
no hard feelings if that was a one-time thing, just letting you know you were kinda great

Clara [muted]
3/28/25
You always wanted someone to ruin you a little. I didn’t realize you’d try to return the favor. 

Medhi Danse
2/10/25
bruh we miss you in the pit. no one hits like you. it’s off balance w/o you.

Léa
1/1/25
Srsly just stop.

She opened the one thread that still hurt to open. Manon.

Esme
Oct 25 4:45 PM

i’m sorry i didn’t warn you enough.

i didn’t stop it.

i know i was weak.

 

Esme
Oct 27 1:52 AM

i think about it all the time.

(you probably hate me. you should)

 

Esme
Oct 29 2:21 AM

i thought i’d feel different after tonight

but i don’t

i feel nothing

except i miss you

and you’re not here

and i need to talk

happy birthday to me, i guess

 

Manon
Nov 5 10:31 AM

You went with Clara after what they did to me.

Are you sick?

 

Esme

I didn’t think it would be like that.

 

Manon

you didn’t think

you wanted her

more than you cared about me

 

Esme

i care. i never stopped.

 

Manon

I’m done, Esmé. Have a nice life.

(Léa’s right about you)

 

Esme

I’m sorry.

 

Esme
Nov 7 12:22 AM

maybe i faked being a good person so well i fooled myself.

but you don’t get to say i didn’t care.

you know i did.

that’s what makes this hell.

 

Esme
Dec 31 11:58 PM

happy new year

was thinking about that time you made us wear sequins and we ended up in our pajamas by 10

anyway

i hope it’s good, wherever you are

 

Esme
Jan 19 1:16 AM

i don’t expect you to answer.

wanted you to know i still think about you. And Léa.

 

Esme
Mar 9 11:48 PM

still not dancing.

still don’t know who i am without it.

you’d probably laugh at that.

 

Esme
Jul 06 1:17 AM

i left last week.

not that you care.

maybe i won’t come back at all.

anyway. thought you’d like to know.

 

She scrolled back to the bottom of the thread. Hesitated before she typed:

 

happy birthday.

I thought about sending this all day.

I don’t expect anything.

She hit send. Hovered over the unsend option for three seconds, five, ten. Then she locked the phone and pressed it against her heart, breathing like control could be willed back into her.

When she finally sat up, she grabbed her fabric scissors and attacked a swatch of velvet with precise, violent cuts until her hands stopped shaking, until the ache in her chest eased into a familiar, focused calm. She needed something to tear apart, and it was better the fabric than herself.

Chapter Text

The next day, Max was vibrating. She blamed the third coffee she’d ordered since getting to Blue Farm, but really, it was nerves. She’d been reorganizing the sugar packets for ten minutes. Square. Triangle. Some kind of demented star shape. Three coffees was overkill.

Her friends trickled in. Abby checking her phone, Norah mid-complaint about something, Ginny laughing.

“How long have you been here?” Norah slid in across from her.

“Not long.”

“Liar,” Abby looked at the sugar packet sculpture. “You’ve already built sugar packet art.”

They fell into conversation. Norah vented about her mom’s new workout obsession. Ginny showed them a text from her dad that made zero sense. Max laughed when she was supposed to and said the right things. Under the table, her leg wouldn’t stop moving.

The door opened. Esme walked in wearing a mini dress she’d probably made herself, looking unfairly good for someone who claimed she’d rolled out of bed. She spotted them immediately.

Norah leaned closer to Max. "So this is dentist-text girl?"

"Shut up," Max hissed back.

Esme gave them a curious look as she reached the table. "What?"

"Nothing!" Max was a little too bright. "They're being weird." She scooted over. "Everyone, Esme..."

“Already figured it out,” Esme said, her tone light. “Max talks about you all. A lot.”

“A lot?” Abby’s eyebrow went up.

“Enough that I could probably pick you out of a lineup.”

Ginny hid a smile behind her cup. “Okay, now I’m nervous about what she’s said.”

“Only the good stuff,” Max insisted, pushing a latte toward Esme. 

“So, Paris,” Norah leaned forward. “Is it actually romantic, or is that movie propaganda?”

“I mean, kinda…” Esme said. “You’re walking, and suddenly it’s beautiful. Some quiet street you’ve never noticed, air that smells like warm bread and cigarettes, and a whole café of people watching the street like it’s a movie. And then you get crammed into a metro car with seventy people and remember why everyone’s constantly pissed.”

Abby let out a dry laugh. “Okay, ‘everyone’s constantly pissed’ is the most relatable thing I’ve ever heard about another country.”

Norah, however, looked completely undeterred. “So what you’re saying is, it’s like a realistic, indie movie. I’m into it.”

Ginny laughed and turned to Esme. “So you have a love-hate relationship with it.” 

Esme took the coffee Max had slid her way. A little surprised. “Doesn't everyone, with the place they're from?”

Max watched her, still half-amazed Esme was sitting here like it was normal.

“How was your school over there?” Ginny asked.

Esme’s expression changed slightly. “Well… I went to Henri-IV. Stone hallways older than America, ghosts of Sartre and Maupassant everywhere. You bleed for grades to get in, then have to pretend you’re not trying once you’re there. Everyone’s brilliant and bored. Killing themselves while acting above it all. I hated it even when I loved it.”

“Sounds like hell,” Norah said. “The fancy kind.”

“Pretty much.” Esme took a sip. “My mom warned me it would eat me alive. She left before senior year, never looked back. My grandparents insisted it would shape me. They were right.”

“Why’d they want you there so bad?” Ginny asked.

“Family legacy. They went, my sister thrived there. I was supposed to follow the script.”

“But you didn’t,” Ginny’s words were more observation than a question.

“Nope. Halfway through last year I… stopped. Stopped caring, stopped trying to be what they wanted. Liberating and terrifying at the same time.”

There was a pause. Max felt Esme tense slightly beside her.

Ginny leaned forward. “Your mom’s Vivienne Lévy, right? She did that documentary about teen dancers in Paris?”

Esme blinked, surprised. “You know her work?”

“I went through a whole thing last year. Watched everything.” Ginny’s eyes lit up, and Max felt a knot of secondhand anxiety form in her own stomach. Ginny was walking into a minefield and had no idea. “The way she films movement… it’s like she sees the story in people’s bodies.”

“That’s… exactly what she says,” Esme’s voice was so carefully neutral it was like a blank wall.

“God, that shot where the girl is practicing alone at night,” Ginny continued, leaning forward. “The way she moves when she thinks no one’s watching. It’s so vulnerable and beautiful.”

Esme’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her lips. “That’s me.”

The table went dead quiet.

“Three years ago,” Esme continued, her voice carefully flat. “And no, I didn’t know she was filming.”

Wait, what? And why do I want to watch this film so badly when I know I shouldn’t? She’d kill me. …Would she? I kinda want to see her, before all of this. Before me…

Ginny’s enthusiasm drained away instantly. “Oh fuck. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be. You responded exactly how she wanted people to respond.” Esme’s smile was razor-thin. “Authentic cinema, right? Nothing more real than violation.”

Abby set down her cup hard. “That’s fucked up.”

“Which part?” Esme asked. “The filming without consent, or the fact that it won awards? She still does it.”

Silence.

Ginny looked like she might throw up. “Esme, I’m so sorry I brought it up…”

“Don’t.” Esme’s voice was firm but not unkind. “You didn’t know. And I’m genuinely glad you connected with the movie. She has a unique eye, and as usual her skills shine.”

Abby leaned forward. “Has she done other stuff like that?”

“Define ‘stuff like that.’”

“Filmed you without permission?”

Esme’s laugh was hollow. “Abby, I grew up with a mother who thinks privacy is the enemy of authenticity. Everything was material.”

Max reached for Esme’s hand under the table. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine.” But Esme’s fingers were ice-cold. “Anyway, that’s why I’m here. Distance. Boundaries. Learning to exist without being someone else’s content.”

Norah, tried to lighten it. “Well, you’ve definitely come to the right place. Wellsbury’s basically where creativity goes to die.”

“Perfect,” Esme said, and for the first time since Ginny brought up the film, her smile looked real.

“Do you still dance?” Ginny asked gently.

“No, I moved on.” She sounded detached. 

“It’s intense,” Ginny was careful. “Having a parent who fills up every room is exhausting. Like, you don’t know where they end and you begin.”

“Both my parents are like that. Different styles, same effect. They take up all the air, all the meaning.” Esme’s voice stayed neutral. “They didn’t ask me to be like them. But they didn’t leave space to be anything else.”

“God, I get that. My mom’s the same. Even when she tries to back off, she’s still… everywhere. In every conversation, every decision.”

They shared a look of understanding that made Max feel oddly left out.

Abby leaned forward. “So you left because of that?”

“Well… partly.” Esme’s voice stayed level. “Sometimes you need distance from your whole life, you know?”

“We wouldn’t know anything about that,” Ginny said, looking over at Max. “We’ve never avoided dealing with our problems.”

“Never,” Norah agreed solemnly.

“We’re basically the picture of emotional health,” Abby added.

They talked for a while about random stuff. Esme asked about their summers.Ginny complained about jet lag and her dad making her eat kimchi for breakfast in Seoul. Norah had spent hers in the Hamptons with her mom, perfecting cut creases and watching every makeup tutorial ever made. Abby wouldn’t shut up about some true crime podcast she’d binged between camp activities. Esme admitted she’d been helping at the flower shop and “making weird art no one asked for.” Max relaxed for five seconds, watching Esme gently tease Abby for being obsessed with the hot new barista who’d made their drinks.

Abby, because she had zero chill, turned to Esme. “So what exactly is this?” She gestured between them.

“We’re…” Max started but trailed off. They hadn’t exactly DTR’d.

“Figuring it out,” Esme supplied, glancing at Max.

“That’s vague,” Norah observed.

“That’s accurate,” Esme countered.

“So like, are you together or just vibing?” Abby pressed.

Max’s face went hot. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s a valid question.”

“We’re something,” Max said firmly. “Can we leave it at that?”

Ginny stayed quiet, probably thinking about her own undefined situationships.

“Whatever,” Abby then asked Esme. “You planning to stick around? Because Max gets attached fast, and she doesn’t always notice when people aren’t meeting her halfway.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“I think you ghosted her for two days after making out with her.”

“I’m right here,” Max interrupted. “Stop talking about me like I’m not.”

“Fair. You’re right to be protective.” Esme said, as her hand found Max’s under the table again. “I get it. You’re her people. You’re worried I’ll hurt her. Fair. But you all hurt her this summer, and she’s still here. Maybe she’s tougher than you think.”

Silence.

“Damn.” Norah finally. “She just read us for filth.”

“In the nicest possible way,” Ginny added.

Abby was quiet, studying Esme.

“There’s a party Thursday. Brodie’s. You should come.”

“Should I?”

“Yeah.” Abby’s voice softened. “Yeah, you should.”

They finished their coffees, the conversation finally getting easier. Ginny asked about French authors. Norah wanted to know if French boys were better dressed.

As Max was starting to relax, Abby pushed her chair back slightly. "Baker," her voice dropped. "Smoke break. Now."

Max looked at her, surprised, then at Esme, who was now trapped in a conversation with Ginny about her mom’s other films while Norah tried to Google them. "Uh, okay." She stood up and followed Abby out.

Outside, Abby lit a cigarette she definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since camp,” Abby took a drag. “Kids are stressful.” She leaned against the wall. “Your girl’s holding her own in there.”

“She’s not my—”

“Please.” Abby gave her a look. “I’ve known you since you ate Play-Doh in kindergarten. I know your faces.”

Despite everything, Max smiled. “I never ate Play-Doh.”

“You definitely did.” Another drag. “She clearly cares about you. She wasn’t trying too hard. I respect that.”

“What do you mean?”

“She could’ve overcompensated. Tried to charm us, win us over. She didn’t. She showed up and let it be whatever it was.”

“That’s just her,” Max said.

“Yeah. I clocked that.” Abby flicked ash off her cigarette. “Doesn’t mean I trust her yet.”

Max’s smile faded. “She’s not trying to win you over.”

“That’s why I don’t hate her.” Abby glanced through the window. “But I still have my eye on her.”

Max looked at her. “You were kind of mean earlier.”

“I was direct. There’s a difference.”

Max gave her a look.

“What? You want me to pretend everything’s fine?” She took another drag, exhaled slowly. “This is me making an effort, okay? And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t care if someone shows up out of nowhere and messes with your whole situation.”

“So… what, she passed the test?”

“Barely. Only because she made Norah laugh and Ginny didn’t go full therapist.”

Max went quiet. “You know I needed you this summer, right?”

“I know.” Abby looked away. “I wasn’t there when it counted.”

“Abby—”

“No, let me say this. We left you alone when you needed us. I left you alone. First friend rules, I should’ve known better.”

Max’s throat felt tight. Abby never apologized. Not directly.

“Look, I know this summer was fucked. But we’re trying, okay? All of us.”

“I know.”

“Do you though? Because sometimes you get this look like you’re waiting for us to leave again. And I’m not going anywhere. Even when you’re annoying. Which is often.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s what friends do.” She dropped the cigarette, crushed it. “I’m gonna go collect those two before they adopt your French girl.”

Back inside, Esme had somehow charmed both Ginny and Norah into laughing at something on her phone.

“Ready?” Max asked.

Esme looked up from her phone with a theatrical eye-roll. “Thank god,” she muttered, sliding the phone into her pocket.

They said their goodbyes and headed out. The second they were alone, Esme grabbed Max’s hand properly.

“Well.” Esme, once they were a safe distance away. “That was… an experience.”

“That was them on their best behavior,” Max said wryly.

“Right,” Esme deadpanned. “Good to know.”

They walked without destination, their hands finding each other again naturally.

“Abby likes you,” Max said. “That’s rare.”

“She’s protective. I respect it.”

“Even though she was kind of grilling you?”

“Especially because of that.” Esme squeezed her hand. “It means you matter to them. Even if they’re kind of crap at showing it.”

Max pulled her to a stop. “You know you matter too, right? To me?”

Esme’s grip on her hand tightened, but she didn’t speak right away. 

“You were pretty vague back there.” Max gently. “When they asked if you were staying.”

“I know.”

“Will you?”

Esme stopped walking. “I don’t know how to stay, Max. I only know how to leave.”

“So, learn.”

“What if I’m bad at it?”

“Then you’ll match the rest of us.”

Esme laughed softly, then pulled Max closer, kissing her right there on the sidewalk.

When they pulled apart, Esme studied her face. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Where you’re convinced this is temporary.”

Max looked away. “Everything kind of is lately.”

“Hey.” Esme turned her face back gently. “After you left, Ginny told me four different stories about you. All embarrassing, all told with so much love I wanted to take notes.”

“She did?”

“Norah has a photo of you four as her lock screen.” Esme took both of Max’s hands. “They’re not going anywhere.”

Max leaned into her touch. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’m not. I recognize the look.”

They walked slower now, stopping to look in shop windows they didn’t care about, finding excuses to lean into each other. At the corner near the bookstore, Esme pulled Max into the alcove by the entrance.

“Thursday,” she said, sounding slightly nervous. “That party’s Thursday?”

“Yeah. You okay with that?”

“I’m… yeah. I want to go.” She kissed Max again, harder this time, Max’s back against the brick wall. “I’m not great at parties. Too many people, too much noise.”

“We can leave whenever you want.”

“No, I want to try. Your world, remember?” Another kiss. “Stay close?”

“Obviously.”

They stayed there for a while, kissing in the alcove. An older woman walked by and tutted disapprovingly. Esme waved without breaking the kiss. Max laughed against her mouth.

“You’re trouble,” Max said.

“You like it.”

“I really do.”

Eventually, Esme pulled back, checking her phone. “Okay, now I need to go. Juliette will kill me if I’m late for the afternoon deliveries.”

“Thursday feels far.”

“Two days.” Esme kissed her once more, quick. “We can survive two days.”

“Can I text you tonight?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

Esme squeezed her hand before letting go, walking backward for a few steps. “For what it’s worth… this doesn’t feel temporary to me.”

She turned and headed toward the flower shop before Max could respond.

Max stood there, replaying that last sentence, her phone buzzing.

MANG 🌟🌟🌟

Norah: okay but how is dentist-text girl this cool
Ginny: she’s French. They come out of the womb cool
Abby: still not over that text tho
Max: never telling you people anything again
Norah: you’re glowing
Max: shut up
Ginny: you love us
Max: unfortunately
Abby: see you thursday

Max smiled and finally started walking.

She could make it to Thursday.

Chapter Text

“You’ve been staring at the same shirt for ten minutes,” Juliette said from the doorway. “It’s a basement party in Wellsbury, not the Met Gala. Wear something black.”

“I’m thinking,” Esme replied, holding up a black velvet camisole with lace trim. That was the one. She could picture it: paired with a hot pink mini skirt and combat boots.

Juliette leaned against the frame, smirking. “Thinking about the party? Or the girl you’re going with?”

Esme smiled. She didn’t need to answer.

The final touches were ritual. She clasped a necklace of onyx and silver, sliding the matching ring onto her finger. Her earrings and bracelet blazed hot pink against the dark stone. A quick line of charcoal liner, a coat of gloss, and she was ready.

“Well, hello, neon Barbie apocalypse. You look like you’re about to start a revolution at a rave,” Max said when she appeared at the door.

“I mean, that would be pretty fun.” Esme laughed. “You’re one to talk.”

Max’s dress was devastating: deep red, plunging in the back, clinging in a way that erased all thought. Her hair was pinned up. Dark lipstick made her mouth look like a dare. Esme couldn’t stop staring.

They grinned at each other, both too keyed up to hold it for long, until Max muttered, “Okay, stop looking at me like that or I’ll combust before we reach the sidewalk.”

They started walking, fingers brushing until Esme took her hand.

The night was humid, thick with summer heat. Music pulsed from two blocks away, bass bleeding through the pavement. Everything felt like a prelude.
By the time they reached Brodie’s, Max squeezed her hand once, then let go.

“Ready?”

Esme wasn’t. She nodded anyway.

Esme stepped off the last stair and the party crashed into her. The air was a hot, humid mix of beer and weed, trapped beneath a low ceiling. The bass from a half-broken speaker wasn't only a sound, it was a physical pressure that vibrated up from the concrete floor. A cheap disco ball, duct-taped to a beam, threw lazy, distorted shapes over it all. Everyone was too close, their conversations bleeding into one another, leaving no real silence or personal space.

“Give me a minute to adjust,” Esme said, gesturing at the room. “Then you can introduce me to people.”

Max squeezed her hand. “Hey, no rush. We can hang by the stairs as long as you need.”

“MAXIE BAKER!”

Brodie’s voice carried over everything. Max turned toward the sound, and for a moment, muscle memory took over. She came alive in a way Esme hadn’t seen before, though the flicker of hesitation underneath was still visible.

Esme gave her a nod. Go.

Soon, Max was across the room, bare shoulders and red dress, wearing half-remembered confidence. Her laugh came quick, a little louder than usual. People adjusted themselves around her. Even while she played the part, she kept glancing back to check on Esme.

Esme grabbed a drink and found a corner to observe from. The space felt manageable now that she’d found her footing, though she was still watching rather than participating.

One second she was trying to look normal, the next she was on the far end of a massive U-shaped sectional. Samantha had appeared beside her, pink drink in hand, talking animatedly to someone across the cushions. And on Esme’s other side, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, was Press.

He didn’t sit on the couch so much as occupy it, leaned deep into the cushions with his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, a plastic cup dangling from his fingers. Half-bored, half-smug. 

She was mid-sip when he spoke.

“You’re with Max,” Press said without looking at her.

“Yeah.”

He turned then, studying her with lazy, dissecting interest. “So, is this a summer fling, or are you planning to ruin her properly?”

Samantha winced. “Jesus, Press.”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

Esme stared at him, the casual cruelty landing like a shard of ice. “That’s a bold assumption for someone who doesn’t know me.”

Press smirked, unbothered. Samantha looked uncomfortable but stayed silent.

Esme stood, set down her drink, and headed for the stairs.

The narrow landing felt like sanctuary. Wide enough for two if they didn’t mind being close, dark except for light spilling up from below.

Esme sat on the floor facing the door, back against the cool wall. The music was a muffled thrum now, as if the party had sunk underwater. No one could see her here.

Max appeared three minutes later, barefoot, holding two drinks.

“For a minute I thought you’d left,” she said, handing Esme a cup. “Let me guess. Press opened his mouth and something horrible fell out.”

Esme took the cup but didn’t drink. “Not worth repeating.” 

“God, he’s exhausting.” Max dropped down across from her, folding her legs under the red dress. “He thinks my default setting is self-destruct.”

Esme glanced at her. “Is it?”

“Sometimes,” Max admitted. “Never on purpose.”

“You looked happy down there.”

“I was.”

“It surprised me.”

Max’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

“I guess I forgot what it feels like. Caring about someone… and watching everyone else want them too.”

Max’s expression changed. “Is that what you think was happening?”

“I think…” Esme looked at her hands. “I think it scared me how much I wanted you to be mine. Only mine.”

Max moved closer.

“I’m not trying to be wanted by anyone else,” she said. “I was trying to be enough. For you. In this dress. At this party. In this town.”

“You are,” Esme said. “Too much, sometimes.”

Max looked down. “Yeah. That’s what scares people off.” Then, too fast, she added, “You don’t think everyone was staring at you too?”

“What?”

“The way you look. Five people mentioned it.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I thought you knew. I thought we’d walk in together and everyone would see us and… get it.”

“They saw you, not us.”

Max looked away. “Maybe because I was trying to walk in like I had a sexy French girlfriend. Not like someone who would bolt at any second.”

“Come here,” Esme said suddenly.

Max looked up.

Esme reached for her hands, tugged gently. “Come here.”

Max let herself be pulled forward. Esme guided her closer, hands on her waist, until Max settled in her lap, knees bracketing her hips.

“Better,” Esme murmured.

Max rested her forehead against Esme’s. Their breath mingled in the small space between them. The rest of the world went out of focus.

“I kept looking for you,” Max said quietly. “Making sure you were okay.”
“I noticed.”
Esme kissed her. Max responded immediately, deepening it, hands sliding into Esme’s hair.

Esme stopped trying to hold back. She didn’t know what tomorrow looked like. Tonight, she wanted Max. This moment. Something that was only theirs. No more mistaking wanting someone for hurting them.

She pulled Max closer, quieting every thought that insisted she wasn’t ready. Max melted against her.

Esme kissed her again, slower this time, feeling the small shiver that went through Max in response. “Can I touch you?” she whispered.

Max’s response was breathless: “Please.”

Her hands moved with intention. One holding Max at the waist, the other skimming the bare skin above her thigh.

Max leaned into the touch, hips rolling with quiet insistence.

Esme’s fingers found the edge of her underwear, teasing, waiting.

Max nodded against her mouth, every part of her saying yes, and Esme’s hand slipped beneath the fabric.

Max drew in a breath and pressed forward, burying her face in the curve of Esme’s neck, a quiet, disbelieving laugh vibrating against her skin. Esme moved with her, chasing that sound. Max found the lace at the edge of Esme’s top and eased it down, her fingers brushing exposed skin. Her thumb traced slow circles, anchoring them both. Esme’s hand tightened on Max’s arm, a silent plea not to stop.

The bass from below became their heartbeat, blurring the rest of the world. They moved together in the dark, a secret rhythm, until Max tensed, trembling, and muffled a gasp against Esme’s collarbone. As Max’s hand pressed against her, Esme felt her own carefully constructed walls begin to crumble.

For a moment, they stayed tangled together, both trying to catch their breath.

“Wow,” Max said into her skin, barely audible. “Okay, wow.”

“Okay yeah,” Esme said, breath still catching. "That’s accurate.”

“You could ask me for anything right now and I’d say yes.”

Esme smiled. “Don’t tempt me.”

Max kissed her once more, soft and grateful. “Ready to face them again?”

“With you? Yeah.”

They descended the stairs together, Max leading, their fingers loosely linked. The party hadn’t changed but for them, everything felt different. Softer around the edges.

When they re-emerged, cheeks flushed and lipstick blurred, Ginny noticed first.

She nudged Norah, who grinned. “Guess Max worked things out.”

Abby’s expression tightened. “She’s very good at that.”

Max grabbed a drink off the nearest table, scanning the room with new confidence. Esme hesitated at the bottom of the stairs until Max caught her hand and pulled her toward the group.

She felt it then, something changing in how they were seen together.

For a while, it was easy. They stood with Ginny and Norah, a small island in the middle of the noise. The others talked fast, a flurry of inside jokes and shared history that Esme couldn’t follow. Max shot her a quick, apologetic smile. Esme nodded, giving her hand a small squeeze before letting go and drifting toward a nearby wall to give them space.

The wall felt like a safe outpost. Drink in hand, she watched Max glow.

“You’re quieter when she’s not kissing you.”

Esme turned. Abby. Arms crossed, tone casual as if she’d been standing there the whole time.

“Is that a greeting?”

Abby shrugged. “It’s a party. You already won the main event.”

They stood side by side for a minute, both watching Max, a whirlwind of red dress and animated gestures. Esme stayed silent.

“She’s annoying,” Abby added. “In case she forgot to mention it.”

“She did. I figured it out anyway.”

“She’s also the kind of person who gives everything,” Abby said. “All at once. Even when no one asked.”

“I know.”

“No,” Abby said, turning to her. “You really don’t.”

Esme tensed, but Abby kept going. “She’ll fall for you in like three days, convince herself you’re soulmates, and when it inevitably gets complicated, she’ll spend six months dissecting every text you ever sent looking for where she went wrong.”

Esme’s voice came quiet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Abby finally looked at her directly, eyes narrowed like she was trying to read something Esme hadn’t said out loud.

“Sophie lasted ten days and Max is still not over it. So yeah, be careful with her. Because when Max crashes, she crashes loud.”

Abby looked back at Max, who was laughing at something Ginny said, completely oblivious.

“She’s lucky,” Abby added, her voice suddenly rough. “I mean… unfortunately.”

That last word came too fast, a shield thrown up to cover something she hadn’t meant to reveal. This wasn’t about her. It was about Max. She could’ve pushed, but Max wasn’t something to win, and Abby wasn’t trying to fight.

“You’re not warning me off,” Esme said quietly. “You’re warning me not to hurt her.”

Abby’s expression didn’t change. “I’m saying don’t be the reason she breaks her own heart.”

She searched Esme’s face for another second before giving a single nod. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, Esme stood still, Abby’s words echoing. Don’t be the reason she breaks her own heart. It wasn’t a threat. It was something heavier: a transfer of responsibility.

A choice.

Esme finished her drink. Let her body move without overthinking.

Instead of retreating to another corner, she walked toward the laughter.

Hunter cracked a joke. She laughed. Ginny passed glitter. Norah smeared it across her collarbone. When someone called for a group photo, she didn’t hide.

An hour later, the playlist changed.

A slow pulse threaded through the room, something that reached her before she understood it.

Her body picked up the beat before she did.

Near the drum kit, Esme closed her eyes. Her arms lifted and moved with the rhythm. The beat carried her. For the first time in months, she wasn’t thinking about Paris or Vivi or who might be watching. She was dancing.

Across the room, she felt Max’s attention before she saw it.

When she opened her eyes, Max was already moving toward her.

They met in the middle, breath and bass and heat between them. Max’s hand found her hip.

Esme leaned in, close enough for her lips to brush Max’s ear. “I forgot it could feel like this.” 

“Like what?” Max’s voice was warm. 

Esme pulled back enough to look at her, the flashing lights catching in her eyes, and smiled. That was her answer. She leaned in and kissed her.
They moved together, a continuation of the secret rhythm they’d found upstairs in the dark.

Chapter Text

The morning after the party

Max was all over the place.

Esme: last night meant a lot ❤️

A heart emoji.

Max reread the message more times than she would ever admit. This was Esme post-processing. Esme who'd gone home, slept on it, and apparently decided the safest response was a greeting card.

She launched her phone across the bed, then crawled after it.

The questions wouldn't stop: What are we now? Will she ghost again? Was that real or am I completely delusional?

She wanted more. Longer. In private. On purpose. She wanted Esme to want her back the same desperate, consuming way.

Max rolled onto her stomach, muffling a groan into her pillow.

Friday afternoon, Blue Farm Cafe

"You're not listening," Esme said, catching Max mid-stare.

Max blinked back to reality. Esme was talking about roses. Wrong-colored roses for Juliette's order, something about peach versus salmon, which should have been interesting because Esme's mouth was moving and that was generally Max's favorite show.

"I'm listening with my eyes."

Esme laughed, genuine for exactly two seconds before it faded. "That's not how listening works."

"It is when you look the way you do."

Esme's smile flickered, went polite. She turned back to her coffee, back to flowers.

Max wanted to grab her shoulders. Remember last night? The stairs? When you made that sound and I thought I might actually die?

She reached for Esme's hand from across the table. "Esme, look at me. Do you really care about those roses, or are you avoiding what happened?"

Esme's cup paused halfway to her lips. "I—"

"Because if you're going to pretend last night didn't happen, tell me now."

Esme set her cup down carefully. "You're right. I'm avoiding it. I don't know how to talk about it."

"Can you at least try?"

"Yeah, okay..." Esme's fingers traced the rim of her cup. "It scared me. How much I wanted it. How much I wanted you." She glanced up. "I don't do well with unpredictability. I like to plan ahead, I like control. And it scared me that I wanted you so much I lost control of myself."

Max stared at her. "Is that all it was to you? You losing control?"

"No." Esme's response came fast, almost panicked. "No, absolutely not."

"Because you're talking about needing predictability while making me sit here not knowing what we are or when you'll decide it's the right time for... anything."

Esme flinched. "You're right. That's—God, that's exactly what I'm doing." She looked down at her hands. "I haven't stopped thinking about it. About you. And yeah, I want it to happen again. I'm dying for it. But I also need space to let it mean something instead of reacting."

Max waited.

"I know that's unfair to you," Esme continued. "Making you wait while I figure out how to be brave enough to want something without sabotaging it."

Max nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"I can give you space. But please don't disappear on me again." Max paused, then added with a slight smirk, "Also... you like control?"

Esme's cheeks went pink. "Max."

"I'm noting it for future reference."

Esme buried her face in her hands. "I'm never talking to you about anything again. Also, both."

Max's smirk faltered. "Oh." Her own cheeks went pink. "That's... yeah. Very interesting information."

Sunday, 10:52 AM

Max: my parents are ditching me for the lake tomorrow
Max: house empty until tuesday
Max: I know you said you needed space and I'm not trying to pressure you
Max: but if you want to come over and we could like… exist. horizontally. or whatever
Max: totally fine if not
Esme: eloquent
Max: is that a yes
Esme: yes
Max: cool cool cool cool
Esme: that's a lot of cools
Max: yeah I'm very chill about this

Max stared at that last exchange until her eyes burned. At least Esme was joking back. That had to mean something.

Monday afternoon

Ellen left post-its on the fridge and kissed Max's head like she was ten.

"I'm glad you found each other," she said, loading the car. "You seem happier."

Max nodded, though happier wasn't exactly right. More like electrified and confused.

The bed situation had reached critical levels. Blue sheets. Third attempt. The first screamed desperation, the second whispered depression. These aimed for casual but my skin looks incredible against this color.

Max checked herself in the mirror. Tank top: soft, loose, shoulder already slipping. No bra, because subtlety was already dead. Skirt: short, colorful, patterned, the kind that made her feel like herself again.

Her phone buzzed.

Esme: on my way 💫

"Don't be weird," Max told her reflection. "Don't quote Chicago. Don't say anything about love. Or forever. Or how you've been thinking about her hands for three days."

Great pep talk.

Max opened the door and knew immediately she was in trouble.

Black skinny jeans, and a fitted tee printed with Warhol's turquoise flowers. Lipstick, purple eyeshadow that made her green eyes pop, with matching nail polish. Since when does she do color and patterns?

"Hi," Esme said, doing that quiet voice thing that made Max want to scream.

Max grabbed Esme's hand. "Get in here before Mrs. Chen sees us and starts asking about the musical theater program again."

They made it to the couch, stayed there a while. A show played in the background, but Max couldn't focus with Esme sitting three inches away like temptation in turquoise flowers.

"You're staring," Esme said.

"Wasn't trying to hide it."

"Your parents really gone until tomorrow?"

"Yeah. One last honeymoon before Marcus comes back Wednesday and makes everything weird again."

"How do you feel about him coming back?"

Max's expression softened. "Terrified. Relieved. Like everything's about to become real again."

"And you're okay being alone now?"

Max turned to her. "I'm not alone. You're here."

Esme leaned in first. The kiss started soft, then Max deepened it, chasing Thursday's heat.

"Bedroom?" Max whispered against her mouth.

Esme hesitated. Nodded.

They barely made it to the bed before Esme was kissing her neck, finding that spot that made Max's brain shut off. Max grabbed Esme's hips, pulling until Esme was half on top of her, legs tangling.

"Oh my god," Max gasped as Esme's mouth moved lower.

Esme's hands slid under the tank top, nails dragging lightly up Max's sides. Max arched into it, a sound escaping before she could stop it.

"Take it off," Esme murmured against her throat.

Max yanked the tank over her head so fast she almost elbowed Esme. "Graceful as always."

"Very," Esme agreed, but she was staring at Max's chest with an intensity that made Max forget to feel exposed.

Esme traced the underside of one breast with her thumb. Max made a sound she didn't know she could make.

"T'es trop belle," Esme whispered, like it escaped without permission.

Max caught her breath. "You can't do that."

"What?"

"Say things in French when I'm literally—" Max gestured at herself. "That's cheating."

Esme laughed, then pulled her shirt off in one motion. Black lace corset bra underneath, the kind that opened in the front.

She definitely planned this.

Max reached up, traced where lace met skin. Esme's eyes closed, then she leaned back down and kissed her.

They found a rhythm, both pressing forward, Max's leg between Esme's thighs, Esme's pressing back, a slow grind that sent heat everywhere. They moved like they both knew exactly what the other needed. Like they couldn't get close enough.

Max fumbled for Esme's jeans, got the button open—

"Wait."

No. Don't do this again.

"If you're about to pull back," Max's voice cracked, "kiss me, fuck me, disappear, send me some polite little nothing... don't. Don't make me feel like I imagined it again."

Esme flinched. She sat back slightly, looking at Max like she'd been slapped. "I know. I know I hurt you. That was me being a coward. I thought if I made it small, it would be safer. But I'm not doing that now."

"Then what is this? Because this feels real, and if you turn it into something you can walk away from again, I won't come back from it."

Esme caught Max's wrists. Pressed them into the pillow, one on each side of Max's head. Their fingers intertwined. She hovered above Max, hair falling forward, lipstick gone, still in that corset that was definitely going to haunt Max's dreams.

Her voice came low. Fractured. "If we keep going, I'll have to tell you everything."

Max stared up at her. "Tell me what?"

"Things that will change how you look at me."

"Try me."

"Maxine—"

"You could tell me you murdered someone and I'd probably still—"

"I was in love with someone who made me cruel." Esme's voice broke. "I watched my best friend get destroyed and I still chose her. I chose wanting over everything else."

Max's stomach dropped. "What?"

"You look at me like I'm good. Like I deserve this. And if I tell you everything right now, while we're—" She gestured at their current state. "I'll lose that look. And I need it to last a little longer."

Max's brain was screaming don’t pull away again while her heart was already trying to run.

"So you're stopping because you care too much?"

"I'm stopping because I love you."

The words landed hard. Max went still.

"You what?"

"Oh god." Esme's eyes closed. "I didn't mean—that's not how—"

"Say it again."

Esme opened her eyes. "I love you."

Max's heart hammered. She wasn't ready. She was ready. It didn't matter.

"I love you too."

No take-backs. No sarcasm. Real and terrifying and irreversible.

But Esme was still here. Still holding her hands.

Max added, softer, "I've only said it once before. To Sophie. She didn't say it back. She broke up with me the next day. But this isn't that."

Esme's face changed, fierce and protective. "Sophie's an idiot."

"I love you," Max whispered again. "Even if you're apparently harboring some dark backstory about destroying people."

Esme laughed, it caught in her throat like a sob. "You don't know—"

"I know enough. I know you're here. I know you stopped because you want to do this right. I know you're scared I'll leave when I know everything." Max paused. "I won't leave. But you have to actually tell me. All of it. And you have to let me feel whatever I feel about it. Not now, but when you do."

Esme nodded against her. "That's fair."

"Because right now I'm promising based on... vibes? And that's probably stupid."

"It is stupid," Esme agreed, voice muffled.

"But I mean it anyway."

Esme collapsed against her, face buried in Max’s neck. Max could feel her trembling.

"We can stop," she said quietly. "We can be here. Like this."

"I still want you," Esme mumbled into her shoulder.

"Yeah, no kidding. You're in a corset bra and basically grinding on me."

That got a real laugh. Esme lifted her head, eyes wet but smiling. "Stop."

They rearranged until Esme was curled against Max's side, head on her chest, legs tangled. Max grabbed a blanket, pulled it over them.

"For the record," Max said to the ceiling, "this is the weirdest rejection I've ever experienced."

"It's not rejection."

"I know. It's worse. It's feelings."

Esme traced patterns on Max's stomach. "I'm sorry I'm so complicated."

"I'm not." Max kissed the top of her head. "But next time? When you're ready? I'm going to figure out exactly what you like."

Esme’s breath caught. “I want that. I want you to.”

Eventually, the adrenaline faded, leaving a quiet exhaustion in its place. They untangled themselves, moved through the house with a new, unspoken softness. Esme changed into a pair of Max’s sweatpants, and they ate pizza on the living room floor, barely watching the movie they’d put on.

Later, in the dark of Max’s room, there were no more confessions, no more grand declarations. Esme's head found its place on Max's chest, her breathing evening out into sleep. Max stared at the ceiling, wide awake.

The next morning, Esme left before Ellen and Clint returned. She kissed Max at the door, slow and lingering.

“Marcus comes home tomorrow,” she said softly, framing Max’s face with her hands. “That’s a big deal. You should have that day for you and him. No distractions. I don’t want to take up space I shouldn’t.”

Max nodded, her throat suddenly tight. “Text me?”

Esme smiled. “Of course.” She walked away after one last wave.

Max stood in the doorway until she disappeared.

Max stood in the doorway until she disappeared, then went back upstairs. The sheets still smelled like Esme's perfume.

She loves me. She's also hiding something that might ruin everything.

Max collapsed back on the bed. Marcus would be home tomorrow, rehab officially over. She’d also have to navigate him meeting Esme, hoping he wouldn’t see whatever she was too smitten to notice. Her parents would want family dinner and heart-to-hearts. Real life, crashing back.

But Esme had stayed the night. Esme had said it back.

Max grabbed her phone, typed and deleted a dozen messages, then gave up. She'd wait. She was getting good at waiting.

Even when it was killing her.

Chapter Text

Marcus stopped in his bedroom doorway. He'd been home less than an hour.

Eight weeks. Everything sat wrong. Someone had come through here, cleaned and organized with meticulous precision. His favorite hoodie lay folded on the chair. The bed corners tucked perfectly, the way his mom liked them.

A water bottle was on his nightstand with a pack of gum and a note in Max's familiar scrawl:

Don't freak out. I only came in here like twice. Maybe three times. Okay five. Whatever. You're alive and that's the only thing that matters. - M

He swallowed twice before folding the note and slipping it in one of his desk drawers. This was the part rehab didn't prepare you for: coming home to the soft, rearranged quiet of people who'd learned to exist around your absence.

The walls hit hardest. Every poster, every sketch he'd tacked up, every skateboard deck, stared back. His entire brain, spread out and pinned down. After weeks of sterile blue walls and regulation white bedding, his room felt like too much to look at all at once.

In rehab, he'd shared a room with Devon, a kid from Brookline who collected comic books from the '90s and could draw perfect portraits from memory. Devon said addiction was just trying to turn down the volume on your own thoughts. Maybe that's why the institutional calm had felt like relief. No visual noise, only space.

The first week, his mom had brought him a family photo, the neutral one from the fridge with their camera-ready smiles, but it wasn't the one he would have chosen. He'd have picked the Halloween photo of him and Max as Richie and Margot Tenenbaum: her in a blonde wig, faux fur coat and Lacoste polo dress, him in tan suit, aviator sunglasses and tennis headband, both with perfectly blank stares. The photo caught them mid-laugh, Ellen joking about their emotional detachment. One of the few times he remembered feeling genuinely happy to be weird with his sister instead of weird alone.

He'd kept other pictures private, tucked between book pages. The photobooth strip of him and Ginny making stupid faces. And the one of Bridge that still closed his throat when he looked at it.

Now, surrounded by the layers of his old life, Marcus felt claustrophobic. The antler drawing still sat under his desk lamp where he'd left it, but it felt like someone else's work now.

Ellen had turned the kitchen into mission control. A color-coded calendar dominated the fridge, Marcus's days mapped out in precise blocks. Tutoring sessions to catch up before junior year. Outpatient group therapy three times a week at the facility. Individual therapy sessions with Dr. G. Even his meals were planned, tupperware containers stacked with his supposed favorites, the pantry restocked with snacks he'd liked months ago.

The alcohol had vanished entirely. Marcus had noticed the empty space where Dad's bourbon used to sit, the wine rack cleared out completely.

"Dr. Griesinger recommended maintaining the same structure you had in treatment," Ellen explained, running her finger down the schedule. "Routine is important for recovery."

Marcus nodded. Honestly, he was looking forward to group therapy. Seeing Devon and the others who were still working the program. The structure didn't bother him, it was Ellen assuming she now knew exactly what he needed that felt strange.

They'd done family therapy sessions at the facility, awkward hour-long conversations where none of them seemed capable of saying what they actually meant. Ellen would talk about "communication strategies." Clint would nod and sign supportive phrases. Max would crack jokes to deflect whenever the conversation got too heavy. And Marcus would sit there feeling like they were all going through the motions of recovery rather than actually doing it.

But now, watching Ellen orchestrate his reintegration like a military operation, he could see the love underneath the control. She needed this schedule as much as he supposedly did.

Dinner felt like theater. Ellen had made lasagna, asking every thirty seconds if he wanted more, if it was too cheesy, if he remembered their old cooking sessions.

"It's good, Mom. Really."

"Are you sure? You're barely eating. I could make something else—"

Clint cut in with a quiet sign to Ellen: He said it’s good.

Ellen’s mouth closed. She gave a tight, single nod.

His dad passed the garlic bread without being asked, refilled Marcus's water glass when it was still half full. Small gestures that said welcome home without requiring words.

Max told a story about the neighbor's cat stealing someone's lunch from their porch, complete with theatrical gasps. Ellen laughed too loud. Clint shook his head but smiled.

Marcus watched it all through glass: this version of normal they'd choreographed while he was gone. Now he was expected to hit his mark and act like the last eight weeks hadn't gutted him.

"Maxine, while your father and I are at work, I need you to—"

"Mom," Marcus interrupted. "Max doesn't need to babysit me."

Ellen looked between them, startled. "I'm not asking her to babysit. I want someone here in case—"

"In case I relapse?" Marcus kept his voice level. "Max has already done enough."

Max shifted uncomfortably. "It's fine, Marcus. I'm here anyway."

"No, it's not fine." Marcus turned to his parents. "Do you realize what you put her through while I was gone? Making her responsible for keeping me alive?"

Ellen's face went pale. "That's not... we never said that."

"You didn't have to say it." Marcus looked at Max, who was suddenly very interested in her bracelet. "She's been holding this family together since I started drinking. Being the good kid so you could focus on fixing the broken one."

Clint's hands moved slowly. We didn't realize...

“She gave up her whole summer. Friends. Camp. Everything.” Marcus continued. “Spent eight weeks thinking she failed me. And instead of asking if she was okay, you felt relieved when she started seeming normal again."

The kitchen went quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.

"Maxine," Ellen said quietly. "Is that... is that how you felt?"

Max finally looked up. "It doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me," Marcus said. "I'm not going to come home and watch you disappear again because everyone's watching me instead."

Ellen reached for Max's hand. "Honey, we should have... I should have checked in with you more."

"You were dealing with Marcus," Max said. "I get it."

"That's not an excuse," Clint signed, his expression serious. We asked too much of you.

Marcus watched his sister's face, seeing the relief she was trying to hide. How long had she been waiting for someone to notice?

"I don't need a watcher," Marcus said firmly. "I need a family. All of us do."

Ellen nodded, wiping her eyes. "You're right. Of course you're right." She looked at Max. "No more putting you in charge of things that aren't your responsibility."

"Thanks," Max said quietly.

Marcus caught her eye across the table. He wasn't sure she believed it, or that Ellen meant it. For eight weeks, he'd been learning to take care of himself. Maybe it was time to start taking care of her too.

Later, Marcus found Ellen organizing the linen closet with unnecessary intensity.

"Mom?"

"What's up, honey?"

"I was thinking... maybe I could sleep in the guest room tonight. For a few days."

Ellen's face went through several expressions: confusion, then something that looked almost hurt. "But your room... I cleaned it specially. Made sure everything was how you left it."

"It's not that I don't appreciate it," he said quickly. "It's a lot. All at once."

Max appeared in the hallway, probably drawn by the sudden silence. She took one look at their faces and stepped in. "His room's pretty intense, Mom. After being somewhere so minimal for two months, it's got to be overwhelming."

Ellen blinked, processing. "Oh. I didn't... I should have thought of that." Her voice faltered. "I wanted everything to be perfect."

"It is perfect," Marcus said. "That's kind of the problem. I need something more neutral while I figure out how to be me again."

Ellen nodded slowly, still clutching a stack of towels. "Of course. Whatever you need." Her smile looked fragile; he could see her mental checklist of how this day was supposed to go crumbling.

"Maybe... my sketchbook," he added. "From my desk."

Her face brightened. A task. Something she could actually do. "Yes, absolutely. I'll get it right now."

She hurried toward his room, purpose restored. Max waited until she was out of earshot.

"She's been planning your homecoming for days," she said quietly. "Down to the snacks. This is throwing her."

"I can see that."

"She means well."

"I know. But I can't pretend to be okay to make her feel better."

Max nodded. "Want me to talk to her? Explain the sensory overload thing more?"

"Yeah. That'd help."

Ellen returned with his sketchbook and three different pens. "Will this be enough?"

"This is perfect, Mom. Really."

She handed him the supplies, then hesitated. "Marcus? You're not... disappointed to be home, are you?"

The question hung between them, loaded with all her fears.

"No," Marcus said, and meant it. "I'm learning how to be home differently."

Ellen's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay. That makes sense."

It was a small moment, but it felt significant. He was beginning to understand that recovery meant teaching everyone, including himself, who he was becoming.

An hour later, Marcus found his dad loading the dishwasher alone. The house had settled into its evening quiet, Ellen's shower running upstairs.

Clint looked up when Marcus entered, signed without hesitation: Need something?

"Can't sleep yet." Marcus leaned against the counter. "Feels weird being back."

Good weird or bad weird?

"Both, I guess."

Clint nodded, understanding. He'd always been better at accepting contradictions than trying to solve them.

Your mom's nervous, he signed. Wants to fix everything at once.

"I noticed."

She's trying. Overwhelmed. She doesn't know how to help except this way.

Marcus watched his dad's hands move, economical, precise. In rehab, Dr. G. had talked about how addiction was often about trying to fill a silence you couldn't name. Marcus wondered if his dad ever felt that kind of quiet, living in a world that didn't speak his language.

"Did you know?" Marcus asked. "Before Max told you guys. About the drinking."

Clint's hands paused on a plate. Suspected. You were disappearing.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Same reason you didn't ask for help. Sometimes the truth feels more dangerous than the lie.

Marcus's shoulders dropped. "I'm sorry. For lying. For making you guys worry."

Clint set down the plate, turned to face him fully. You were drowning. Drowning people don't apologize for reaching for whatever keeps them afloat.

"Even if it's the wrong thing?"

Especially then.

 They stood there, understanding each other without speaking. The kitchen clock ticked steadily above them.

Max struggled too, Clint signed. After you left. We didn't know how to help her either. Your mom and I… we were so focused on you, we almost missed that she was falling apart too.

Marcus thought about their visits, how Max had seemed different. More careful, less frantic. He thought she’d grown up. He never realized she might’ve just been trying to get through it.

"I need to figure out how to be her brother again," Marcus said. "Without making her feel responsible for keeping me alive."

That sounds like something someone older than sixteen would say.

Marcus almost smiled. "Don't get used to it."

Clint finished loading the dishwasher, then signed: I’m proud of you. His hand brushed lightly against Marcus’s shoulder, a brief contact that said more than words could.

"For what? Screwing up so badly I needed rehab?"

For coming home, for doing the work, for being here with us. His hands were deliberate, emphasizing each word. That takes courage.

Marcus hadn't expected his dad's pride to matter so much. It felt like proof he wasn't fundamentally broken after all.

Your room will still be there when you're ready, Clint added. No rush.

"Thanks, Dad, for not making this harder than it already is."

Clint squeezed his shoulder, his hands forming the final words: You're home. That's what matters.

The guest room was on the first floor, a space that had once been his and Max's playroom but was now usually ignored unless their grandparents were in town. Inside, the air was still and smelled different than the rest of the house, a mix of lavender potpourri and old, settled dust. The king bed was perfectly made, the armchairs stood empty, and the bookshelf was full of titles he didn't recognize. Any trace of their childhood chaos had long since been erased. It was quiet and impersonal. Exactly what he needed.

Max gave a soft, hesitant knock on the doorframe. "Can I come in?"

She perched on the edge of the desk chair, one foot tapping, the other dangling. Her bracelet clicked faintly between her fingers. “How does it feel? Being back?"

"Like I'm house-sitting someone else's life."

Max picked at her nail polish. "I kept coming in your room while you were gone. To sit sometimes. Made it feel less like a museum exhibit." She glanced up. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"Really? Because you seemed pretty murderous when I told Mom and Dad."

Marcus studied his hands. "I was furious. But also relieved. I couldn't stop on my own."

"I didn't know if telling them was the right thing."

"It was."

Max went quiet. "I felt like I lost you twice. First to the alcohol, then to rehab."

"You didn't lose me. I had to go find myself."

"And did you?"

Marcus considered it. In group, Dr. G. had asked them to identify one thing they'd learned about themselves sober. Marcus had said he wasn't a lost cause, just someone who'd gotten lost.

"Getting there," he said.

Max nodded. Then, quieter: "Are you going to be okay? Actually okay, not performance-okay?"

Marcus wanted to give her the easy answer. He'd learned the difference between comfort and truth. “I don’t know yet. But I’m working on it. Even just being here, letting myself take up space without collapsing, it’s more than I could manage before.”

"The trying is enough."

She was quiet for a moment, then started fidgeting with a bracelet, twisting it between her fingers. He recognized the pattern from their visits. This was Max deflecting. "What's going on with you?"

Max hesitated, then everything spilled out. The French girl, Esme. Her art, her voice, the way she pulled back every time things got intense.

"She told me she loves me," Max finished quietly. "But I keep waiting for her to take it back. Like she'll realize I'm too much."

Marcus let her words sink in. He'd been there himself.

"What if it's not about you being too much?" he said. "What if she's scared of letting you decide whether you can handle her truth?"

Max blinked. "What do you mean?"

"She's making the choice for you. Deciding you can't handle whatever she's carrying, so she doesn't have to risk finding out if that's true."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It does if you hate yourself enough," Marcus said. "I used to do it with Ginny. Let her love me, but only from a distance. Because if she really saw me and left anyway, that would prove I was worthless. So I never gave her the chance."

"But you weren't worthless."

"Try convincing someone who's already decided they are."

Max chewed her lip. Marcus could almost see the gears turning.

"Esme's not protecting you from her truth," Marcus said. "She's protecting herself from your reaction to it. And that's not fair to either of you."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Tell her what you told me. That you want all of it. That you're not running." Marcus paused. "And if she still can't be honest, then at least you'll know."

"What if she bolts? Like Sophie did?"

"Then she wasn't ready for you. And that's not your fault."

Max was quiet for a long time, then: "Thanks. For not making me feel insane."

"You're not insane," Marcus said. "You're trying to love someone who's too scared to let you."

“Want me to stay a bit?”

He gave the smallest nod.

“Cool. I brought my laptop. We can watch something garbage.”

“It better be actual garbage,” Marcus said.

Max grinned. “Oh, it’s literal trash. Sci-fi musical comedy with Claymation teeth.”

She settled beside him, propped the screen on a pillow between them, and hit play.

They didn’t talk much, but they laughed, once or twice. It was enough.

"Marcus?" Max murmured as the credits rolled.

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you came home."

"Me too," he said, and meant it.

Max smiled without opening her eyes. "Good. Because I wasn't giving you a choice."

Chapter Text

Max had spent the past two days with Marcus, taking it slow. They had spread the contents of a murder mystery kit across the living room floor—maps, ciphers, coded letters—and for hours, they didn't have to talk about anything real. 

Esme's family had arrived from Paris yesterday, jet-lagged and probably speaking rapid French that Esme claimed was mostly complaints about American coffee. When Ellen heard, she'd insisted on dinner tonight, Friday, claiming she needed to cook for people who weren't genetically obligated to eat her food.

They’d been texting a lot, but Max could tell Esme was trying to be respectful of her needing space and time with Marcus. She hadn’t brought up what happened Tuesday night, and Max hadn’t asked. Esme had said she’d explain soon, and Max was holding onto that.

Now Max was pacing between her closet and mirror, holding up different tops like they might reveal the secret to making a good impression on an enigmatic filmmaker.

"You know they're people, right?" Marcus said from her doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Max looked at him through the mirror. "Says the guy who's never met Esme."

"Which is why I'm not stressed." He wandered into her room, settling onto her bed. "You look like you're about to meet the Queen."

"Worse. I'm about to meet my girlfriend's mother, who makes introspective films and probably analyzes people for fun." Max held up her favorite cloud-patterned sweater. "What if she hates me?"

"What if she doesn't?"

Max yanked the sweater over her head. "You're cute. But not helpful."

Marcus grinned. "I know. It's entertaining." He studied his hands for a moment. "So, the big night. You still feeling good about this? About her?"

Max sat on the edge of the bed. "I am. I think." She looked at Marcus. "It's... everything with her is intense, but instead of wearing me out, it makes me want to pay more attention."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "Yeah, I get it," he said, his voice softer than she expected. "Being around people who are pretending to be okay is exhausting. At least with 'intense', you know it's real."

"Since when did you get so wise?"

He shrugged, a hint of his old smile returning. "Rehab. It's boring. You're forced to think."

The doorbell rang downstairs, followed by Ellen's voice calling up: "Maxine! Marcus! They're here!"

Max ran her hands down the front of her sweater, wishing it said ‘chill and unbothered’ instead of ‘please like me.’

Marcus straightened. "This should be good."

Max descended the last few steps, Marcus close behind her. Suddenly, she was standing in front of Vivienne Lévy. She was effortlessly cool, with her dark hair a slick bob with short bangs, denim jacket, skinny jeans, layered silver necklaces, and a t-shirt for some band Max had never heard of, so perfectly worn it looked like a high school relic. Max thought meeting Esme's mother would be intimidating, she hadn't expected to be starstruck.

"Mon dieu, look at you two," Vivi said, her voice warm and melodic with its French accent. "The Baker twins. You haven't changed a bit, only taller now." She gestured between them with a kind of wonder.

Something about Vivi's smile, the way she moved her hands when she talked, triggered a déjà vu Max couldn't place. Like she'd been dazzled by this gorgeous, fascinating woman before.

Before she could ask what Vivi meant, Marcus stepped forward with that easy confidence he'd always had, extending his hand to Vivi. "I'm Marcus. The better-looking twin."

Max gasped dramatically and shoved his shoulder. "Excuse me? The audacity. You say that in front of our guests?"

Vivi laughed and moved forward, placing her hands gently on Marcus's shoulders to kiss both his cheeks. "Lovely to meet you properly."

Ellen touched Max's arm lightly. "It's their custom, honey," she murmured.

Max felt her nerves spike as Vivi turned to her with that same warm smile, but the cheek kisses were quick and felt surprisingly natural.

"Margot," Esme's sister said, following suit with both twins.

Ellen stepped forward for her own greeting with both women, clearly comfortable with the custom.

"I'm so glad you could come," Ellen said, still beaming. "It's been too long. Time flies."

Max found Esme standing behind her family near the doorway, holding an elegant box of macarons. She looked nervous and beautiful and completely out of place. When their eyes met, Max's heart executed a painful, happy somersault. She gave Esme a small smile, and the world shrank to the two of them.

"Esmé, darling, get in here," Vivi called, breaking the spell.

Esme handed the gift to a delighted Ellen, then moved directly to Max's side, her presence instantly calming. "Hi," she murmured, for Max's ears only.

"Hi," Max whispered back. "You survived."

"Clint should be here any minute, he got held up at work. You know how it is.” Ellen tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, already in hostess mode. "Please, sit wherever you're comfortable." She gestured toward the living room, clearly loving having people in her home. "Can I get anyone something to drink? Water, coffee, tea, lemonade?"

"Coffee sounds great," Vivi said, settling onto the couch with the ease of someone who made herself at home anywhere. "American coffee isn't as bad as we pretend it is."

Ellen laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment. Margot?"

"Water for me," Margot said, taking off her jacket and folding it precisely over the back of a chair. "Jet lag."

As they all moved into the living space, Max was struck by the family resemblance. The three shared the same delicate bone structure and pale skin, their green-hazel eyes flickering in the shifting light. Esme was Max’s height, but Vivi and Margot were taller and dark-haired, and they carried themselves with a sharp intensity that was all their own. Margot’s glasses flashed as she surveyed the Baker house like a study subject. Vivi’s gaze, softer but no less precise, took in the whole room like an artist framing a shot.

Holy shit, they're all basically the same person in different fonts. Esme's the indie film, Margot's a thesis on stoicism, and Vivi's the cool French equivalent of a Criterion Collection box set. 

Esme settled onto the couch next to her mother, tucking herself against Vivi's side in a way that made Max's chest ache. Vivi's arm came around her daughter automatically, fingers playing absently with the violet ends of Esme's hair while she talked to Ellen. 

Esme caught Max watching and patted the cushion beside her. "Max, sit next to me?"

Relief flooded through Max as she moved to the couch, suddenly feeling less like an outsider watching a family reunion.

Marcus claimed the armchair while Margot chose a spot where she could observe everyone, sitting with perfect posture that made Max feel like she should probably stop slouching. God, she's probably cataloging all our little American barbarisms for her dissertation or something.

"So," Vivi said, accepting the coffee mug Ellen offered her while her free hand absently smoothed Esme's hair, "Esme tells me Marcus got home recently. How are you adjusting?"

It was such a direct question that Max tensed, but Marcus handled it with surprising grace.

"One day at a time," he said simply. "It's good to be home."

After a moment, Ellen and Vivi drifted toward the kitchen, their conversation picking up where it had left off years ago, leaving the four of them in the living room.

Esme turned to Marcus, “I noticed some of your sketches through your open door the other day, you’re really talented. Max mentioned you’ve got a whole art setup in the garage?”

"Yeah, my parents turned the garage into an art studio for me so I don't fall deeper into the dark abysses of despair."

Max held her breath. Classic Marcus, going from zero to existential crisis in one sentence.

"It's amazing. My mom went all out. Proper easels, lighting, storage for everything. Want to see it after dinner?"

Esme's eyes lit up. “I'd love to see the studio. I do mixed media stuff too. Collage, zines, weird dolls."

“That sounds awesome.” Marcus nodded, glancing toward the kitchen where Ellen was animated in conversation with Vivi. "What about your parents? Are they cool with the art thing?"

"Yeah, our mom's a filmmaker, so she gets it. And our dad's a set designer, so it's in the family." She exchanged a knowing look with Margot. "We used to visit his sets when we were little. Some of the coolest places I've ever been, especially when it was a surreal film with these incredible miniature worlds. Like this one where they built an entire apartment that was slightly too small for the actors, with clockwork toys that moved on their own and walls covered in handwritten letters." Esme's voice grew more animated. "Though sometimes having artist parents means they turn everything into material for their work."

Margot looked up from where she'd been quietly observing. "Including us."

"Including us," Esme agreed, without bitterness.

Max had never seen Esme talk about her family this casually, without the careful distance she usually maintained. And Marcus, who normally tuned out during these kinds of things, was actually paying attention.

"So what kind of weird dolls?" Marcus asked.

"Made of polymer clay with articulated limbs and painted faces, I sometimes use real hair. I know that sounds creepy, but it's not as weird as it sounds. I made one of our grandmother and used some of her beautiful hair she'd saved from the '70s." Esme's hands moved as she talked, like she was shaping clay. "They're supposed to look a little broken but still beautiful."

"Actually, the grandmother one is pretty creepy," Margot said without looking up from the large photography book she'd picked up from the coffee table. "It watches you."

"It does not watch you," Esme protested.

"It follows you with its glass eyes. I've tested it."

"That's so cool," Marcus said, and Max could tell he meant it. "I sketch and paint, but I've been wanting to try more three-dimensional stuff."

Max couldn't stop smiling. Marcus hadn't shown his art to anyone since Ginny, and here he was, inviting Esme to see his studio. Her girlfriend and her brother, connecting. It mattered more than she'd expected.

"She made me make one," She chimed in. "It was a lopsided, terrifying disaster."

Esme smiled, her eyes finding Max's. "I still have it, you know. It sits on my bedside table."

Marcus had started sketching something on a scrap of paper he'd found on the coffee table. Esme leaned in, watching him for a moment before she said, "You're really good at capturing movement. The way the lines suggest motion without completing them."

"It's called being too lazy to finish," Marcus said.

"It's called gestural drawing," Margot corrected. "Degas did the same thing with his dancers."

Max almost rolled her eyes, of course she'd bring up Degas, but then Marcus laughed. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was going for. Very Degas. Very French."

"Everything's better when it's French," Margot said, deadpan. "That's why we're insufferable."

Max snorted before she could stop herself, and Margot's eyes flicked to her with what looked like approval.

"She's the smart one," Esme added with a slight smile. "Studies political science in Paris."

"Someone has to balance out the artists in the family," Margot said flatly.

Max was half-listening to Marcus explain his latest painting when she caught her name drifting from the kitchen. Ellen and Vivi stood by the coffee maker, voices low but animated.

"...always been like that," Ellen was saying, refilling Vivi's mug. "Even as a little kid, she felt everything so intensely. Sometimes I worried I wasn't handling it right."

"Are you kidding?" Vivi's voice carried that warm certainty that made Max understand why Esme trusted her so completely. "Ellen, you raised wonderful humans. Look at them."

A wave of goosebumps rose along her arms. Her mom needed to hear that, especially after the past few months.

"From what I see, Marcus has been through hell and he's still kind. Still has that humor. And Max..." Vivi glanced toward the living room where Max was pretending not to eavesdrop. "She loves people so fiercely. That's not something you can teach. That comes from being loved that way."

Ellen's voice got softer. "It's been hard. The rehab, and then watching Max shut down and disappear into her room for weeks. Sometimes I felt like I was failing them both."

"The fact that you worried about it means you weren't failing," Vivi said simply. "Trust me. I've made every parenting mistake in the book, and my girls still turned out remarkable. Yours are going to be fine."

Max turned back to the conversation, her heart doing something complicated. She'd never heard her mom express those doubts before, and somehow Vivi, who barely knew them, had said exactly what Ellen needed to hear.

"What are you grinning about?" Esme asked, nudging her.

"Nothing," Max said, but she couldn't stop smiling.

The vibration of the front door closing made Ellen look up. Clint appeared in the doorway and signed a quick greeting to the room before catching Ellen's eye with a look that asked, How's it going?

"Perfect timing," Ellen said aloud, signing as she spoke. "We were just getting acquainted."

Dinner went surprisingly well, considering Max spent the first ten minutes explaining the plot of a reality show no one had asked about.

"So then the guy in the chicken costume turned out to be her ex-boyfriend's roommate, which honestly makes the whole thing way more tragic," Max concluded.

"Why do you watch these shows?" Marcus asked.

"Because they make me feel better about my life choices."

Margot observed this with scientific interest. "American television is very... committed to chaos."

Clint signed something that made Ellen laugh. She translated: "He says he's glad we don't have reality TV cameras in our house."

"Dad's smart," Max said. "Though I'd definitely nail the confessionals. I have thoughts about everything."

"You'd be the one who talks too much in confessionals," Marcus corrected.

"Accurate."

"She does that without cameras too," Margot observed, but there was something warm in how she said it, like she recognized something. Then she caught Esme's eye across the table and added, "it's a shared affliction, I think.”

Esme threw a piece of bread at her sister, who caught it without looking. Max watched this exchange, realizing Margot wasn't analyzing them like specimens, she was reading the room with the same intensity Esme did, cataloging emotional currents and unspoken tensions. The difference was Margot seemed to find it all vaguely amusing rather than overwhelming.

Esme looked more relaxed than Max had seen her in weeks, occasionally leaning into her mother or sharing those knowing looks with Margot that made Max realize how much Esme must have missed having her family around. She had expected her to be tense and guarded, but the opposite was true. Here, cushioned between her mother's affection and her sister's quiet protection, Esme seemed to shed a layer of her anxiety, letting Margot run interference.

Vivi watched it all with obvious delight, occasionally asking questions that showed she was interested in their ridiculous family dynamics.

"You know," Vivi said, looking at Esme with that particular maternal gleam, "you should show Max some of your recent collages. The ones from this spring were extraordinary—"

"They're not finished," Esme said quickly.

"Art is never finished, darling. Only abandoned." Vivi smiled like she'd said something profound.

Esme and Margot exchanged a look. "She's quoting again," Margot said under her breath.

"I heard that," Vivi said cheerfully. "And it's Leonardo da Vinci, so it's hardly 'quoting', it's citing wisdom."

"Everything you say is a citation," Esme muttered, but there was affection under the exasperation.

So this was why Esme kept her art so private, why she got so weird when her mom's films came up. It wasn't just modesty; it was a practiced form of self-preservation. Ellen, seeming to pick up on Esme's discomfort about her art being discussed, smoothly redirected the conversation. "Okay," she announced, beaming, "I'm going to get the dessert and make some coffee."

As Ellen rose to get dessert, Vivi stood and reached into her tote bag, pulling out a slim DVD case. "I brought something I thought you kids might want to see," she said, handing it to Max. "From a very different time."

Esme raised an eyebrow. "You didn't say anything about this."

"I know," Vivi said with a mysterious smile. "We were on one of our East Coast trips, remember? Eight years ago. We stopped in Wellsbury for a couple of days to visit the Viards. I hadn't seen them in ages, and I'd just started filming more personal projects."

She turned to Ellen. "And I ran into this one at the grocery store. Told me I looked exactly the same and insisted I bring the girls to dinner that night."

Ellen laughed, her hand over her chest. "Oh my god, I forgot you had your camera with you."

Vivi nodded. "I filmed a few things. The kids, mostly. I remembered it when Esme mentioned Maxine being your daughter, Ellen."

Max looked between them. "Wait. So you're saying... we met?"

"I'm saying it's on tape," Vivi said. "You'll see."

Chapter Text

The footage began playing on the big screen. Vivi's voice from behind the camera: "Wellsbury dinner with Ellen and Clint. Maxine, age eight, puts on a puppet show for us."

The camera panned across the Baker living room, the same room they were sitting in now, though the furniture was different. Eight-year-old Max, all curls and confidence, hair in pigtails, stood beside an equally small Esme with a cardboard stage and sock puppets. Max was in full performance mode while Esme watched with fascination. Young Marcus sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning at his sister's theatrics, while twelve-year-old Margot was curled in a different armchair than the one that sat there now, half-watching over the top of a worn copy of Wuthering Heights.

"Oh my god," Max breathed. "That's us. That's actually us."

"You two met before," Vivi announced. "You were eight."

Max studied her younger self trying to impress this quiet French girl with the world's most chaotic puppet show. "I don't remember any of this. How do I not remember this?"

She observed herself on screen, the wild hand gestures, the dramatic voices, the way she kept checking to make sure Esme was watching.

"I called them Mr. Jellyfingers and Detective Moth," Max said faintly. "I thought that was peak comedy."

Onscreen, Esme raised an eyebrow at Max's puppet monologue and glanced at her mom like she hadn't signed up for this level of theatrical chaos. Everyone burst out laughing.

"Well," Esme said dryly from the couch, "some things never change."

"You're telling me we've been cosmically connected this whole time and I've been worried about making a good first impression?"

Marcus was grinning. "This is the most Max thing ever. Of course you met your girlfriend as a kid and immediately put on a show for her."

Max stared at the footage, memories surfacing. "Wait... that dress. I remember that dress. Oh my god, I remember this. I had the biggest crush on you. I didn't even know what to call it then, but I kept asking my mom when the French girl with the beautiful dress was coming back."

"You had a crush on me when you were eight?" Esme asked, smiling.

"Of course I had a crush on you."

Marcus shook his head. "I remember being annoyed that you kept talking about 'the French girl' for weeks after they left."

"Shut up," Max said, but she couldn't stop staring at the screen. "Vivi, do you have more? Please tell me there's more footage of me being a tiny disaster."

"Oh, there's more," Vivi said, delighted with their reactions. "There's the playdate footage..."

"There was a PLAYDATE?" Max's voice cracked.

The universe had been shipping them since elementary school.

The video cut to the next day. Now they were in the Bakers' backyard, and Ellen had gone all out. A proper tea service decorated a small table with real china, actual tea, biscuits, crackers and cheese, and cut fruit.

Max leaned forward, grinning. "Oh my god, that's Norah in the pearls. She used to insist on wearing those to literally everything, even PE."

Esme squinted. "And Abby's the one with the horse stickers on her hat?"

"Full horse girl phase," Max confirmed. "She had a pony calendar and named all twelve ponies."

Young Max was in full theatrical hostess mode, wearing what appeared to be one of her mother’s fancy hat and directing the scene like a miniature party planner.

"Okay, so Esme, you sit there because you're the guest of honor, and Abby, you're in charge of pouring because you have the most careful hands, and Norah, you get to be the duchess because you asked nicely."

"What about me?" Marcus called from where he was hovering near the porch, clearly wanting to join but unsure if this was a "girls only" thing.

Young Esme looked up from adjusting her own fancy hat. "Do you want some tea, Marcus? We have real biscuits."

"Really?" Marcus perked up immediately.

"Of course," eight-year-old Esme said matter-of-factly. "Max, where should Marcus sit?"

Abby was already being practical: "Someone needs to make sure the tea doesn't get cold, and Marcus can help with that."

Young Norah, fully committed to her duchess role, spoke in what she thought was a British accent: "Indeed, we require a proper gentleman at our gathering."

Max watched the footage with wonder. "Look at us. We were already... us."

"Esme fit right in," Marcus said softly. "Even then."

"You invited Marcus," Max said to Esme. "You saw he wanted to be included."

"He looked left out," Esme said simply. "I didn't like that."

Onscreen, all five kids crowded around the little table, Max telling some elaborate story while the others listened and laughed, Marcus happily munching cookies while young Esme asked thoughtful questions that made Max light up even more.

Young Esme wore another smocked floral dress, this one with tiny blue flowers scattered across cream fabric, still impossibly chic for a little kid, her hair twisted into a bun. The same Peter Pan collar and Mary Jane shoes, with a little black scarf tied around her neck that Max remembered so vividly.

"See? Exactly like I remembered," Max said. "You looked like you'd stepped out of a storybook."

The video switched to Max's childhood room upstairs. Eight-year-old Max was talking a mile a minute, showing Esme everything. Her rock collection, her books, a music box with a ballerina that played a melody from Peter and the Wolf, her stuffed animals arranged like an audience. Young Max couldn't stop showing off for this captivating French girl, pulling out anything she thought was cool, talking nonstop.

"Oh god, listen to me," Max groaned, watching herself. "I'm like an auctioneer on caffeine."

Onscreen, young Esme absorbed everything, asking questions that made Max light up even more.

Then Max handed over a bright, swirling kaleidoscope with a flourish.

"For you," young Max said. "Because you're new here. And cool. And you said you like colors."

Esme accepted it, peering into the lens with wide eyes. "It's beautiful."

"I want you to have it," Max said, like it was obvious. "You'll keep it, right?"

On the couch, present-day Esme froze, her expression changing. "I still have that," she murmured.

Max turned toward her, puzzled. "What?"

Esme didn't look at her. She kept staring at the screen. "That kaleidoscope. It's in my room in our family's place in New York."

Max's heart stopped. "Wait… that kaleidoscope?"

"I always remembered getting it from a girl," Esme said slowly, the realization forming as she spoke. "That she gave it to me in a small town. I remembered she was funny, loud, kind of dazzling."

Max let out a breath that came out as a laugh. "I can't believe it was me."

"Neither can I." Esme smiled. "I think I had a crush on you, too."

"You kept it," Max said, voice climbing. "All this time?"

"It was the best gift anyone had given me," Esme said simply. "A girl who barely knew me gave me something beautiful because she thought I'd like colors."

"I wasn't quiet," Esme said, watching herself on screen. "I was... trying to keep up with you. You were so confident."

"You were the coolest kid I’d ever met. You still kind of are, which is annoying."

"I was twelve and thought you were all ridiculous," Margot added, watching her younger self push up glasses that were too big for her face. "Very humbling."

Marcus looked at her with recognition. "I remember you barely looked up from that book."

"Wuthering Heights," Margot said. "In English. I was determined to read the entire thing that week." She paused. "You were sweet, though. You paid attention to her whole performance."

"Still do," Marcus said with a fond smile toward Max.

"Yeah," Margot said quietly. "Watching our sisters be... themselves."

"You told me my puppet show lacked ‘narrative coherence’," Max said, laughing.

"Well, it did," Margot said. "But you committed to it anyway. I respected that."

Max looked at her with surprise. "I can't believe you remember that."

"I remember thinking you were exhausting but authentic," Margot said, then looked at Esme with that same knowing expression. "Some things remain consistent."

"Vivi, can I get a copy of this footage?" Max asked suddenly. "Like, all of it?"

"Of course," Vivi said with a warm smile. "I'll make you a digital copy before we leave."

Max relaxed slightly. Having proof of this, of them, felt important somehow.

An hour later, the families stood saying their goodbyes on the front porch.

"We're leaving for Provincetown in a couple of days," Vivi told Ellen. "Then New York for about a week total before flying back to France. It's for Evan's wedding."

"Evan from high school?" Ellen's face lit up. "That's wonderful! Will Jess be there too? Are you all still in touch?"

"Jess will definitely be there," Vivi said with a smile. "We're all still close. Found family, you know?"

"I hope they're doing well," Ellen said with warmth. "Are they?"

"Absolutely," Vivi said, and there was something in her voice that made Max wonder about the story behind that friendship.

Vivi hesitated a moment, then stepped closer to Ellen. "You know, I never properly thanked you for what you did back then. For us. For me, Jess, and Evan." Her voice dropped quieter, more serious. "The way you stood up for us when other kids... didn't. It shaped who I became, Ellen. I never forgot that."

Ellen looked almost embarrassed by the gratitude. “Vivi, really, you don’t need to thank me. I would have done it for anyone. It was the right thing to do.”

"That's exactly why it mattered," Vivi said softly. "Because for you, it was natural. But for us... it meant everything."

Max watched her mom's face, that familiar expression of someone who couldn't understand why basic decency was worth mentioning. So Ellen, standing up for people even as a teenager, never realizing how much it mattered.

Beside her, Esme had gone completely still. Max glanced over to see the color drain from her girlfriend's face. Esme stared at her mother, then at Ellen, then back again, her breathing shallow.

"I didn’t know about this…” Esme whispered, barely audible.

Max felt Esme's hand find hers and grip painfully tight. When their eyes met, Esme's were glassy with something that looked like grief.

"Esme?" Max said quietly, but Esme shook her head minutely, her jaw clenched like she was physically holding words back.

"Can we talk for a second?"

Max followed her a few steps away from the group, close enough to hear the background chatter but far enough for privacy.

Esme looked nervous, but determined. "Can you come over tomorrow afternoon? Around two?"

"Of course," Max said immediately. "Is everything okay?"

"I think I'm ready to tell you everything." Esme's voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm not, but I know it's time."

Max felt something twist in her stomach. Esme's reaction to Ellen and her mom's history was clearly more than a simple thank-you.

"Also," Esme continued, "my mom brought this film she wanted me to watch. It's about her time here when she was seventeen, with her friends. I thought maybe we could watch it together? I think you'd like seeing her back then."

Max reached for her hand. "Of course. And whatever you need to tell me... whatever it is, it's not going to change how I feel about you."

"You keep saying that," Esme said, her words careful. "But you don't know what it is yet."

"Then let me find out, I meant what I said before, we can't keep doing this dance forever."

"I know, that's why I'm asking."

Esme stepped closer and kissed her, soft and lingering. Then she pulled Max into a tight hug, holding on. “Tomorrow,” she whispered against Max's ear.

"Tomorrow," Max agreed.

Chapter Text

Vivi had answered the door like she’d been expecting Max for hours.

“She’s upstairs,” she said warmly, gesturing with her cup of coffee. “Been fussing over the pillows all morning.”

She hesitated, her voice softening as she touched Max’s arm.

“I never thought I’d let anyone else watch that film. It’s been mine for almost thirty years. Jess and Evan have seen it. No one else.”

Then, quieter this time. “Whatever she tells you after… remember she’s braver than she thinks she is.”

Max paused at the threshold of Esme’s room, momentarily stunned.

The lights were dimmed. Esme had arranged a few pillows on the bed and set out a tray with popcorn. Two Cokes sat on the nightstand, and the laptop was already in place. She’d even moved Odette the flamingo to face the screen.

“Hey.” Esme glanced up from the laptop. “I set this up,” she said, her smile too careful to be casual. “This is the DVD my mom gave me. She made it in 1995, when she was seventeen. It’s… a year of her life. In Wellsbury.”

Max caught the tension immediately. “You’ve been weird since last night. What’s going on?”

“I heard my mom talking to yours,” Esme replied, voice low. “Thanking her for something that happened when they were in high school.”

Esme held the DVD case in her hands, turning it over like she wasn’t sure whether to open it or throw it across the room.

“I want to see what happened. I want to see who they were.”

Max studied her for a moment. “This feels heavier than you’re letting on.”

“Because I think I’m about to see the kind of person I wish I could be.”

Max reached for Esme's hands. "Esme... you know you don't have to be her to be enough, right?"

Esme didn't respond, but her expression softened. She nodded once, like she was storing the words away for later. 

They sat on the bed. Max leaned into the pillows, but Esme stayed upright, a little too still.

She slid the DVD into the laptop.

“Ninety-five minutes? That’s like a full feature film." Max blinked at the screen, then smirked. "Okay, I'm kind of into it already.”

“Might be her first one ever,” Esme said, pressing play.

Grainy camcorder footage filled the screen, colors oversaturated in that distinctly ’90s way. A title card appeared, typed on a typewriter and taped to the lens:

Wellsbury, 1995–1996
A Year in the US
A film by Vivienne Lévy

The opening synth of Elastica’s “Connection” kicked in as the camera captured quick flashes: a Wellsbury street bathed in late summer light, American flags hanging from suburban porches, the Viards’ house freshly painted, hands pulling mixtapes from a backpack covered in band patches. 

The song continued in Vivi’s bedroom at the Viards, now Esme’s room, almost unchanged. The wallpaper was an assault of tiny roses that worked with Vivi’s aesthetic. She’d already made the walls hers with posters of Liz Phair, Hole, PJ Harvey, and a large print of Klimt’s The Three Ages of Woman above her bed. A suitcase sat half-unpacked in the corner.

In the mirror, Vivi adjusted her eyeliner, eyes narrowed in concentration. Her lipstick was deep red, her hair a two-tone fade from jet-black at the roots to platinum at the ends. Blunt bangs framed her face. She looked like a punk-rock filmmaker or a French exchange student who had seen Pulp Fiction too many times.

Max made a sound like air being sucked from her lungs. “Is that your mom? She looks exactly like you. It’s freaking me out.”

“Everyone says that,” Esme murmured, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Onscreen, a knock came through the door: “Vivienne?”

The camera swung toward the door as Ellen appeared in the frame: blonde ponytail bouncing, denim jacket, radiating the kind of energy that made everyone feel more awake.

“Hi, I’m Ellen. Your designated American guide,” teenage Ellen said with a grin.

“Lucky me,” Vivi replied in accented English, dry yet amused.

Ellen laughed. “I’m choosing to take that as enthusiasm.”

“Oh my god. That’s…”

“Your mom,” Esme said, equally amazed.

“She looks like she could fix anything.”

Esme stayed quiet. Her fingers dug slightly into the blanket.

The footage continued.

“Whoa. You really brought a whole film crew with you,” Ellen said.

Vivi blinked. “It’s a camera.”

“Yeah, but it’s filming. Like… right now.”

“I film everything.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Ellen said cheerfully, dropping her backpack on the bed.

There was a pause. Ellen glanced around the room, then back at the lens.

“You make documentaries or… memories?”

Vivi adjusted the camera’s angle slightly.

“I don’t believe in casual documentation.”

Ellen looked at her like she was reading a book she couldn’t put down. “You’re going to be interesting.”

“Am I not already?”

“We’ll see.” Ellen grinned. “Welcome to senior year, by the way. It’s chaos. Mostly harmless.”

The scene cut to Ellen’s pristine new Honda Civic, fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror as “Waterfalls” by TLC crackled through the sound system. Ellen sang along like she didn’t care who heard.

Vivi angled the camcorder toward the passenger window, filming the view rushing past, then turned it back towards them. 

“So,” Ellen said between verses, “what’s Paris actually like? Be honest.”

“Overwhelming. Every street corner has more history than this entire town. Beautiful but exhausting.”

“Sounds like a person,” Ellen said, grinning. “Is this your first time in the States?”

“First time staying longer than three weeks. My mother was born and grew up in New York. My grandparents stayed.”

“That explains the accent. You sound like you read novels in English but dream in French.”

“I don’t dream very often,” Vivi said simply.

Ellen glanced over, surprised. “You’re gonna fit in here fine.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, seriously. You’re observant. That’s rare. Most people here are…” she gestured out the window “…trying to win the game without knowing the rules changed in 1992.”

Vivi actually smiled at that. “What game is this?”

“American high school. You’ll see.”

Vivi’s voiceover: I thought Massachusetts meant Boston. Culture. Cities. What I got was small-town America like a movie set.

Ellen parked outside Wellsbury High. Max recognized it immediately. The same brick building she walked into every morning, though somehow different. Younger. The trees smaller, the parking lot less cracked.

“That’s my school,” Max said, fascinated. 

The camera followed them through doors Max knew by heart, everything familiar yet strange, like stepping into a parallel universe.

The song "Queer" by Garbage fades in. Vivi’s camera skipped past the usual school clichés and caught the smaller details instead.

A girl in a too-short plaid skirt with runny mascara. A boy in Doc Martens and blue nails flipping a tarot card into his locker. A group of flannel-clad girls applying lip liner in a circle, Discmans clipped to their belts.

And then…

Two figures at the edge of it all, not pretending to be anything but themselves.

One was a girl with intense dark eyes and a short black bob, messy bangs falling into her face. She was curled up on the floor in scuffed combat boots, a dog-eared copy of ‘The Glass Menagerie’ balanced on one knee. Her lips were chapped, her eyeliner imperfect. Even sitting on the floor, she pulled focus.

The boy beside her leaned against the locker. Tall, thin, electric blue streak in his hair, black hoodie half-zipped. He had that stillness some people mistake for confidence. She knew better.

Ellen caught Vivi’s gaze.

“That’s Jess Moreno and Evan Harker. Art kids, theater kids, kind of legends. Best friends since sophomore year. I think they’re dating? They’re… intense, but pretty cool.”

Vivi kept the camera on them.

Vivi’s voiceover: I didn’t come to America to reinvent myself. I came because I was fading, slowly, like erosion. My father lost his mother and sister during the war, and I looked too much like both. I think that’s why he couldn’t really see me, only the ghosts. So I became louder, brighter, more defiant than anyone expected. I filmed everything. Proof that I existed, that I wasn’t just someone else’s memory. Proof that I was mine.

Max let out a breath. “Your mom’s kind of blowing my mind right now.”

“I didn’t know she felt that way,” Esme murmured. Her voice was so quiet Max almost missed it.

New scene, different day. The camera moved closer to the art kids’ table in the cafeteria. Jess sat sketching on a napkin, black nail polish chipped, hair pulled back with a butterfly clip that somehow looked punk. Beside her, Evan wrote song lyrics on his jeans in permanent marker.

He looked up, noticed the camera pointed at them. Didn’t look away. His expression said: Yeah? You documenting us?

They looked like trouble, her voiceover noted. I was right.

The scene cut to a montage, “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill kicking in as it began. Quick cuts of moments that felt stolen rather than posed:

Jess writing song lyrics on her notebook cover with whiteout through chemistry class, completely ignoring the lesson. Evan and Vivi leaning against the brick wall behind school, sharing some private joke that made them both crack up. Jess staring directly into the camera with suspicious eyes, then breaking into a genuine grin. The three of them walking down the hallway in perfect sync, an unshakable little unit existing in their own bubble.

Text appeared: Friendship that transcends rules and limits.

Max leaned forward. “They look… fearless.”

Esme watched them lean into each other. "God, they trusted each other with everything," she whispered.

The footage cut from the raucous hallway to a sun-drenched bedroom. A boy with floppy brown hair and a kind smile sat on the floor, tuning a guitar. Vivi’s camera lingered on his hands, then panned up to his face. "OCTOBER 1995 - JAKE" appeared on the screen. 

“Who’s that?” Max asked, leaning forward with interest.

“I have no idea,” Esme said, equally curious. “The American boyfriend, I guess.”

A raw, distorted guitar riff began, lo-fi and jagged. The opening of a new song hit like a slap.

Max’s whole face rearranged itself into startled fascination as the opening lyric dropped. “whoa. What’s this song?”

“‘Flower,’” Esme said, smirking slightly. “Liz Phair.”

The montage launched: Jake laughing while trying to teach Vivi a chord, silhouetted against sunset at a skatepark, a glimpse of them kissing by the lockers.

Then came the next line, bold, unmistakably sexual lyric, and Max choked on her drink. “Oh my god,” she sputtered, wiping her chin. “Okay. Wow.”

Esme just smiled, like this was exactly the kind of move her mom would pull.

Max shot her a look. “You absolutely knew that was coming.”

Esme raised an eyebrow, pleased. “Maybe.”

The clips kept rolling: cherry Coke at a diner, lying on bleachers, Jake tying Vivi’s shoelaces. Tiny, ordinary moments strung together, set to one of the most sexually charged songs Max had ever heard.

“It’s so wrong, but also? I can’t stop listening.” Max admitted, still wide-eyed. “But I don’t think I can ever look at your mom the same way. I could never imagine my mom…”

She trailed off, stricken.

"That's because you're seeing them as our mothers," Esme said. "You have to remember, you're watching someone our age. She's not my mom yet. They weren't trying to become anyone. They were just… themselves."

The montage ended on Jake smiling shyly at Vivi from across a library table. The music dropped out, leaving the air charged.

[NOVEMBER 1995]

The footage moved on to Evan’s garage after band rehearsal. Amps hummed softly in the background. Jess sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, cradling an acoustic guitar, her fingers picking out a haunting melody. The opening notes of “Hurt” by NIN filled the small space, raw, stripped down.

She sang quietly, almost to herself, her voice catching on certain words. Evan sat nearby, listening.

When the song ended, Jess set the guitar aside.

"You know what's weird?" she said, her voice quiet. "I used to think about the Tobin Bridge all the time. Just... knowing it was there."

Evan, who had been tinkering with a pedal, stopped. He didn't look at her right away, just nodded at the floor. "The one over by the naval yard. I had them all mapped out."

Jess looked up, a flash of a sad smile on her face. "And now?"

He finally met her eyes. "Now... I try and write songs about crossing. Instead of…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the empty space. "About staying."

A heavy silence settled between them, full of shared understanding.

"Remember when you found those letters?" Jess whispered.

"Yeah," Evan's voice was rough. "Worst day of my life."

"You didn't even freak out," she said, marveling at it again. "You said, 'Give me a week. I'm working on something.'"

Evan let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "God, those songs were awful." He winced at the memory. "I think a lyric was literally, 'Your friendship is a bridge over sadness.' It was so bad."

"It was everything," Jess said, her voice thick with emotion. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

For a moment, the camera caught her rolling up her sleeves just slightly, revealing thin white lines on her arm before she self-consciously pulled the fabric back down.

"Sometimes being an outsider feels like you're drowning," she murmured into his shoulder. "And sometimes it feels like the only honest way to be alive."

"Which one is it today?" Evan asked softly.

She lifted her head, and her expression was lighter now, the humor returning to her eyes as a shield. "Today? Today it feels like having a best friend who writes epically cheesy songs about bridges."

He bumped her shoulder, a real smile breaking through. "Hey. They're better now."

"Yeah," Jess agreed, her own smile finally reaching her eyes. "They're pretty excellent."

[DECEMBER 1995]

The footage cut to the auditorium stage, low lighting and sharp shadows. Jess stood alone under a harsh white spotlight in black jeans and a crumpled vintage blouse, her voice ringing clear across the space.

“If I were thin and beautiful, I could have gone to the moon,” she said, her voice low but steady. “But instead I lived in a glass world, and no one ever asked me to leave it.”

It took Max a moment to realize it was from The Glass Menagerie.

Jess didn’t look like she was acting. She looked like she was surviving something.

Esme’s voice was barely audible. “I didn’t know she was like this.”

Max whispered, "I kind of get why your mom fell for her. She's magnetic as hell. I want to meet her."

[JANUARY 1996]

The screen went black for a moment, then faded to a different time. Later in the year, maybe. The lighting was softer now, more intimate.

Vivi’s bedroom. A lamp glowing softly in the corner. The unmistakable opening notes of 'So Tonight That I Might See' by Mazzy Star hummed through the stereo.

Vivi sat cross-legged on the bed while Jess lay beside her, picking black polish off her nails. The camera was positioned to catch their conversation while feeling unobtrusive, almost forgotten.

“I’ve never been with anyone,” Jess said, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been in the hallway footage. “Actually been with them.”

“What about that girl from theater class?”

“We kissed a few times after rehearsal. That’s it. That’s different.”

Jess didn’t meet her eyes.

“I broke up with Jake,” Vivi said.

Jess looked up from her nails, surprised. “When?”

“Yesterday. I realized when I kissed him, I was thinking about someone else.”

“Is he heartbroken?”

Vivi shrugged. “They always are.”

Another pause, heavier this time.

“I could have sex with you,” Vivi said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jess blinked, face flushing. “Stop. You’re making fun of me.” Her voice was small, unsure.

Vivi didn’t flinch. “I’m serious.”

Jess stared at her. “I thought you only liked boys.”

“I do. I also like you.”

“But… why?”

Vivi looked into her eyes. “Because I want to. Because you’re beautiful. And rad. And I like how your mind works.”

Jess looked down at her chipped nails. “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m not… your type. I know I’m not… I’m just me.”

Vivi’s voice softened. “What do you think my type is?”

“Someone confident. Someone who doesn’t cry in bathrooms.”

“Then I guess you don’t know me very well,” Vivi said. She reached out and touched Jess’s hand. “Not yet.”

“I can’t believe we’re talking about this,” Jess whispered.

“Do you want to stop talking about it?”

“No. I don’t. I can’t believe we’re really saying it.”

Vivi stood up and walked toward the camera. “Hold on,” she said, reaching for the lens.

The screen went black.

"She was so direct," Esme said softly. "No games, no pretending."

Max turned to Esme, eyes wide. “That was… that happened right here?”

Esme nodded. “She filmed everything. All of this. She must have filmed for hours just to catch this one moment.”

Max stared at the bed. “That’s so fucking weird. Like, they were here. Right here. And now we’re here and…” She gestured wildly. “This is the gayest bed in Massachusetts history. Do we leave an offering? Light a candle? Call Sarah Paulson?”

Esme laughed. For a moment, Max felt the tension break.

[APRIL 1996]

The footage jumped, suddenly rough and shaky. A school bathroom. Buzzing lights, tile that made every sound too loud. Vivi’s face close to the lens, makeup smeared, eyes raw.

“I don’t understand,” she said to the camera, voice thick with tears. “I got to school and… they were everywhere. Pages from my journal. Taped to lockers, bathroom mirrors, bulletin boards.”

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Everything I wrote about people here. About sleeping with Jess. About Evan and Jess not being a couple. Things I never meant anyone to see. Private things.”

Her voice cracked. “Someone went through my backpack. Took my journal. Photocopied the pages and put them everywhere for people to laugh at.”

She stared at something off-camera, shaking her head.

“I thought American teenagers were supposed to be friendly. Welcoming. I thought this would be different than Paris, easier. They turned my private thoughts into entertainment.”

A toilet flushed in the background. Vivi looked toward the sound nervously.

“I can’t go back out there. Everyone’s reading about the most intimate parts of my life. And Jess… God, Jess and Evan, they’re going to get hurt by this too. I wrote about them being gay when they’re figuring out if they’re ready for people to know.”

She touched the camera lens with shaking fingers.

“I wanted to document my year here. I never thought it would document me falling apart.”

The footage cut out abruptly.

"Someone violated her completely," Esme said, voice hollow. "And she had to keep going to school with them." Her hands were shaking.

Max grabbed her hand and held it. Esme stayed still, gripping back like it was the only thing keeping her above water.

The footage resumed, still shaky in the hallway. Vivi must have left the bathroom, camera in hand, maybe trying to document the aftermath. The image wavered as she walked, catching glimpses of students clustered around lockers, whispering.

Then the camera found Ellen.

Teenage Ellen moved systematically down the hallway, ripping pages off lockers with quick, efficient movements. Her expression was set, ponytail swinging as she reached up to tear down a sheet taped high on a bulletin board. She wasn’t making a scene or drawing attention to herself.

The camera followed her as she turned a corner, found more, and continued her work.

“Ellen?” Vivi’s voice came from behind the camera, small and uncertain.

Ellen turned, a crumpled page in her hand. When she saw Vivi filming, her expression softened without losing its intensity.

“Are you okay?” Ellen asked. “Stupid question. Of course you’re not okay.”

“You’re taking them all down.”

“All the ones I can find. This is garbage, Vivi. What they did to you is garbage.”

Ellen crumpled another page, her voice getting harder.

“I found kids in the parking lot reading them out loud, making jokes about…” She stopped herself, looked directly at Vivi. “Your private thoughts are your business.”

“You barely know me.”

Ellen’s response was immediate. “I don’t need to know you to know this is wrong.”

The camera captured Ellen reaching up to tear down one final page from a high spot on the wall. She looked at it for a moment, then crumpled it with the others.

“Nobody should have to go through this alone,” Ellen said simply, and kept walking.

Voiceover: I came here thinking I might finally feel free. That maybe I could figure out who I was without everyone else's shadows. But I was disappearing all over again. Maybe I always was.

Esme made a sound like she’d been hit. She bent forward, arms wrapped around herself.

Max immediately paused the video.

“Okay, we’re stopping.”

“No.” Esme’s voice was tight. “I need to see the rest.”

“Esme, you look like you’re about to throw up.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that and you keep looking worse.”

“Please turn it back on. I want to finish it.”

[MAY 1996]

The camera caught Ellen alone under the bleachers, afternoon light filtering through. She had a joint between her fingers.

“Ellen?” Vivi called softly.

Ellen looked up, gestured for her to come closer. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t, usually. But I’m so angry I could kill someone, so.”

Ellen took another drag, exhaled slowly toward the practice field.

“The ones who called Jess a dyke in the hallway yesterday. Loud enough for half the school to hear. That word… for people like Jess, it’s a weapon. I’ve seen what it does.”

“She told me once that when she was thirteen, some people beat her up. Called her that word. She didn’t even know what it meant then, she still… she still cared about stuffed animals.”

Ellen’s expression darkened. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. They see someone who doesn’t fit their little boxes and they decide to destroy them.”

Vivi was quiet for a moment behind the camera.

“You think I should go visit her?” Ellen asked. “She’s missed some school since this happened.”

“She might like that. She doesn’t let people in easily, and you… you stood up for her.”

Ellen nodded, already planning. “I’ll make scones. That’s what my mom does when people are hurting.”

[PROM 1996]

The gym was draped in fairy lights, while the camera focused on the hallway outside. Jess and Vivi sat with their backs against the lockers, prom dresses wrinkled from sitting on the floor.

Jess wore a dark red slip dress veiled in sheer black. Beside her, Vivi’s strapless black velvet dress flared into a slate taffeta skirt, the bow at her chest catching the light. They looked like they’d escaped from something.

Somewhere in the distance, the smoky, aching opening of “Glory Box” by Portishead played through the gym speakers.

“Ellen came by yesterday,” Jess said softly. “With scones. Homemade ones.”

“She did?”

“She couldn’t really talk about feelings, that’s not her thing. She sat with me for an hour though. Made me feel like someone like her actually cared. Real caring.”

“I’m glad we decided to come,” Vivi said. “Even if we’re sitting out here.”

“Me too. I almost didn’t. After everything that happened…” Jess trailed off, then leaned her head back against the locker.

“You know what’s weird? When I was fourteen, when I had everything planned out… I couldn’t imagine being seventeen. Couldn’t see past that year. And now here I am, thinking about college. About New York. About actually having a future.”

“What changed?”

“You. Evan. Finding people who made me want to stay.” Jess looked at Vivi. “What about you? Will we stay in touch? When you go back to Paris and I go to New York?”

“You better try,” Vivi said. “My family has an apartment in New York. Upper West Side. My grandmother’s place.”

Jess’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“I could visit you. We could see what friendship looks like when we’re living our real lives.”

“I love you,” Jess said suddenly. “You’re my ride or die.”

“I love you too. You saved my life, you know that?”

“You saved mine first.”

The opening synth of “Take On Me” started pounding through the gym doors. Vivi’s head snapped up, eyes lighting up.

“Oh my god, I love this song!”

“You like A-ha?”

Vivi grinned and stood, holding out her hand. “Come on. When are we ever going to get another chance to dance to A-ha at prom?”

Jess hesitated, then took her hand. “That’s a yes.”

Camera in hand, Vivi followed Jess onto the floor. Evan appeared from somewhere, already air-guitaring the keyboard solo.

Suddenly Ellen appeared in frame, reaching for the camera.

“Let me film this,” she said, and Vivi handed it over without question.

Through Ellen’s lens, the three friends became something magical. They weren’t performing for anyone except each other. Jess pulled Vivi in, spun her out. Evan mimed the keys.

At first, it was just them, a trio of weirdos in formal wear spinning too fast, laughing too loud.

Then a girl from theater stepped onto the floor, mouthing the lyrics and raising her arms like she’d been waiting for permission.

Then two more. One in a sparkly thrift-store dress and Doc Martens. Another in a tux with rainbow suspenders.

The chorus hit. Ellen caught it all: sweat, laughter, the kind of joy that makes you want to live louder.

Within seconds, half the gym was dancing.

The song peaked, and Ellen pulled back for a wide shot: three silhouettes spinning like they couldn’t imagine the world beyond this night.

[FAREWELL WELLSBURY - JUNE 1996]

“Your Ghost” by Kristin Hersh started playing as the footage transitioned to empty hallways. Lockers closed for the last time. The camera followed Jess and Evan walking away down the corridor, talking quietly, unaware they were being filmed.

Vivi’s voiceover began:

"This was supposed to be a film about my year in an American high school. I thought I’d document the clichés. Football games. Pep rallies. Cafeteria food. Turns out, it wasn’t the school I remembered. It was them. Jess and Evan. The way we found each other when it didn’t feel like we had anyone left. I learned what true love, friendship and courage looked like.”

The camera held on Jess and Evan until they disappeared around a corner.

“We all promised we’d keep in touch. We meant it. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you don’t. My life changed forever this year. I can’t imagine it without them.”

Fade to black.

Max and Esme sat in heavy silence. Max had tears on her cheeks, while Esme had gone completely still, staring at the blank screen like she’d seen a ghost.

Max wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Your mom is… she’s the coolest person who ever lived.” 

"Yeah. And that’s the part no one talks about. When your mom is the legend and you’re just… trying to keep up.”

“What happened to Jess and Evan? Did they stay friends?”

“Evan’s getting married next week in Provincetown,” Esme said, like the words were coming from somewhere far away. “That’s where we’re going. Me, my mom, Margot. Jess will be there. She lives in New York now. Actually in our family apartment.”

“They really stayed close.”

“They’re family.” Esme’s voice was getting smaller. “It’s amazing and weird to see them so young, knowing them now.”

Max nodded, starting to notice Esme’s distance, the way she seemed to be pulling inward.

Max reached over, her voice soft but firm. “Talk to me. What is this really about?”

Esme stood up abruptly. “I need to take a bath.”

“What? Now?”

“I need to think, to process all this.” Esme was already moving toward her door, avoiding Max’s eyes.

Max followed her. “Esme, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

Esme stopped at her bedroom door, her hand on the frame. Her breathing was shallow, as if she were trying to keep from hyperventilating.

“Watching that, seeing how they loved each other, how Ellen stood up for people without even thinking about it…” She trailed off, overwhelmed.

“What is it?”

“It showed me what it looks like when people see each other. Protect each other. And I’ve been hiding.”

“From me?”

Esme nodded, barely able to meet her eyes.

“I want to let you in, but I can’t do it halfway. I need to tell you what happened with Manon and me.”

“Is it because of what your mom went through?”

“No,” Esme said. “It’s because of what I didn’t stop.”

Max’s heart started racing. “Esme…”

“I want to tell you everything, but I’m scared you won’t love me after.” She paused. “I need a minute to figure out how to say it without falling apart.”

She stepped toward the door, then turned back.

“I promise. After my bath, everything.”

The door closed softly, leaving Max alone in Esme’s bedroom. The laptop screen had gone dark.

Max sat there for a moment, replaying Esme’s words. What I didn’t stop.

Through the bathroom door, she could hear water running, then stopping, then running again.

Max looked at the bed where Vivi and Jess had their first time, at the posters Esme had put up where her mother’s old ones had been. The room held so much history, brave history, the kind where people fought for each other.

Odette had been left near the laptop, slightly tilted. Max pulled the flamingo into her lap.

She would wait. That’s what you did for people you loved, you waited until they were ready to surface.

Whatever Esme was about to tell her, Max knew she had to be ready to listen. Really listen.

The way her mom had been ready to act.

Chapter Text

Esme turned off the tap. The claw-foot tub was nearly full, water steaming, scalding. She closed the blinds until only slivers of light cut through the fog. The bathroom went quiet except for her breathing. She slid in slowly. Heat climbed her thighs, her hips, her ribs. She didn’t flinch. She let it burn.

She sank to her collarbones, trying not to feel anything at all.

Nothing.

But memory doesn’t ask permission. It slips beneath the skin like steam.

Laughter echoing off the Seine. Tourists clapping. Manon bowing like she was already famous, Léa throwing candy wrappers in the air like confetti. Sneakers thudding on concrete, Esme’s phone half-dropped in her lap as she recorded them dancing, out of sync but radiant.

They were ridiculous. They were brilliant. They were invincible.

Crammed into Manon’s kitchen after rehearsal, microwave popcorn and glitter shadow everywhere, routines choreographed for no one but themselves. Esme hitting play. Manon dancing to Charli XCX like it was gospel. Léa bringing sour candy.

No audience. No stakes.

Esme had laughed until her ribs hurt.

The bathwater rose higher. Her skin went red. Her throat ached. First tears came hot against her cheeks.

Manon curled on her bed, eyes bright with possibility: “Maybe in high school I’ll meet my Prince Charming. Like Nick from Heartstopper.”

“That’s so cheesy,” Esme replied.

“And maybe you’ll find your dream girl. Like Zendaya. Your perfect romance.”

Both of them giggling, believing love would be sweet, uncomplicated.

Later, lying in the grass after rehearsal, eating store-brand popsicles that stained their lips red:

“What if high school changes us?” Manon’s voice went small.

Esme scoffed, full of confidence she didn’t know was breakable. “Nothing could.”

We thought love would feel like laughter.

Steam thickened the air. Esme sank lower, water covering her shoulders.

First day of school. Manon linking arms with her and Léa, laughing, chewing gum, swinging matching dance bags. They weren’t in the same class.

“We better still have art together. If I get stuck with some creep, I’m suing.”

They didn’t have art together. Esme said it was fine, they still had dance. She told herself that would be enough.

But the drifting had already started. She wanted to be somewhere else. Someone new.

Messages flooded their group chat, “Crowns & Chaos.”

Esme answered less and less. Hearts instead of words.

“Where are you???” Manon sent.

Léa followed with a crying emoji: “She’s ditching us for her edgy new art friends.”

Esme finally replied, the lie thin even through the screen: “I have actual homework??”

She wasn’t doing homework. She was lying on the floor outside art class, listening to Olivia Rodrigo on someone’s speaker, pretending it was enough.

Tears came faster now, mixing with steam.

I wanted to be someone else. I didn’t know if you’d still want me.

Esme submerged completely, letting heat take her. When she surfaced gasping, the memories kept coming. Dance rehearsals where their timing stayed perfect, but Esme left early, always before the shoes came off.

“Wanna grab dinner?”

“Can’t. My mom needs me home.”

Escuses and lies.

Manon and Léa walking home without her, just a few feet ahead. Manon glancing back.

“She’s been weird lately,” Léa said.

“She found new people,” Manon replied. “Guess we’re not interesting anymore.”

You were everything. I didn’t know how to be loved that quietly.

February. Clara crossing the school courtyard in her too-expensive coat, earbuds in.

Hugo trailing behind, smirking like the city belonged to him.

They were only a year older, but they moved like they’d been practicing cruelty their whole lives.

Léa grinned. “You’ve got a type. Beautiful and dangerous.”

Esme didn’t argue. She never did when it came to Clara.

The water was cooling. Esme’s breathing grew uneven. Tears streamed, silent and fast.

March. One afternoon, Manon caught her outside school talking to Hugo. Laughing.

Later, the texts came:

Manon: You’re spending more time with them than with us.

Esme: We’re only talking.

Manon: You used to talk to me.

No response.

I didn’t reply because being seen by them made me feel more real than being loved ever had.

Manon trying to understand:

“What do you even talk about with them?”

“Art, literature…”

“We talk about those things.”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

Manon’s quiet observation cut deeper:

“They make you laugh differently. Like you’re performing.”

“That’s not true.”

“You never used to care if people thought you were funny.”

The most devastating, Manon’s self-doubt:

“Am I boring? Is that why you don’t want to hang out anymore?”

“You’re not boring.”

"Then what is it about them? What do they have that I don’t?"

Because they made me feel chosen. 

Esme sobbed now, water sloshing as her body shook.

And you… you already loved me. You never made me earn it.

Spring. Hugo’s apartment. His voice drifting from the next room while Esme poured a drink.

“God, you should have seen her face. She actually thought I was going to ask her to be my girlfriend.”

Laughter.

“She was easy. Innocent enough to believe it meant something. Quoted some Neruda, told her she was different from other girls. She ate it up.”

“And then?”

“Then I got what I wanted. Amazing how grateful they are when they think you’re in love with them. Once they say yes, you can do whatever you want. They won’t stop you, they think it’s supposed to hurt a little when it means something.”

More laughter.

“The naive ones always think it means more than it does.”

I heard all of it. I knew exactly what he did. How he operated.

Esme let herself go under, water climbing until it touched her mouth, her nose, her eyes.

July. Clara’s apartment. The fan clicking on low. Heat sticking to everything.

They were sitting on the floor, Esme’s back against the couch, Clara stretched out with her long legs crossed at the ankles, drink in her hand.

“So. Manon.” Clara didn’t look up when she said it.

Esme blinked. “What about her?”

“She was your best friend, right?”

Esme nodded. “Yeah. Since we were nine.”

Clara finally looked over.

“She seems… kind of obvious, though. You know? The type where everything’s on the surface.”

A pause.

“I just don’t picture you with someone like that.”

Esme’s chest tightened. She could’ve defended her. Should’ve.

But Clara was looking at her like she’d just found a contradiction she couldn’t stop thinking about.

“She just says what she feels,” Esme said. “That’s not a bad thing.”

Clara took a slow sip.

“You don’t.”

Another pause.

“You’re harder to read. That’s why I noticed you.”

Esme’s heart kicked.

“She can be… sweet,” she said. “In a good way.”

Clara smiled and made Esme feel completely seen and completely exposed.

“You’re not sweet,” Clara said. “I like that about you.”

And Esme smiled too, even though something in her had already started to ache.

September. Hugo’s apartment again.

The absinthe shimmered pale green under the dim light, sweet and venomous.

Clara stirred hers with a silver spoon like she was casting a spell.

Esme had never tasted anything like it. Licorice and fire. It made her tongue numb. Her judgment, too.

Clara draped across the couch, one bare leg hooked over the armrest, like some indifferent muse. Hugo lounged in the armchair.

Esme sat on the floor. She liked the way it felt, beneath them, but close.

Accepted, finally. Chosen. Dangerous by association.

They were talking about Manon.

“She seems nice,” Hugo said, sipping lazily.

“Sweet,” Clara added, swirling her drink. “A little obvious, maybe. You can see her coming a mile away.”

Esme, a little drunk, a little high on closeness, from wanting to belong, said it before she thought: “She’ll believe anything.”

A pause. That was all. Then Hugo smirked.

“That’s useful.”

No one looked at her. No one had to. Esme stared at the glass in her hand like it might rewind time. She didn’t correct it. She didn’t clarify.

Steam, now.

The memory hit hard, sharper than the heat, sharper than the absinthe burn she still swore she could taste.

I said it. I saw it coming. I handed her to him like a gift. Because I wanted something else more. I wanted to be seen by people who scared me. I wanted to belong so badly I became someone else. Someone who offered up the kindest girl I knew and called it conversation.

October. Hugo circling Manon like a predator who’d found new prey.

He was watching her too closely now, too often, smiling with that razor-thin charm that always meant something was coming.

Esme saw it. She knew exactly how it would go.

She pulled Manon aside after rehearsal.

“Be careful around Hugo,” she said, low. “He’s… not good with girls.”

Manon raised an eyebrow. “Wait, are you jealous?”

Esme blinked. “What? No. I just… he’s not what he seems.”

“Okay, but like… why?” Manon asked. “Did he do something?”

Esme opened her mouth. She could’ve said it:

The stories Hugo told behind closed doors. The girl from Lycée Condorcet. Clara’s bruised wrists.

Instead, she hesitated.

“He plays games,” Esme said finally. “He doesn’t care who gets hurt.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed. Her mouth tensed.

“Is this because I said he was nice to me? He’s not even flirting. He listens to me.”

Esme tried again. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m saying, be careful… please.”

Manon crossed her arms. She looked tired now. Done.

“He’s not like that with me. And what… now it’s a problem? After you’ve spent months glued to them, suddenly it’s different because he’s talking to me?”

Esme went quiet.

That was the end of it.

And I thought I’d done enough. I thought my vague warning her would count. I didn’t lie. I didn’t say he was safe. I said the words: “Be careful.”

But I was still going to his parties. Still laughing at his jokes. Still hoping Clara would look at me like I was special. Still part of it.

I told her to run while I stayed. That’s what she can’t forgive.

Later that week.

Manon glowing after rehearsal, cheeks flushed from more than dancing.

“He’s different,” she said, leaning against Esme’s locker. “He quoted Rimbaud to me. Not even in a douchey way. It was… good.”

Esme forced a smile. “Just… don’t trust everything he says.”

Manon laughed. “You are jealous.”

“Manon…”

Manon rolled her eyes. “I know how guys are. But he’s not like that with me.”

That’s what I thought, too, Esme wanted to say. But she didn’t. 

Manon had given herself to him completely, the way you do when you think someone loves you back. When you believe you’re the one who’s different.

But Hugo twisted that gift. He’d been rougher than she expected, colder than she believed possible. He made her feel disposable. And then he dropped her like trash the next day.

And I stayed.

I stayed for Clara.

I stayed because I couldn’t let go of the Clara who whispered things in July sunlight and never asked for anything back.

The girl who made me feel seen, not used.

I stayed because I was selfish.

Because part of me still wanted their approval more than I wanted to protect anyone else. I told myself I had no choice.

But that’s not true. I had a choice.

And I didn’t choose Manon.

Esme’s whole body shook.

She slipped under again, staying down until her lungs burned.

Ssurfaced for air, but the next memory was there to pull her back under.

Tears mixed with cooling bathwater.

October 29th last year. Her 16th birthday. Clara’s apartment. Her first time.

It started gentle, like Clara remembered how to be soft. Like July hadn’t been a lie.

Then something shifted. Her grip tightened.

“Clara… you’re hurting me.”

Clara didn’t stop.

“You’re desperate,” she said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Esme went still. Floated somewhere else.

Maybe this was what she got.

For choosing Clara.

For not stopping Hugo.

For all of it.

She didn’t cry.

Everything that had felt real an hour prior was gone.

She couldn’t name what was left.

I didn’t say no. Not out loud. I thought this was love catching up to me. I thought it was my fault for wanting too much.

Walking home at 2 a.m. Empty October streets.

Rue de Grenelle to Rue de Sévigné. Forty-five minutes in the cold.

Across the Pont Royal, the Seine a black mirror. Her own footsteps echoing on the quays.

She couldn’t zip her coat. Her ribs ached. Her throat was hollow.

Tears freezing on her cheeks by the time she reached home.

Because part of me believed I’d earned the bruises.

That after what I did to Manon, I didn’t get to ask for gentleness.

She surfaced, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm. Still, she couldn’t move.

two weeks later. Manon found her in the courtyard. Rage, white-hot:

“You knew. You fucking knew.”

“You said ‘be careful’ while he was already circling me like prey. While Clara laughed.”

“Then you stayed.”

“You stayed. You let him break me. And you stayed.”

I did. That’s the part I can’t forgive.

“A week later, you were with her. Like I was the warm-up act.”

“You went with Clara after what they did to me. Are you sick?”

Esme slipped under again. Stayed down until her vision blurred.

When she surfaced, gasping, shaking, the final memory hit.

She tried to tell her mother. But it was a conversation that went nowhere. Tried to say it hurt. That Clara didn’t stop.

But Vivi only heard what she could handle:

“You’re not breaking because of Clara. You’re breaking because of what you did to Manon.”

“You chose to belong. That’s what hurt her. That’s what you have to face.”

Memories surfaced and slipped:

Manon curled on her bed, crown drawn in eyeliner.

Clara asleep in July light.

Hugo quoting poetry with a glint in his eye.

Their dance crew spinning under lamplight.

The warmth before the cruelty. The weight of staying. The break before the noise.

And Ellen’s voice, from that film:

“I would have done that for anyone.”

Without question. Without thought.

I couldn’t even do it for my best friend.

And now I’m in love with her daughter.

Her daughter, who values honesty and loyalty more than anything.

Sick joke from the universe.

She gripped the sides of the tub.

Her breath was uneven. Her skin stung with salt and steam.

She had destroyed it, the part of them that once believed in uncomplicated love.

I killed that dream for both of us.

And maybe Clara saw it in me.

Maybe she knew I was the kind of girl who wouldn’t stop her.

The kind who deserved punishment for the things she wanted.

She closed her eyes. 

Maxine.

The night on the landing at that party, when Esme finally gave in. Let Max touch her, let herself feel good for once.

Afterwards, the guilt hit like it always did, heavier than the pleasure, heavier than the warmth.

How could I take this when Manon is still suffering?

Every time Max reached for her, Esme found an excuse. Pulled away mid-kiss, mid-touch, always right when things got real.

Max’s face each time, hurt, patient, still soft.

Because every moment of joy felt stolen. Every time she got close to letting go, to letting Max love her fully, Manon’s voice crept in:

You wanted her more than you cared about me.

Clara made me feel chosen. But Max made me feel safe. I’ve never wanted someone like this. Never loved someone this much. And it terrifies me.

I don’t deserve her softness. I don’t deserve the way she says my name like it’s something beautiful.

But I want it anyway.

She slipped under again, staying down until her vision went spotty.

Maybe it would be easier to go back to Paris. I could leave with Mom and Margot after New York.

“Esme?”

Max’s voice. Distorted, Far away.
This was real. Not memory.

Esme broke the surface with a gasp.

The door creaked open behind her.

“I’m coming in.”

Max stepped into the bathroom. Into the heat. Into the silence. Into the wreckage.

Chapter Text

Max sat on Esme’s bed, staring at the walls she’d memorized weeks ago. The room felt different without Esme in it, like a stage after the actors had gone.

Thirty minutes she’d been waiting. The layered collage of film stills and art book pages seemed to watch her back. That craft table under the window, still buried in paint tubes and wire. The row of strange dolls with their hand-painted faces. Everything exactly where it had been that first afternoon, but now she knew what each thing meant.

Her eyes kept drifting to the black-and-white zines on the windowsill. With Love and Squalor. The one Esme had closed before Max could read more. It would be easy to flip through it, to understand another piece of this girl who kept so much hidden. But Max didn’t move. Some boundaries you didn’t cross, especially not when someone was falling apart somewhere in this house.

She glanced at her phone for the fifth time, even though Esme's was sitting right there on the nightstand. No one to text. Nothing to do but wait. The house was too quiet. No sound from the bathroom down the hall. How long had Esme been in there?

Max stood, paced to the window, then back. This was taking too long. Esme had been in there for at least forty minutes now.

She stepped into the hallway and walked to the bathroom door. She knocked softly.

“Esme?”

Nothing.

Max slid down to sit on the floor, back against the wall beside the door. She’d wait. She’d done this before with Marcus, learned that sometimes the best thing was to be nearby without pushing.

“Max?”

She looked up. Vivi stood at the top of the stairs, expression knowing.

“She’s been in there a long time,” Max said quietly.

Vivi nodded, unsurprised. “She does this. Hides in water when she needs to cry. Always has.” She hesitated, then added, “She learned that from me. Not proudly. I grew up thinking you had to hide sadness to survive.”

Like mother, like daughter, Max thought, the sadness of it settling in her chest.

“In Paris, after everything… she’d stay in the bath for hours. Wouldn’t come out until the water was completely cold.” Vivi’s voice was soft, but steady. “She’ll talk, eventually. When she’s ready. Do you want me to go in instead?"

Max shook her head immediately. "No, I want to be here when she comes out."

Vivi nodded. “Then wait five more minutes. But go in if she doesn’t come out. She won’t ask.”

"She's stronger than I was at that age," She added. "She's trying to say the things I never did."

She left Max with that, padding back down the stairs.

Max listened to the silence. It felt like the quiet before something breaks.

Five more minutes, she told herself. Then she was going in.

A few minutes later, Max walked into the bathroom. She found Esme hunched in the cooling water, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was trying to hold herself together. Her eyes were closed, but Max could see tear tracks on her cheeks.

“Esme?” Max called softly.

No response. Esme didn’t even look up.

Questions raced through Max’s head, but she forced them down. She’d done this before with Marcus during his worst months before rehab, when depression had him barely functioning. Max had gotten good at crisis mode, at putting her own feelings aside to focus on what someone needed.

Later, Max thought. Later I’ll freak out. Right now she needs dry clothes and functioning limbs.

She grabbed the largest towel from the hook and knelt beside the tub.

“Come on. Let’s get you out of there.”

Esme moved like her strings had been cut, letting Max wrap the towel around her and guide her down the hall. Max sat Esme on the edge of her bed and disappeared into her closet, emerging with a soft gray sweatshirt and flannel shorts.

“Arms up.”

The awareness flashed through—first time seeing Esme naked—but it felt invasive to even register it. Not like this. She focused on mechanics: getting Esme warm, getting her covered, getting her safe.

When Max climbed into bed beside her, Esme pressed into her side without a word. Max began moving fingers through Esme’s damp hair, the repetitive motion calming them both. The house felt surreal around them. She could hear Vivi making coffee downstairs, NPR murmuring from the kitchen.

“Do you want to tell me?” Max asked finally. “Or do you want me to sit here?”

She felt Esme’s entire body tense. A long, shuddering breath was the only answer.

“If I tell you, you’ll leave.”

Max felt a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness. It wasn't just that the idea was wrong; it was that Esme could even think it, that she could see herself as someone who deserved to be left. 

“No,” Max said simply. “I won’t.”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“Then tell me.”

Esme stared at a fixed point on the opposite wall, refusing to meet Max's eyes. "Remember when I told you about Hugo and Clara?" she said, her voice hollow. "I made it sound like I was the victim. Like that’s all that happened.”

Max nodded. “You also said there were worse parts.”

“Yeah...” Esme’s voice cracked. “I had a best friend in Paris. Manon. Since we were nine. And I… I helped destroy her.”

Max kept her hand moving, waiting.

“I told you I got pulled into this group. Clara and Hugo. They were… sophisticated. Cruel in a way that felt like intelligence. And I wanted to belong so badly I became someone else.”

Esme told her about drifting from her best friends Manon and Léa. About Clara’s magnetism and Hugo’s predatory charm. About the summer with Clara, a strange, breathless intimacy. They never even kissed then, but they'd shared a world that felt more private than any physical touch.

“In September, Hugo started going after Manon,” Esme continued. “I knew what he was like. I’d heard him talking about how he operates with girls, his whole approach. But when I tried to warn her, I said nothing real. ‘Be careful around him.’ She got defensive, asked if I was jealous.”

Esme’s breathing went uneven. “But right before that, Hugo mentioned Manon seemed sweet. And I said ‘She’ll believe anything.’ I didn’t mean it like that… I wasn’t thinking. In my mind it was sweet, innocent. I didn’t expect him to use it in his plan.”

“What happened to her?”

“He made her fall in love with him. When she said yes to him, she thought it meant something. But he was rougher than she expected, treated her like she was nothing. Broke up with her the next day.”

Max made a soft sound of sympathy. “And what did Clara do to you?”

Esme went rigid. “What?”

“Clara. What did she do to you after?”

The change in Esme’s body language sent alarm bells through Max’s system.

“A few days after what happened to Manon, Clara called me over. It was my birthday. We… for the first time we actually… It started gentle, like the Clara from summer. Then she switched. Got rough. Left bruises. She said ‘You’re so desperate. It’s embarrassing.’ I wanted to say stop but no words came out.”

The rhythmic motion of Max’s hand in Esme’s hair stopped. Rage hit her like a physical thing, clean and white-hot. This wasn’t anger, it was the specific, violent kind that made Max want to find Clara and make her understand exactly what she’d done. The kind that made her hands shake.

“She…” Max’s voice came out strangled. She cleared her throat, tried again. “She left bruises?”

Esme nodded.

It took a moment for Max to respond. When she finally did, her voice was dangerously quiet. “What happened after? What did she… did anyone…”

“Later, when I confronted her, she said ‘I wanted to see how far I could push you before you broke.’ Then she told everyone at school I begged for it. That she only did it out of pity. That’s when the story got out, when Manon heard about it and confronted me.”

Max’s body thrummed with terrible energy. “Wait. So Clara made you fall in love with her, you said yes because you thought it meant something, she was rough and treated you like nothing, then told everyone you begged for it?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s literally exactly what Hugo did to Manon.”

The connection snapped into place with brutal clarity. They were all kids playing cruel games they’d learned from somewhere else. Clara and Hugo weren’t evil masterminds, they were seventeen and fucked up. 

“But I thought Clara was in love with me,” Esme whispered. “I thought I was different.”

“Maybe Manon thought the same thing about Hugo?”

Esme’s face crumpled. “But I knew better. I knew what Hugo was really like.”

“Did you though? You knew his pattern with girls, yeah. But did you know he’d go after Manon specifically?”

“I… no.”

“Okay, so you said one careless thing. Yeah, it was shitty. But Hugo didn’t need your permission or your script. He was already circling her.”

“What?”

“Did he ever say ‘Thanks for the tip, Esme’? Or are you connecting dots with your guilt brain?”

Esme was quiet. “I… I don’t know. I assumed.”

“Right. Not to defend Satan, but Hugo probably didn’t need your comment to figure out Manon was trusting. He’s likely been creepy since birth.”

“But I still said it.”

“You said a dumb thing. Once. In a random conversation. That doesn’t mean you gave him his plan.”

Esme pulled the blanket tighter. “But I stayed with Clara. I was still hoping something would happen between us when Manon was getting hurt.”

“Because you were in love with Clara, right? Because she’d been gentle with you all summer, right? She made you feel special?”

“She knew exactly what she was doing. Started soft that night, made me think…” Esme’s voice cracked. “Then she flipped. Like it was planned.”

“Jesus.” Max’s hand clenched in Esme’s hair for a second before she forced herself to relax. “She set you up.”

“And I walked right into it. After everything I’d seen.”

“You were in love. Or thought you were.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“No, but it’s a reason. There’s a difference.”

“After everything happened, after Manon confronted me and Clara destroyed my reputation, I went to my mom. I was falling apart. I tried to tell her what Clara did to me, but she was so focused on what I did to Manon, she didn’t really hear the other part.”

“Wait, what?” Max sat up straighter. “You told your mom about Clara and she… pivoted to Manon?”

“She was so angry about what I did to Manon. She said I was breaking because of what I did to her, not because of Clara. That I chose to belong and that’s what hurt her. She looked so disappointed in me, disgusted, like I had failed her, like she couldn't believe I was her daughter.”

Max’s voice went flat. “Cool. Love that for teenage trauma.” She knew how easy it was for adults to miss the most important thing happening right in front of them. Even good parents could fuck up when it mattered most. Then, softer: “That’s not how it works, though. You still deserved someone to show up for you. And she didn’t.”

“She did figure it out eventually,” Esme said quietly. “A few weeks later. We had a real conversation about what Clara did. That actually helped. I started feeling better about the Clara part. And then I met Leila, who… she helped me work through the intimacy stuff.”

Max looked at her. “So you’re okay with that part now?”

“Yeah, mostly. The Clara thing doesn’t haunt me anymore. I can be with you without thinking about her.” Esme’s voice got smaller. “It’s Manon. That’s what I can’t get past.”

“The guilt about what happened to her…”

“I don’t deserve any happiness. Not when she’s still hurt because of what I did.”

Everything in Max wanted to build a wall around Esme, to stand between her and every person who’d ever hurt her. But she was starting to realize the biggest threat to Esme was Esme herself.

“What happened with Léa?” Max asked. “Your other friend?”

“She cut me off completely. Chose Manon’s side. They didn’t want to hear mine.”

“So Manon had support.”

“Yeah. She kept dancing too. With Léa.” Esme’s voice was hollow. “I don’t know if she’s okay now. I’ll never know.”

“That must be hard. But at least she wasn’t alone when it happened.”

“I still helped cause her pain.”

“Yeah, you did. And that sucks.” Max moved so she was lying on her side, facing Esme. “You’ve been carrying this like it’s all you are. But it’s not.”

"I chose Clara over her. I chose desire over loyalty."

“Yeah, I get that.” Max paused, taking a deep breath. She knew the next words would either save them or break them. “Okay, here’s the thing. I love you. I understand why you did what you did, and I understand the guilt. But I need you to hear me: I cannot keep watching you destroy yourself over something you can’t change.”

Esme looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I can sit with you in this, Esme. I can hold you while you cry. But I can’t save you. You are the only one who can decide to move forward.” Her voice got quieter, laced with a pain that mirrored Esme’s. “You have to meet me halfway, or I can’t do this. We can't do this."

Max almost wanted to snatch the words back as soon as they were out. She wanted to promise she’d wait forever if that’s what Esme needed. But she couldn’t. Not if she wanted this to be real. Marcus’s words from days ago rang clear: You’re trying to love someone who’s too scared to let you. She understood it now in her bones. 

The words hit Esme like a physical blow. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“No. I’m saying I need you to choose to be here. Really here. Not running from what happened or punishing yourself forever.”

“I don’t know how...”

“I don’t either. But we have to try.” The words felt like cutting off her own limbs. But Max had watched Marcus sink so deep into his own head that no amount of love could pull him out. You couldn’t save someone who was determined to drown. Max studied Esme’s face. “Are you staying? In Wellsbury? For the school year? Or are you gonna run back to Paris?”

Esme stared at the ceiling for a long time. When she finally spoke, her voice was small. “I want to stay. But… I don’t know…”

Max nodded. She’d hoped for more certainty, but she respected the honesty. She pulled Esme against her, the embrace both holding on and letting go. A terrible, necessary contradiction.

Esme’s grip tightened, conveying everything she couldn't say out loud: a plea, a promise to try, a desperate act of survival.

As afternoon light faded around them, Esme’s breathing finally evened into sleep. Max carefully extracted herself from the bed and pressed a kiss to Esme’s temple.

She stepped into the hallway, barefoot and quiet. I'm not leaving, she told herself, I just need to breathe.

Downstairs, she found Vivi at the kitchen table, reviewing footage on her camera’s tiny screen. Film canisters and memory cards scattered across the surface like breadcrumbs of captured moments.

“She’s sleeping,” Max said softly.

Vivi looked up, setting the camera aside. “Good. She needed that.”

Max hovered in the doorway. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Provincetown first, then New York. Evan’s wedding is Wednesday.”

Vivi studied her for a moment. “You and Marcus could come to New York end of the week. I can talk to Ellen, arrange it. You don’t have to decide now.”

Max swallowed, the offer a sudden, unexpected lifeline. “I don’t know if she’ll even want me there.”

“Max.” Vivi’s voice was steady. “Don’t worry about Esme. I’ll be there for her. So will Jess. And Margot, in her own way. She has support.”

Max’s eyes lifted. “Jess will be in New York?”

Vivi’s expression warmed. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“God, I’d love to meet her. If she wouldn’t mind.”

Vivi smiled. “She’d be delighted.”

Max went quiet. Then: “That film… it made me feel like maybe things don’t always fall apart. Like people can stay. Like love can last, even when it’s messy.”

Vivi smiled, something proud in her eyes. “That’s why I made it.” She added, almost fondly: “You have a little bit of Jess in you, you know. And more of your mom than you can imagine. She raised you right. "

Max took a breath that felt like the first real one she’d taken all day.

“Esme’s been carrying this for so long,” Vivi continued. “But I’ve seen her change since she met you. Tonight was a big step. Don’t give up on her yet.”

“I don’t want to,” Max admitted, the words raw. “But I’m so tired of holding everything together. With her. With Marcus. With my friend Ginny…” Her voice faltered. She felt the selfish, desperate need to just be a kid for five minutes, to not have to be the strong one. She wanted to run home, but she also couldn't bear the thought of leaving Esme completely. 

Vivi’s voice cut through her thoughts, gentle but firm. “You can’t fix people, Max. You can only love them. You can’t carry their healing for them."

A strange sense of calm washed over Max. Vivi’s words didn’t echo what Marcus had said, they harmonized with it. It was the same sad, quiet song, learned in different ways.

Vivi's eyes softened. “Go home. Talk to your friends. Your family. Let them hold some of this too. And I promise, I'll bring Esme back. Take care of yourself.”

Max nodded, the permission to be tired a relief she didn’t know she needed. “Okay.”

She stepped outside, night air cool against her skin. The thought of New York gave her something to hold onto, a possible future with Esme, a chance to meet the legendary Jess. The idea was a small, bright spot in the overwhelming darkness of the day, and Max had to consciously push away the knowledge that it was Sophie's city now, too. But right now, she just wanted to go home.

She needed to hug Marcus, to laugh with her dad, to hold her mom and tell her she’d seen her at seventeen, fierce and ready to fight for people. To tell her she finally understood that same protective fury, because she felt it now for Esme.

She wanted to collapse on Abby’s bed and tell her everything. She needed messy. Loud. Ordinary. She needed her people to remind her who she was outside of all this weight.

Chapter Text

It began, as most of her mistakes did, with a feeling of being chosen.

They were in a bar in the 2nd arrondissement, teal velvet booths, no one checking IDs. She was fifteen and trying not to look it. Clara, a year older, ordered a pale green cocktail and slid it across to Esme. It tasted like biting into a flower.

Hugo and Clara were talking about a film they’d seen, something Italian, black and white. Hugo was explaining why the ending failed. Clara disagreed. Their voices overlapped, rapid-fire, references Esme only half-understood flying between them like a language she hadn’t learned yet.

Then Clara turned to her. “You’re quiet, Esmé. What did you think?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“Good,” Clara said, eyes glinting. “Neither have half the people who talk about it. At least you’re honest.”

Hugo laughed, and for the first time that night, Esme felt like she’d passed some invisible test, because she hadn’t faked it.

A few days later, she met them at a café near the Sorbonne, a place filled with students who looked both brilliant and exhausted. Esme was early, a book of Baudelaire poems open on the table in front of her, her finger tracing the final, menacing lines of “L’Horloge.”

Hugo arrived first, sliding into the chair opposite her without a word. He glanced down at the open book, then at her, a slow, appraising smile on his face. He leaned forward, his voice a low murmur.

“Contemplating the void so early in the day?” He tapped the page. “Careful. He’ll convince you that every second is an act of consumption.” His eyes held hers, and he recited the line softly.

“Je suis autrefois, et j’ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!”

A chill passed through her. I am the past, and I have pumped away your life with my dreadful siphon. He’d gone straight for the cruelest line and offered it like a dare.

“Baudelaire would have liked your zines,” Hugo said, smiling. “You both know beauty is just another word for decay.”

Clara arrived then, breaking the spell, but the wound was already open.

When Hugo left for the summer, Paris exhaled. Most people scattered to houses in Normandy, villas in the south, anywhere but the city full of tourists. Clara stayed, and she let Esme stay with her most of the time.

Her apartment on rue de Grenelle was a pristine world of white marble and bergamot-scented air. Esme followed Clara past closed doors, ticking clocks, the soft creak of parquet floors.

On the walls, no photographs. Only painted portraits. Clara as a perfect child, and the three of them posed like strangers who happened to share a last name.

“July is my favorite month,” Clara said one evening. “I get the house to myself. Everyone is gone.”

“Don’t you get lonely?” Esme asked.

“Rarely. I can be.” Clara stopped. “But it’s nice to have you here.”

The shutters stayed drawn all week. They drifted through the apartment, eating peaches over the sink, napping in tangled piles of bedsheets, reading aloud in half-voices like there was no one else alive.

Some mornings, Clara didn’t bother getting dressed. Just her bra and underwear, drifting barefoot through the apartment like it was the most natural thing in the world. Esme always kept her eyes down, pretending to read, but the words never stuck.

“You’re different here,” Esme said once.

Clara rolled onto her back. “I’m here. That’s the difference.”

One afternoon, Esme watched Clara scribbling on loose pages scattered across the bed. “What are you always writing?”

“My journal,” Clara said without looking up.

“Why not use a notebook?”

Clara held up the loose pages. “I keep them hidden between school notes. That way no one would read them.”

“Who would want to read your journal?”

Clara gave her a look that said everyone.

Even in her most careless state, Clara pulled attention toward herself. The air changed when she entered a room. Esme knew the feeling. She’d grown up with this gravity, watching every guest, every stranger fall for Vivi in the same way. And now she was letting it happen to her all over again. Being chosen by someone magnetic, even when they were cruel, was a power Esme couldn’t resist. The same pull that erased her when it came from her mother, with Clara, at least, it was aimed at her.

One Wednesday in mid-July, Clara surprised her with tickets to Disneyland. She called it “an ironic cultural field trip,” but she’d booked everything herself, told Esme not to wear anything embarrassing. They took the RER like regular people. Clara wore oversized sunglasses and refused to be photographed. She made fun of teenagers screaming at Elsa, but her hand lingered on Esme’s sleeve during the fireworks. She ate all the cotton candy, said she hated thrill rides and wouldn’t queue for anything with too many children. She rode the Haunted Mansion twice, bought matching pins, and a little Marie plush for Esme.

As they walked out under the soft evening sky, Clara looked up at the castle lit in pinks and blues and said, almost to herself, “That was the best birthday I’ve had.”

Esme turned to her. “Wait. Today’s your birthday?”

Clara shrugged. “Yeah. Seventeen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I usually don’t think of it,” she said. “Everyone’s always gone. We never celebrate.”

Esme watched Clara’s face in the pink lights. Then, “Happy birthday,” she said softly.

Clara smiled. “Thanks.”

On the train home, Clara fell asleep with her head on Esme’s shoulder, holding the Marie plush.

Another evening, Clara stood in the doorway holding Esme’s sweater by the sleeves. “It smells like you.”

Esme didn’t look up from her sketchbook. “That’s because I wore it.”

“I know,” Clara said, but she was already pulling it over her head.

“Is there anything you’re doing in your life that you really want to do?” Esme asked once.

“Maybe when I play violin or piano alone,” Clara said. “Where I can forget who I am and get lost in the music.” She hesitated. “And spending time with you right now.”

“So what’s the point of your life if you’re never enjoying yourself?”

Clara’s face went distant. “You think my mother is happy? She’s busy with galas and charities and her image, has zero connection to my father. I can count on my fingers the meaningful moments we’ve had.” She looked away. “I don’t think my parents love me. They love the idea of me. But I don’t think I love them either.”

“They would love me to marry Hugo,” Clara continued. “Our families. It would be perfect for them, two old names, the right connections.” She laughed, bitter. “I’m the last one with the name. My mother reminds me constantly. I have to marry up, maintain the legacy, all that.”

“Do you want to?”

“God, no. We can’t stand each other like that. But they’ll expect someone similar. Someone appropriate.” She said the word like it tasted bad.

“So what about this? Am I nothing?”

Clara wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not the same. It’s not real.”

“Do you ever get to make a decision in your life?” 

Clara shrugged.

The silence stretched.

One afternoon, Clara asked Esme to dance for her while she played piano. “In another life,” Clara said quietly, “we would have been a perfect duo.”.

One evening late July, they lay on Clara’s bed, the window cracked open to let in a small breeze. Clara was staring at her with an intensity that made Esme’s skin warm.

“You’re not into men, are you?” Clara asked suddenly.

“No, I’m not.” Esme’s pulse kicked up. “How can you tell?”

Clara tilted her head, considering. “The way you never reacted to Hugo flirting with you. The way you look at me. The same way the boys who desire me look at me.”

Esme felt her face flush. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” Then, “how do you know?” Clara continued, her eyes staying on Esme. “Have you been with both?”

“I’ve never been with anyone, but I know.” Esme waited. “Don’t you?”

Clara looked at the ceiling. “I’ve never kissed a girl. Never thought of it.” Her eyes drifted back to Esme. “I don’t know.”

She picked at a thread on the bedspread. “With boys… it’s whatever. Doesn’t feel like anything.” She shrugged.

Clara’s eyes searched Esme’s face. Then her expression transformed, almost excited.

“You could come with me to Ramatuelle in August,” she said, her voice gaining momentum. “It’s quieter than Saint-Tropez. Our villa’s hidden in the hills above the beaches. We could swim all day and no one would know. There’s a little market in the old village, and at night we could walk along the water. Just us.”

“Clara,” Esme started.

But Clara kept going, building the fantasy, making it real.

“Clara, I can’t.” The words came out too loud, cutting through Clara’s excitement like a blade. “My mom planned this trip to New York months ago. We leave next week.”

Clara’s face went blank. “Forget it,” she said, her voice suddenly cold. “It was stupid anyway.”

“Clara, I wish I could, but…”

“I said forget it.”

Clara had opened herself up, offered Esme a vision of them together away from Paris, away from performance, and Esme had crushed it. Esme could see it didn’t matter that the New York trip was planned months before. To Clara, it was only rejection.

The moment passed, and Esme felt the edges of the bubble begin to thin.

One morning, the real Clara’s mother came home.

Éléonore de Brissac entered the kitchen with the cold poise of a statue. Clara was in the shower. Esme stood alone, clutching a mug, feeling like an intruder.

“And you are?” Éléonore’s voice was like chilled glass.

“Esmé. Esmé Delorme.”

The woman stopped, displeasure flickering across her face. “Ah. Clara mentioned your mother once. Vivienne… Lévy, wasn’t it? The filmmaker.” Her tone suggested the name was a stain. “Very… brave work. I’m sure it plays well in certain circles.”

Clara came in then, hair still wet, wearing an oversized T-shirt that made her look younger, softer. She stopped short in the doorway, her casual posture tightening the moment she saw her mother. Éléonore’s gaze hardened instantly.

“Darling, you look like you slept in the street.”

“Good morning to you too, Maman.”

“She used to have such discipline,” Éléonore said, speaking to Esme like they were conspirators. “I suppose that’s what happens when you surround yourself with people who think rules are suggestions.”

Esme understood. The cruelty wasn’t an act. It was an inheritance.

In August, Esme went to New York with her mom, staying in their family’s UWS apartment. While she was there, Clara posted Instagram pictures of herself kissing some random beautiful boy at a beach party. Esme stared at her phone screen, a tangle of hurt and confusion tightening in her chest.

She couldn’t help herself. She texted.

Esme

Who’s the guy in your picture?

Clara

Is it any of your business? One month with me and you think you get to ask?

Esme

Yes, I do.

Clara

He happened to be there. Could’ve been you if you hadn’t bailed for hot, humid, hellish New York. Your loss.

Esme 

I don’t want him to touch you.

Clara

Too late.

The confirmation followed Esme through the rest of her trip, aching more than uncertainty ever had.

When she came back, everything had changed. Hugo was back, and the air turned brittle again. The quiet intimacy vanished.

One afternoon in September, Clara examined bruises on her wrist. “Hugo was intense last night.”

“Are you okay?” Esme asked.

“It’s whatever. Men are like that.” Clara’s voice was so casual it made Esme’s stomach turn.

A few days later, relief in Clara’s voice: “Thank god he’s obsessed with that theater girl now. Maybe he’ll leave me alone for a while.”

Two weeks into the school year, Clara started kissing her. Sudden, hard kisses in hallways, at parties, whenever she found Esme alone. The kisses were desperate, like Clara was trying to prove something.

She would pull her close at parties, her hand possessive on Esme’s waist, then ignore her for days.

In October, after what happened with Manon and Hugo, Esme stayed. She still had hope. She thought if she waited long enough, the girl from July would come back. But Clara was pulling away and becoming more possessive at the same time, more erratic.

October 28th.

The text came late in the afternoon. Come over. Everyone’s out.

Esme let herself hope. Maybe Clara wanted the summer back.

She went.

The apartment was silent. Clara met her at the door wearing a sweatshirt Esme had left there months ago. She didn’t smile, walked toward her bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

She was on the bed, the muted glow of the TV washing over her. Esme sat on the edge.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Clara reached out, took her hand, and tugged her into the sheets.

For a while, it was perfect. The first kiss carried the echo of July’s quiet hope: slow, careful. Clara’s hands were gentle. She looked at Esme with an intensity that meant something. She’s back. The real her.

Clara’s touch was soft, questioning. Esme met it unrestrained, giving everything because it seemed safe. It seemed like love.

She moved over Clara, slow and insistent, felt the tremor build through Clara's body. A sound slipped from Clara’s throat, involuntary and raw. For a split second Clara’s face went open, stunned, like she hadn’t expected to feel anything at all.

The vulnerability vanished, replaced by cold fury, almost disgust. That unguarded feeling had been an insult she couldn’t forgive, in herself or in Esme. The transformation was instant and terrifying.

Her grip on Esme’s wrist tightened, the pressure transforming from intimacy to restraint. Her other hand moved, fast and impersonal.

“Clara,” Esme whispered, the change so sudden it stole her breath.

A breathless sound escaped her own mouth, and Clara laughed, a low, biting sound against her skin.

“You’re so desperate,” she murmured. “It’s embarrassing.”

The Clara she thought she knew was gone, leaving only this cold, hard stranger who kept going. Esme went somewhere else, watching the city lights move across the ceiling, seeing July’s tenderness dissolve in the shadows, as the clock on the nightstand ticked past midnight. It was her sixteenth birthday now.

Afterward, the room was quiet and empty.

“I’m going to shower,” Clara’s voice was flat from the other room. “You should go.”

Her body felt borrowed. Everything hurt. She pulled her shirt on and winced, a flare of pain under her arm, along her side. She looked down. Faint, dark flowers were already blooming under her skin, bruises she didn’t remember receiving, marks left by a grip she hadn’t realized was so tight.

She left without a word. 

A few days later, Esme waited for her in the courtyard. The wind cut between the stone buildings. Clara arrived with her coat unbuttoned and expression flat, like none of it touched her.

“If you’re here to cry about it,” she said, “don’t.”

“I’m not crying,” Esme replied. “I want to know why.”

Clara didn’t hesitate. “Because it meant nothing. You meant nothing.”

“You kissed me first,” Esme said. “You stayed. You touched me like…”

“Pity. Curiosity. Boredom,” Clara snapped. “Pick one.”

“You held me. You stayed.”

“And?” Clara stepped closer. “You think that makes you special? I’ve done worse with people I hated more.”

Esme’s teeth clenched.

“You were an experiment,” Clara added, voice too even. “I wanted to see how far I could push you before you broke.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know me, Esme.”

“I do. That’s what scares you.”

“You’re pathetic. You let me do whatever I wanted, you…” Clara broke off, then spat it out. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

Esme took a step back.

“You felt it too.” Her voice was louder now, breaking.

Clara’s voice wavered once. “If I could do it again, I would. A hundred times.”

Esme stared at her. “Do what?”

Clara blinked. “Be with you.” Then, too quickly: “I mean hurt you.”

Esme nodded. “You meant the first one.”

Clara flushed. Her hand curled into a fist. “God, I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Esme said quietly. “You will. You’ll hate me forever. Because I saw you.”

She turned to leave, then added: “If you hate your mother so much, why are you trying so hard to become her?”

Clara’s face went white.

Esme walked away before Clara could respond.

She was almost to the gate when Clara’s voice stopped her, raw and desperate.

“It was me.” The words came out broken. “I’m the one who set Manon up.”

Esme stopped walking.

Clara stood in the center of the empty courtyard.

“I told him exactly what to say to her. I gave him everything he needed.” Clara’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I didn’t want to hurt her. I wanted you to see. That your world wasn’t any better than mine. That’s not the same thing.” She laughed, a broken sound. “Except now I know it is.”

Horror dawned across her face. “I thought she’d be fine. It’s Hugo. It’s twenty minutes. I didn’t think…”

For the first time, she seemed to understand what she’d normalized for herself wasn’t universal. That what she could endure didn’t mean everyone could, didn’t mean it was okay.

Esme couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Then, without a word, she turned back toward the gate and kept walking, leaving Clara alone with the weight of what she’d finally confessed.

But Clara’s lies had already begun. By the next day, whispers followed Esme through the halls: that she was obsessed, unstable, that she’d begged for attention Clara never wanted to give. She stopped eating in the cafeteria, finding a quiet spot in the library stacks, a place to avoid Manon, Hugo, and Clara.

A week later, the confrontation with Manon happened on a side street near Bastille. It left Esme devastated and hollow.

She stumbled into her room and the crying came immediate and raw, scraping her throat until it burned. She tried to muffle the sobs when she heard footsteps. The door opened before she could compose herself.

Vivi entered carrying a mug of tea. She stopped, taking in her daughter crumpled on the floor with swollen eyes and shaking body.

“What did they do?”

“Clara…” Esme’s voice came out fractured. “She didn’t stop when I… I didn’t want it like that. I didn’t know how to say no. I… let it happen. And Manon…”

The words tangled in her throat. She told her what happened to Manon. Manon, who Vivi had known since she was nine years old, who used to help them paint sets for Vivi’s experimental films in their living room. Manon, who Hugo had systematically destroyed while Esme watched.

Vivi moved closer, brushing damp strands of hair back from Esme’s face. Her eyes were gentle but her words came firm, almost stern.

“I thought I raised someone brave.”

“I thought I was.”

Esme looked away, but the words kept coming.

“You wanted to belong so badly you let them twist you into something you never wanted to be. You saw what was happening to her and you chose to look away.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“You meant to belong. You chose that over everything. Over everyone.”

The harshness of her mother’s words felt like stones hitting her. Esme flinched, curling into herself, trying again, her voice small, trying to make her understand the part she was missing.

“Clara… it wasn’t right. She hurt me.”

Vivi’s expression changed then to weary pity that was somehow worse than the anger. She sat on the bed, brushing hair from Esme’s face. The tenderness was real. The words were a final, devastating blow.

“I adore you, Esmé. You’re my brightest thing,” she said softly. “This isn’t about Clara. You’re breaking because of Manon. Because you let her down.”

The words Esme tried to force out died in her throat. Her mother had heard the part she could understand, what Esme had done to Manon, and missed the part Esme didn’t know how to say. Maybe that was fair. Maybe it meant Clara hadn’t really done anything wrong. Maybe Esme had imagined it all, because if even her mother didn’t see it, maybe it hadn’t been real at all.

“That’s the wound that matters,” Vivi finished, squeezing her shoulder. “That’s what you have to face.”

She left the door ajar.

Her mother had heard what she wanted to hear. That Esme had fallen too hard for a girl who didn’t love her back. That it was a story about heartbreak and jealousy.

Esme hadn’t said the real thing. Maybe not even to herself.

The words she’d managed, the only ones she could get out, had been misunderstood. Repackaged. Dismissed.

The pain Clara had inflicted felt like punishment. Her mother not seeing it made it feel deserved.

She sank to the floor and didn’t bother getting up.

Chapter Text

Two Months Later, the silence in their apartment settled like dust. Esme moved through it hollow, attending school, pretending to study. She poured herself into her zines. The work came out raw and dark. Vivi found herself reading about “bruises like dark flowers” and “borrowed bodies” and suddenly understood what her daughter had tried to tell her.

“This isn’t about Manon, is it?” Vivi said from the doorway.

Esme’s charcoal pencil stilled.

Vivi entered slowly, her usual force replaced by uncertainty. She sat on the bed’s edge. “I was wrong that night. You tried to tell me something, and I didn’t listen. I was so caught up in my own story that I couldn’t see yours.” Her voice carried regret Esme had never heard before. “Tell me now. Please. What did she really do to you?”

This time, Esme told the story clearly. Vivi listened, the color draining from her face. “Mon dieu,” she whispered, pulling Esme into a fierce, apologetic hug. “I am so sorry. I should have listened. I failed you.”

Esme let herself be held. For once, she didn’t pull away.

A month passed before Esme felt anything beyond shame. Armed with her mother’s belief, she started venturing out. Small expeditions at first. An art supply store in the 10th where no one knew her face. A record store in the 11th where she could disappear into headphones. One afternoon, she gathered her courage and walked into an independent bookshop in Le Marais, carrying a stack of her zines.

She wasn’t paying attention, rounding the corner too fast. She bumped into someone, her bag slipping off her shoulder, zines scattering across the floor.

“Sorry,” Esme muttered, crouching to gather them.

The girl she’d bumped into knelt to help, a school bag sliding down her own arm. She picked up one of the zines, her eyes scanning the cover.

“‘With Love and Squalor.’ Bold choice,” she said. “Are you the artist?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. I bought your last issue. The poem about the ghost was devastating.”

“I’m Esme.”

“Of course you are,” she said, like it explained everything. “I should’ve known.” She studied Esme’s face. “I’m Leila." She looked at Esme for a moment before asking. "You want coffee? You don’t have to talk about anything. Or we can talk about literally anything else. Up to you.”

For the first time in months, Esme felt seen as an artist, rather than a victim or a monster.

They became friends first. Leila went to a different school, took photography classes, lived in Montreuil with her mom. Her camera was always in her bag. Her room was small, walls covered with contact sheets, prints clipped to wires across the window. She photographed thresholds, she said. The moment before you go through. That pause.

Esme told her about Clara. Not everything at first, but enough. The summer. The rejection. The cruelty after. Leila listened without trying to fix anything.

“That sounds lonely,” Leila said simply. “I don’t really know what to say. That’s fucked up. I’m sorry that happened.”

First time anyone had named it correctly.

The intimacy happened gradually, naturally. One evening they were looking at prints, and Leila's hand lingered on Esme's. Another night, a kiss.

“Is this okay?” Leila asked the first time, her hand hovering. “Like, you can tell me to stop. I won’t be weird about it.”

It was. Esme’s body remembered it could say yes or no, that touch could be a question instead of a claim.

By the third time, Esme was the one who initiated. “Can we…” she started, then stopped.

“Yeah,” Leila said, reading her face. Then, softer: “You can just say what you want. Or don’t. We can figure it out.”

Esme learned to ask. She learned what she wanted, what she didn't. With Leila, touch was a conversation. Her hands asked and waited, and when Esme said yes, it was pure: pleasure without the shadow of doubt. No flinches, no dissociation. Her body responded, alive and hers again.

“Wait, slower,” Esme said once.

“Oh shit, sorry… like this?”

“Yeah. That’s good.”

Another time: “More.”

Leila smiled against her skin. “Okay. Tell me if it’s too much.”

One time, they laughed during sex because Leila knocked over a lamp reaching for something. Esme realized she’d never laughed during intimacy before. The ease of it, the lightness, felt like reclaiming something she hadn’t known she’d lost.

Leila had been photographing hands for weeks: holding things, letting go, reaching, resting. One afternoon, she turned the camera on Esme.

“Just your hands at first,” Leila said. “If that’s okay.”

It was. Then it wasn’t just hands anymore. Esme’s shoulder, her collarbone, the curve of her neck. Never her face. Leila worked quietly, clicking the shutter when Esme wasn’t paying attention, catching moments Esme didn’t know she was making.

Later, looking at the contact sheets spread across Leila’s floor, Esme saw herself differently.

She chose the images that felt like thresholds. The moment before touching. The aftermath of release. She laid them into her zine between poems about choosing, about taking back what was hers.

“I like you,” Leila said one afternoon. They were lying on her bedroom floor, contact sheets spread around them. “Like, I really like you. But I’m not trying to fix you or whatever. I just think you’re cool. And hot.”

Esme understood. The honesty was a relief, actually.

But when Leila said “I love you” one evening in late March, casual and easy, the words stuck in Esme’s throat. Her body had healed. She could want without fear, could give herself freely. But love, saying it, believing she deserved it, that was different. She cared about Leila, maybe could have loved her, but something in her had closed off. How could she accept love when Manon was still hurt? When she’d watched her best friend get destroyed and done nothing to stop it? Saying “I love you” felt like claiming happiness she hadn’t earned.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Leila said gently. “I think I already knew. I just wanted you to know how I felt.”

They were walking along the Quai de Valmy, the late afternoon sun glinting off the canal. Leila’s hand was warm in hers as she talked about a photograph she wanted to take, something about the way light fell on the water before dusk. It was easy, walking like this.

Then Esme heard it. A blast of music from up ahead, a beat she knew in her bones.

Her steps slowed. Up ahead, a circle of tourists had formed around a group of dancers. In the center of that circle, radiant under the Parisian sun, were Manon and Léa.

The world went silent and razor-edged at once. Esme’s hand slipped from Leila’s before she was aware of making the choice. Her arm fell to her side, suddenly cold.

She watched Manon execute a move they’d choreographed together, a joyful, spinning leap. A hollow ache spread through Esme’s chest.

Beside her, Leila’s story about the photograph faltered. She felt the instant absence of Esme’s hand. She turned, her voice soft with immediate concern.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Esme couldn’t tear her eyes from the scene. She gave a small, tight nod, which was clearly a lie. “I used to dance with them,” she said, her voice barely there.

Leila looked from Esme’s pained expression to the dancers and back again. “Wow,” she said softly, understanding dawning. “They’re incredible. How come you stopped?”

Esme finally looked away from the life that was no longer hers. She met Leila’s gentle, questioning eyes and gave her the only answer she could.

“It got complicated.” Her voice was flat. “I didn’t have time anymore.”

The relationship with Leila ended as gently as it had begun.

When April came, they both felt the change. They’d been meeting less, the ease between them settling into something complete.

“You’re doing better,” Leila said when they finally talked about it.

“Because of you.”

“Maybe a little,” Leila smiled. “But mostly you. I just didn’t get in the way.”

In May, Esme met someone at a party. Sabine. Pretty, confident, clearly interested. They went back to Sabine’s place, and Esme learned something else: she could do this without feelings attached. She could want someone and walk away after.

“You’re not going to call me, are you?” Sabine asked the next morning, but she was smiling.

“Probably not,” Esme admitted.

“Fair enough.”

What remained was proof: Esme could want, could enjoy, could give and receive pleasure freely. She could walk away. And that was enough, for now.

By the end of spring, Esme was better than she'd been in months. She was dancing at home, making art, smiling sometimes.

But Vivi saw it. Paris had become a minefield. Certain metro stops, certain cafés, the walk past the Sorbonne. Esme avoided them all.

"You're not healing here, Esmé. Paris is making it worse. Every street reminds you of her, of what happened. You think you deserve to suffer because of Manon. You don't. I know that feeling. I was sixteen here once. I thought if I performed strength, I’d survive. I was drowning.”

She looked at the framed photograph on the mantle of Jess, Evan and herself taken during prom 1996, laughing and happy and carefree.

“My parents sent me to Wellsbury. I hated them for it. Thought it meant they were giving up on me. It saved my life. It gave me space to exist without apologizing for it. Maybe it can do that for you. I’m not sending you away, Esmé. I’m trying to bring you back.”

For the first time in a long time, she felt the shape of a future, something separate from memory. It was terrifying. And it was exactly what she needed.

Chapter Text

I. Morning

Max woke up to the smell of coffee and her mom’s off-key humming. She dragged herself downstairs in Marcus’ stolen hoodie and pajama shorts, hair a disaster, phone clutched like a lifeline.

Ellen looked up from the waffle maker. “Morning, sunshine.”

“It’s too early for that level of cheer.” Max collapsed into a chair.

“It’s 10:30.”

“Exactly.”

Ellen poured her a cup of coffee without asking, added the obscene amount of cream Max liked. “You’ve been weird lately.”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you too.”

“I don’t mean bad weird. Quiet weird.” Ellen pushed a plate of waffles across the table. “Talk to me.”

Max drowned the waffles in syrup. “Esme’s in New York. With her family.”

“I know. You’ve checked your phone seventeen times since you sat down.”

“I haven’t…” Max caught herself mid-lie. “Okay, maybe I have.”

Ellen sat down across from her with her own coffee. “What’s going on?”

“She told me everything. About her past, about this girl Clara who really hurt her, about her friend Manon who she feels like she failed. And now she’s in New York and I don’t know if she’s okay or if I should be texting her more or giving her space or—”

“Max.”

“—and I watched Vivi’s film. The one from 1995. When you were seventeen.”

Ellen’s expression changed. “Oh. That film.”

“Mom.” Max set her fork down. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were like that?”

“Like what?”

“Brave. Fierce. Protecting people even when it made you the target.” Max's throat felt tight. “You stood up for Vivi and Jess and Evan. You tore down those journal pages. You screamed at kids in the hallway. You brought Jess homemade scones when she was hurting.”

Ellen looked surprised. “Vivi put all that in the film?”

“Yeah. And I never knew.” Max brushed tears away. “I finally get it now. That feeling. When someone hurts someone you love and you want to burn the whole world down to protect them.”

“Oh, honey.” Ellen reached across the table, squeezed Max’s hand.

“I feel that way about Esme. About what Clara did to her. About everything.” Max swallowed hard. "And watching you at seventeen, standing up without even thinking about it. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I finally understand where I get it from.”

Ellen’s eyes were wet now. “I didn’t know Vivi got all that on film. We were kids trying to look out for each other.”

“You made Jess feel like someone cared. Someone like you. That’s what she told Vivi in the film.”

“Jess was going through hell.” Ellen’s voice was soft. “Kids were cruel. They picked on the ones who were different, who didn’t fit their little boxes. It made me so angry.”

“You still do that. Stand up for people.”

“So do you, Max. You stood up for your brother when no one else would. You saw he was drowning and you fought to save him.”

"I couldn’t though. I couldn’t fix him.”

“That wasn't your job.” Ellen’s voice was gentle. “You were supposed to love him. Get him help. Let the professionals do the fixing.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to do with Esme?”

“You obsess over things, honey.” Ellen smiled sadly. “Try letting go sometimes.”

“I don’t want to let it go.”

“Well, you don’t have to be with her, either. That’s the other option.”

Max felt panic spike through her chest. “I want to be with her. I love her.”

“Then you need to meet people where they are.” Ellen reached across the table again. “Remember what I told you back then? That not everyone is you?”

Max nodded.

“Esme’s dealing with her stuff. She’s with her mom, her sister, people who love her. You don’t have to carry all of it.”

“What if she decides I’m too much? What if she realizes it’s easier without me?”

“Then that’s her choice.” Ellen’s voice was firm. “You can’t shrink yourself to make someone stay. And you can’t fix someone by loving them harder.”

Max sat with that, syrup-sticky fingers wrapped around her coffee mug.

“When I was seventeen,” Ellen said quietly, “I thought if I stood up loud enough, fought hard enough, I could protect everyone from getting hurt. I learned that sometimes people have to walk through their own fires. You can stand at the edge with a blanket ready, with love ready. You can’t walk through the flames for them.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“It is. Love is terrifying.” Ellen smiled. “The bravest thing I did in high school wasn’t standing up to bullies. It was learning to love people without trying to control their choices.”

Max looked at her mom and saw that seventeen-year-old with the denim jacket and fierce eyes. Still there. Still fighting. Still learning.

“Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For showing me what it looks like. To stand up for people.”

“You’re doing fine on your own, sweetheart.” Ellen kissed the top of her head. “You hold on to the love. You let go of the control.”

II. Afternoon

Max found Marcus in the garage, painting. He'd been spending more time out here since coming home from rehab, claiming the light was better. Really, Max knew, it was about having a space that wasn't his bedroom, where depression had lived for months.

"Knock knock," she said, even though there was no door.

Marcus didn't look up from his canvas. "You never knock."

"I'm trying to respect boundaries or whatever." She plopped down on an old stool, watching him work. Blues and grays swirling together into something that looked like water or sky or sadness. "That's really good."

"It's really depressing."

"Yeah, gallery depressing though."

That got a small smile. "What do you want?"

"Can't I visit my favorite brother?"

"I'm your only brother."

"Details." Max twisted her bracelet, watching him paint. "Esme's in New York."

"I know. You've mentioned it about forty times."

"Max." Marcus set his brush down, turned to look at her. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

He wiped paint off his hands. "With me, you were constantly trying to fix me. Make my problems your problems. You're doing that with Esme."

Max felt defensive. "I'm worried about her."

"I know. And telling Mom and Dad about me was right. I'm not saying that part." He picked up a rag, put it down again. "I'm talking about after. When I was in rehab and you still couldn't let it go."

"You know what sucked the most about the drinking?" Marcus stared at his canvas. "Wasn't even the hangovers or whatever."

"Then what?"

"Ginny." His voice got tight. "Knowing she needed me to be okay. Every time she looked at me, I could see it. This hope. That today I'd wake up and be better."

Max shifted on the stool.

"It made everything heavier," Marcus continued. "I wasn't just drowning. I was drowning while someone watched. Waiting for me to fix myself so she could breathe again." He paused. "Does that make sense?"

"I think so."

"She loved me. Every time I drank, I wasn't just hurting myself, I was proving I didn't deserve that hope."

Max said softly, "She was trying to help though."

"I know. That's what made it suffocating." Marcus picked up his brush again but didn't paint. "She'd text me every morning. 'Good morning, how'd you sleep?' But I knew what she meant. 'Are you okay today? Are you getting out of bed?' And when I wasn't?" He paused. "What was I supposed to say?"

Her throat went tight.

"I started lying," Marcus admitted quietly. "Said I was fine when I wasn't. And the whole time I was drinking and she had no idea. Watching her worry about the depression while hiding the drinking was worse than either thing alone."

"She cared about you."

"I know. And I resented her for it." Marcus looked at Max. "When someone's your whole reason to get up in the morning? You end up responsible for making them happy. And when you can't do that, when you're too messed up..." He paused. "It crushes you."

Max sat with that for a moment. "Is that why you won't see her now?"

"Yeah." Marcus's voice roughened. "I need to figure out how to be okay on my own. Not for her. For me. If I go back now, I'll make her my reason to stay sober. And when things get hard? When I disappoint her again?" He trailed off. "I'll fall apart."

"What if she waits and you never come back?"

"Then at least I was honest." Marcus started painting again, the strokes uneven. "Better than going back and dragging her down with me again."

Max thought about that. About Esme in New York. About checking her phone constantly.

"With Esme," Marcus said quietly, "you're kind of doing what Ginny did. Making her problems your job. Watching her to make sure she's okay so you can be okay."

"I'm not."

"You are though." His voice was gentle. "And she's gonna feel it. That pressure. Knowing you're waiting for her to get better so you can stop worrying."

Max felt tears prick her eyes. "I don't want her to feel that."

"Then give her space. Let her work on her stuff without you watching." Marcus paused. "You remember what you said to me before rehab? You said you couldn't watch me kill myself anymore."

"Yeah."

"You were right. You couldn't save me. I had to want it." He looked at her. "Esme has to want to get better for herself. Not for you. Not to make you feel better. For her."

"Awesome. I love existential dread with my afternoon coffee."

"Yeah." Marcus turned back to his canvas. "I watched you break yourself trying to save me. You stopped sleeping. Stopped eating properly. My problems took up all your space."

"I didn't know what else to do."

"I get it. Just... don't do it again. Not with Esme." His voice went quiet. "Figure out who Max is when she's not trying to fix someone."

"Yeah. That sounds like therapy homework. Like, the expensive kind."

"It is. It's what I'm doing. Trying to remember who I am when I'm not Ginny's boyfriend. When I'm not your broken brother." He painted another stroke. "When I'm not someone's problem."

Max sat with that. "Do you think you'll go back to her? Eventually?"

"I don't know." Marcus's voice was honest. "Maybe when she's not the only thing keeping me alive. When I want to be with her, not when I need her." He paused. "I don't know."

"Okay, wow. That's bleak."

"It is. I miss her every day." He glanced at Max. "I'm still here though. I think. Still figuring it out." 

"I don't want Esme to feel what you felt. That suffocating thing."

"Then don't put all of yourself into fixing her." Marcus's voice was firm. "Show up when she asks. Back off when she needs space. Don't make her responsible for you being okay."

"I'm scared she won't come back."

"She might not." Marcus was quiet. "You'll be okay though. I'm okay without Ginny right now. It sucks, and I haven't disappeared."

They sat in silence.

"Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For telling me."

"Don't make my mistakes." He smiled sadly. "One Baker mess at a time."

III. Evening

Ginny texted around six: blue farm? need coffee and a human who isn’t my mother

Max showed up twenty minutes later, found Ginny at their usual table with two iced coffees already waiting.

"You're a goddess," Max said, sliding into the booth.

"I know." Ginny studied her. "You look exhausted."

"Thanks. Love that for me." Max grabbed her coffee.

"Seriously though. How are you doing?"

"I don't know." Max picked at the condensation on her cup. "Everyone keeps saying I need to give Esme space and I'm like, okay cool, what if space means she's like, actually I'm good without you?"

"Max, I..." Ginny stopped. "Okay so. I need to say something and it's gonna be weird. And I should probably let you talk about Esme first but I've been sitting on this for weeks and if I don't say it now I'm gonna chicken out."

Max looked up.

"Before the party back then. Marcus told me you were being dramatic about his drinking." Ginny's voice got tight. "And I believed him."

Max went very still.

"Like, he was so upset and I just... I believed him. And that's so fucked up because you were right and I made you feel crazy."

"Why though?"

"Because my mom was literally on trial for murder and I couldn't—" She stopped. "I couldn't deal with one more thing exploding. So I just like, chose to think you were overreacting? Because that meant Marcus was fine and I didn't have to worry about him too."

Max felt anger and something else fight in her chest.

"I watched him drink too much at that party," Ginny's words came out rough. "Like everyone watched him. And I didn't stop him. I didn't help you get him home. I just stayed there because if I admitted it was bad then everything else would feel worse."

"That really sucked, Ginny."

"I know." Ginny was crying now. "I literally enabled him and then when you tried to tell me, I was like 'Max is being dramatic again' and I'm so sorry."

"Are you okay?" Max asked finally. "Like with your mom and everything?"

Ginny looked surprised. "What?"

"You said your life was exploding. I was so focused on Marcus I didn't ask."

"I'm like, a disaster." Ginny's voice was thick. "My mom's home but it's so weird. I don't know how to be around her. And Marcus won't see me."

"I know."

"He called when he got out. Said his counselor thinks relationships are triggers or whatever. That he needs space." Ginny's face was wet with tears. "And I get it, like I actually think it's the right thing? But I'm so heartbroken. I keep getting my heart broken over him."

"How are you even functioning?"

"I'm not." Ginny looked at her hands. "He said he still loves me. Like he said it. But being with me would mess up his recovery." She paused. "Which like, I want him to get better more than I want to be with him. So that's good I guess? But it doesn't make it hurt less."

Max's chest got tight. "Marcus told me today. About being someone's whole reason to get up."

"I did that." Ginny looked at her hands. "I literally disappeared into worrying about him. Like when he was around I was okay and when he wasn't I was falling apart." She paused. "We both want this. We both love each other. And we still can't have it. Which is somehow worse than if he just stopped loving me."

"How long do you have to wait?"

"He didn't say. There's like, no timeline." Ginny's voice got small. "I'm terrified that when he gets healthy he's gonna realize being with me isn't healthy. That I'll always remind him of when everything was bad."

"Then you deal with it." Max's voice wasn't mean, just honest. "Same way I dealt with him hating me for getting him help."

"I'm sorry I made that harder."

"Yeah. You did." Max looked at her. "I don't know if I forgive you yet."

"That's fair."

"I get why you did it though. You were scared. You had your own shit. We've all been drowning."

"I should've told you weeks ago."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't know how to say 'I messed up' without like..." Ginny trailed off. "Falling apart I guess."

Max didn't answer.

"I'm really sorry." Ginny reached across the table. "You're my best friend. I should've believed you."

"I'm still mad. Like you really hurt me."

Ginny waited.

"But I'm glad you told me."

"I should've said it sooner."

"Yeah." Max smiled a little. "I'm still worried about you though. With everything."

Ginny's eyes filled up again. "Thank you for asking. Nobody else has."

"I'm your friend. Even when I'm mad at you." Max squeezed her hand. "Even when you're being an idiot."

"I was such an idiot."

"Truly massive."

They sat for a second.

"I hope he comes back," Max said quietly. "Like when he's ready."

"Me too." Ginny smiled sad. "And I hope Esme like, lets you in. For real."

"Don't wait forever though if it's killing you. You're allowed to choose yourself too."

"I am choosing myself. I just also want the girl. And the happy ending. And, like, not to be alone."

"Max..."

"I know, I can't have all three," Max said. "We're so bad at this."

"The worst." Ginny laughed through tears. "We're sixteen and literally everything is terrible."

"Everything is terrible," Max agreed.

They finished their coffees, and when Max left, she carried both things: the hurt of being dismissed and the understanding of why.

IV. Night

Max lay on her bed, phone face-up on her chest, waiting for it to buzz. Esme had texted earlier, something short about the wedding being beautiful, about seeing her mom happy, and Max hadn’t known how to respond.

The house was quiet. Marcus in the garage. Her parents watching something downstairs. Max and her spiraling thoughts.

She thought about Ellen’s words. You hold on to the love. You let go of the control.

She thought about Marcus pushing Ginny away because he loved her too much to drag her down.

She thought about Ginny crying over Marcus, waiting for him to be ready.

Everyone was telling her the same thing in different ways. Max needed to step back. To let Esme do the work. To trust that love meant giving people room to figure themselves out.

Her instinct was to grab on tight and never let go. To make herself indispensable. To love so loudly that leaving became impossible.

She’d done it with Sophie. Smothered her until she ran.

She’d tried it with Marcus. Couldn’t save him until he saved himself.

And now with Esme, she was doing it again. Trying to fix, to hold, to carry.

Her phone buzzed.

Esme: miss you

Esme: sorry i’m not better at this

Max stared at the messages. She typed and deleted six different responses before settling on:

miss you too

you don’t have to apologize

just be you, I’ll be here

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Esme: that’s what scares me

Esme: what if who i am isn’t enough

She started typing: please don’t leave me I can’t

Deleted it.

Tried again: I need you to be okay please

Deleted that too.

Stared at her phone. Thought about Marcus lying to Ginny to protect her from his mess. About making Esme responsible for whether Max was okay. She finally typed:

it’s enough

you’re enough

you have to believe that though

I can’t do it for you

The words felt monumental. Like finally understanding something everyone had been trying to teach her.

Esme: jess said something similar today

Esme: think the universe is trying to tell me something

Max: maybe listen to the universe

Max: she seems pretty smart

Esme: biggest know-it-all

Max smiled despite everything.

Max: i need to talk to abby tomorrow

Max: been putting it off

Esme: that’s good

Esme: you’re brave

Max: I’m terrified

Esme: same thing sometimes

They texted for another hour, nothing deep, small talk about Margot’s sarcasm and Ellen’s terrible jokes and what Marcus was painting. Normal things. Safe things.

When they finally said goodnight, something settled in her chest. Acceptance. That she couldn’t control this. Couldn’t force it to work. Could only show up and hope Esme chose to show up too.

Max rolled over, pulled Marcus’ hoodie tighter around herself, and closed her eyes.

She whispered one last thing to the dark.
“Don’t ghost me, Frenchie.”

Chapter Text

Ellen pulled up in front of Abby’s house, the same pale blue two-story Max had been coming to since third grade.

“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” Ellen asked.

“No, I’ll text you when I’m done.” Max unbuckled, then hesitated. “Mom? Thanks for the ride.”

Ellen smiled. “Of course, honey.”

Max climbed out into August heat. She stood on the sidewalk, staring at the house, chest tight.

This is fine. We’ll talk. I’ll apologize properly this time.

She’d texted earlier: Can I come over? Want to talk about something.

Abby’s response had been immediate: Sure. My room. 4pm.

Okay, that’s a little scary, Max thought. 

Max knocked. Abby’s mom answered, gave her a tired smile, pointed upstairs. “She’s expecting you.”

The house was quieter than Max remembered. Photos on the wall had been rearranged. The wedding photo of Abby’s parents was gone, replaced by one of Abby and her mom alone. A lamp Max didn’t recognize sat on the side table.

When did all this change?

Abby’s door was open. She sat cross-legged on her bed, phone in hand. She looked up.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Max sat at the foot of the bed, pulling her knees up. This wasn’t going to go how she wanted. She could feel it.

“So.” Abby set her phone face-down. “What’s up?”

Max spun the bracelet around her wrist. “I wanted to talk. Things have been weird since… everything. And I know we sort of made up, but it still feels wrong.”

“Okay.” Abby’s voice was carefully neutral.

“So, Esme’s in New York right now with her mom and sister, and she told me she loves me, and I said it back, but then she told me everything about her past and it’s really heavy, and I don’t know if I’m being naive or if I should trust her, and I keep thinking about what if she doesn’t actually—”

“Max.”

“What if she doesn’t—”

“Max.” Sharper now.

Max stopped.

“Is that why you came over? To talk about Esme?”

“I mean… yeah? I thought you’d have good advice. You’re always good at seeing things clearly.”

“Right.” Abby’s voice was flat. “Of course that’s why you’re here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Then, without looking up: “When’s my birthday?”

The question came out of nowhere. “What?”

“My birthday, Max. When is it?”

Max tried to picture the calendar. Summer. Definitely summer. She could see July, then August…

July? No wait.

“Um. July… August?” She saw Abby’s face. “Early August?”

“Three weeks ago, July 30th.” Abby’s voice was eerily calm. “You didn’t text. Didn’t call.”

Max’s stomach dropped.

“Oh my god, Abby, I’m so sorry. I’ve been dealing with Marcus in rehab and Esme and I completely forgot.”

“Yeah. You forgot.” Abby’s voice got quieter. “You texted the group that day. First time in weeks. And for a minute I thought maybe you remembered. That maybe you were reaching out because it was my birthday.”

Max felt like she’d been punched. July 30th, the day she made crepes with Esme. 

“But you didn’t even mention it. You just needed us again.”

“I didn’t mean to! You know how I am, I get overwhelmed and things slip.”

This sounds like an excuse. Stop making excuses.

“Remember at Blue Farm?” Abby cut her off. “When I was crying. Telling you guys I’d had the worst week of my life. That I needed you.”

Max went very still.

“You said ‘I had sex.’” Abby’s calm was cracking. “That’s what you said. I was falling apart and you made it about losing your virginity.”

I was so excited. I’d had sex with Sophie and I wanted to tell someone and I didn’t think.

“I was nervous! It came out wrong.”

“I told you I felt abandoned. That you were all bad friends. That MANG was dead. And you made it about yourself.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then Sophie dumped you. And I was there. Every single day. I held you while you cried, made sure you ate, checked in constantly.”

Max had a flash of memory. Abby bringing her favorite snacks. Coming over after school. Texting every morning. All while Max cried about Sophie and barely noticed.

“I know.”

“Do you?” Abby stood. “Because when I found out about Marcus and Ginny, I didn’t tell you. You know why? Because you were falling apart. Because I knew it would destroy you. I was protecting you.”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me! You lied!” Max stood too, defensive.

“I didn’t tell you.”

“Same thing! You kept a secret about my own twin brother!”

“Because you were a mess!” Abby’s hands were shaking. “And you know what you did? You punished me for it. Wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t let me explain.”

“Because I was hurt!”

I was hurt. She hurt me first. I had a right to be angry.

“So was I!” Abby’s voice broke. “Do you remember the day after Thanksgiving?”

Max went quiet.

Oh god. Please don’t.

“I showed up with pizza bagels. The ones you love. I apologized. And you said I was fake. Disgusting. That maybe that’s who I am now.”

The memory crashed over her. Standing in the kitchen. Abby holding out pizza bagels like an offering. The look on her face when Max said those words.

“You said ‘I don’t know, I don’t care, I’m numb.’ Then you took our thing, ‘love you, mean it,’ and made it a punchline. ‘Love you, mean it, hate you, kidding, bye.’ Like my heart breaking was a joke to you.”

“I was angry.”

“You were cruel, Max. You were so cruel.”

Max felt it hit her. “You hurt me first!”

Except she was trying to protect me. And I knew that. I knew that and I punished her anyway.

“So you had the right to hurt me back? That’s your defense?”

“No! I mean…” Max paced to the window, then back. “I was going through a lot.”

“Then help me understand! Instead of punishing me!”

“You want to know what I was going through?” Max spun around. “Where were you when Marcus was drinking himself to death?”

Abby blinked. “What?”

“All year! All year I was watching my brother fall apart! I was the only one who saw it, and when I tried to tell you guys, you said I was being dramatic!”

“Max—”

“I had to fight to get my parents to take it seriously! Do you know what it’s like to watch your twin brother destroy himself and have everyone tell you you’re overreacting?”

Abby’s expression changed.

“At least when Sophie left, I knew why it hurt. I could name it. But with Marcus… I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why he was trying to disappear. That kind of pain? I couldn’t hold it.”

Silence. Max twisted the bracelet tighter, like she could wind her panic into it.

“You’re right,” Abby said quietly. “I should’ve listened. About Marcus. That was real, and I’m sorry.”

Max wiped her eyes, surprised.

“But that doesn’t erase what you did to me. You were going through something terrible. I was too. We both hurt each other.”

“So what, I’m the villain?”

Am I though?

“You’re not the villain. You’re not the victim either.” Abby sat back down. “You hurt me, Max. And instead of apologizing for real, you did that show in January.”

“I apologized!”

“‘Mistakes were made, by me, regrets abound.’” Abby quoted flatly. “That’s not an apology. That’s performance.”

Max opened her mouth. Stopped.

I do that. I perform instead of being real.

“We did coffee shop! You laughed!”

“I laughed because I wanted us to be okay! We weren’t. We were pretending. Because you never actually said sorry for the real things.”

“For months, all you talked about was Sophie. How much you missed her. How much she hurt you. And I listened. Every single time.”

“Because you’re my friend.”

“When do I get to be more than your audience? When do you actually see me?”

“I see you!”

“Do you?” Abby’s voice was raw. “Remember when you said I’d have to hate myself to hook up with Press, and you were right, and I did it anyway?”

Max’s face went hot. “I… no.”

She’d known about Press. Everyone had. But not like this. Not the way Abby said it. Not the shame in her voice.

“Abby…”

“Do you know I’ve been taping my legs?”

Max went very still. “What?”

“Taping them. To make them look smaller.”

“Abby, that’s…” Max’s voice caught. “How long have you been doing that?”

Taping her legs. That’s not… that’s hurting herself. That causes pain. Actual pain.

“A while.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Every day. Putting it on hurts. Taking it off hurts worse. My skin’s all torn up.”

Oh my god. Every day. She’s been in pain every day and I had no idea.

Max felt tears burning. “Abby, that’s… that’s self-harm. You’re hurting yourself. Every single day.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean…” Max wiped her eyes. “That’s not just insecurity or whatever. That’s serious. Your skin is torn up and you’re in pain constantly.” Her voice broke. “I should have noticed. I should have asked.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“I wish you’d told me.” Max’s voice cracked. “But I get why you didn’t.”

Abby looked at her, surprised.

“You know my parents still scream at each other every time I go to my dad’s?”

Max felt like she couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t know any of this.”

“That Press called me whale legs? And I threw up after?”

“That motherfucker!” Max stood. “I’ll kill him. I swear to god!”

The taping. The purging. Press. She’s been destroying herself and I was too busy talking about Sophie to notice. What do I do? What am I supposed to say? I should hug her. I should say something smart, something my mom would say. But all I can think about is Marcus. About all the times I tried to fix him and made it worse. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make this about me? I can’t. I can’t be that person again.

“Do you know that Tris is the first person who’s made me feel like I’m worth looking at? Like I don’t have to perform or beg for attention?”

Like she doesn’t have to hurt herself to be acceptable.

“I didn’t know any of that. I didn’t know and I should have.”

“Because you didn’t ask!” Abby was crying openly now. “You never ask, Max! You talk, and I listen, and then you leave. You came over today to talk about Esme. Did you ask me how I am? How camp was? Anything?”

Max stood there. She tried to find words to defend herself and came up empty.

She moved toward the door.

Run. That’s what you do.

“Of course you’re leaving,” Abby said. Flat. Resigned.

Max stopped, hand on the doorframe. That tone. Like Abby had been expecting this.

That landed like a punch.

She turned around and sank to the floor, back against the door, face in her hands. “I don’t know how to fix this.”

She started crying and couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know how to be better. Everyone keeps saying I’m too much or not enough, and I don’t know which one to fix first.”

Abby didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly: “I don’t need you to fix yourself, Max. I need you to see me.”

Max lifted her head. “I want to.”

“Then prove it. Show up. Not when you need something.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

I’m not good at this. I’m good at being loud and funny and making everything about myself. I don’t know how to… be there for someone else.

“I can’t keep being the one who gives everything and gets nothing back.”

Max pulled her knees to her chest. “Tris sounds good for you.”

Abby looked surprised. “What?”

“They sound like they see you. Tell me about them?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Because last time I made it about me. About being hurt I wasn’t told first. Because I couldn’t let you have something quiet.

“Because I do. Really. And I’m sorry I made it a big thing before. I should’ve been happy for you.”

Abby studied her face, searching for the catch. When she didn’t find one, she started talking. Slowly at first, then with more confidence. About meeting Tris at the beginning of spring. How Tris challenged her, taught her skateboarding. How she’d never felt seen like that before. How they text constantly even though Tris has been traveling with family for weeks.

When Abby finished, she looked at Max. “You actually listened.”

“I’m trying.”

“That’s the most you’ve listened to me talk in a year.”

A year. It’s been a year of me talking and her listening and me never returning the favor.

“I know.”

They sat in silence.

“You know what really hurt?” Abby asked quietly.

The banner.

“The birthday banner I made you. Do you remember it?”

Max nodded, throat tight.

“I woke up at six in the morning. Spent money I’d saved from babysitting. Bought poster board and paint and glitter.”

Oh god.

“It was ten feet long. I hand-painted every letter. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXINE. Rainbow colors. All that sparkly garbage you love. I hung it up in the hallway because even though you weren’t speaking to me, I still wanted you to know I cared.”

Max felt sick.

“And you ripped it down. You saw it. Walked right up and tore it off the wall.”

The banner flashed in her mind. Rainbow letters catching fluorescent lights, so big it took up half the hallway. She’d been excited at first, when she thought Norah had made it.

“You lit up. Like you were actually happy. Then your face changed. Like you realized you were supposed to still hate me.”

Max couldn’t speak.

“You crumpled it up and left it on the floor. I picked it up later. Threw it away myself.”

Two hours of her time. Her babysitting money. And I destroyed it in front of everyone because I wanted to hurt her.

Max put her face in her hands.

“That’s when I knew you didn’t want space. You wanted to punish me.”

Heavy silence.

“I’m sorry. For the banner. For Thanksgiving. For ‘I had sex.’ For making you feel invisible.” Max paused. “For pushing you aside the second Ginny showed up. For treating you like you only mattered when I needed something.”

I called Ginny my best friend after knowing her for a week. And Abby was right there. Had been there since kindergarten.

Abby was quiet. “You know what’s really messed up? Ginny’s actually been a better friend to me these past few months than you have.”

Max felt like she’d been slapped. “I want to be better. I wish I knew how.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“That’s fair.”

They sat there. Through the window, a car drove by.

Max’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out.

Esme: talked to jess today. found out something wild about my mom. need to process.

Esme: nothing to worry about. actually helped me see some things clearly

Esme: i’m ready now. to let you all the way in.

Esme: come to new york? you and marcus? i want you to meet jess, see my world

“Is that her?” Abby asked.

“Yeah.” Max showed her the screen.

Abby read it. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. I need to ask Marcus.” Max hesitated. “Do you think I should?”

“I think if she’s ready to let you in, you should show up. Don’t make her your whole world though. Don’t do with her what you did with Sophie.”

Everyone keeps saying that. I don’t even know how not to.

“What do I do differently?”

“Keep showing up for other people too. For Marcus. For your parents.” Abby paused. “For me. If I let you.”

“I will.”

“I need to see it, Max.”

“Okay.” Max stood slowly. “Can I text you? Like, actually text you?”

“Maybe. If you actually do it.”

Max nodded. She pulled out her phone, texted her mom for a ride. “I’m going to go. I think we both need space to breathe.”

“Okay.”

“And Abby?” Max paused at the door. “Thank you. For telling me the truth. For the banner, even though I destroyed it. For trying.”

“That’s what friends do. When they’re actually being friends.”

When Ellen’s car pulled up, Max walked down the stairs feeling like she’d been turned inside out.

In the car, Ellen glanced at her. “How’d it go?”

“Hard.”

“That’s usually how the important conversations go.”

Max stared out the window. Her phone buzzed again.

Esme: no pressure. really want you there

Max opened a new thread, texted Marcus.

Max: wanna go to New York tomorrow?

His response was immediate.

Marcus: Why?

Max: Esme invited us. She’s ready to try. And I think we could both use the adventure.

Marcus: yeah. okay. let’s do it.

Max: I talked to Abby. It was awful.

Marcus: good awful or bad awful

Max: I don’t know yet

Marcus: that’s honest at least

Max closed her eyes.

I make people my whole world and forget everyone else. And the people who’ve been there, I take them for granted. I hurt them when they hurt me. I perform instead of being real.

What if I don’t know how to stop?

Chapter Text

Esme pressed her forehead against the glass, watching Wellsbury disappear in the rearview mirror, the trees blurring into watercolor green.

Max’s voice echoed in her head: I need you to choose to be here. Really here. It was a challenge, a line drawn in the sand, and Esme stood on the wrong side of it, terrified to take a step. It wasn't about whether Max would leave, it was about whether she, Esme, was capable of staying. What did that even look like?

“Tu vas bien?” Vivi asked from the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to squeeze Esme’s knee.

“Fine.”

Margot glanced up from her book in the passenger seat. “You’ve said three words since we left.”

“I’m counting,” Esme said, her voice flat. “That makes four.”

Margot didn’t even look up. “Hilarious.”

Esme closed her eyes. She could see Max’s face when she said it: I need you to choose to be here. Really here. The way her voice cracked when she asked if Esme was staying in Wellsbury or running back to Paris.

I want to stay.

She’d said it. Meant it. But wanting something and deserving it were two different things.

Her phone lit up. She didn’t touch it. 

“Max?” Vivi asked, too casual.

“Probably.”

“You’re not going to check?”

“Not yet.”

Because if it was Max saying goodbye, Esme wanted to exist in a world where that hadn’t happened yet. Five more days of maybe.

Wednesday - Provincetown

The wedding was unbearably beautiful.

Evan stood at the altar in a navy suit, grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck. His husband-to-be, Daniel, cried through his vows. It was the kind of love that felt like watching a beautiful film through soundproof glass.

She sat between Margot and Vivi in the third row. Jess sat on Vivi’s other side, reaching over during the vows to squeeze Vivi’s hand.

Esme watched the ceremony and thought about Max’s hand in hers, about how Max always grabbed onto her like she was afraid Esme might evaporate.

Maybe she was right to be afraid.

The reception was at a beachside restaurant, string lights and champagne and too many people asking Esme how she liked America, if she was staying, whether she’d made friends.

“One,” she said to the third person who asked. “I made one friend.”

Esme excused herself to the bathroom before she said something cutting.

She found Vivi on the deck, camera in hand, filming the ocean.

"Getting some good mopey footage?" Esme asked.

“Always.” Vivi lowered the camera. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

“I’m just trying to make it to Friday.”

“No. You’re bracing for heartbreak.”

Esme leaned against the railing. The wind whipped her hair across her face. “What if she doesn’t show up on Friday?”

“Then you’ll survive it.”

“Comforting.”

Vivi turned to face her fully, setting the camera on the railing. “You told her everything. The worst parts. And she didn’t leave then. Why would she leave now?”

“She’s had time to think. To realize I’m not worth it.”

“Esme.” Vivi’s voice went firm, the way it did when she was about to say something Esme wouldn’t want to hear. “You are not the villain in this story. You’re sixteen, you were in love with someone who manipulated you, and you made a mistake. That doesn’t define you.”

She’d wanted Clara’s attention more than she’d wanted to protect Manon. She hadn’t said no. Hadn’t said stop. She hadn’t been cruel, but she hadn’t been kind either.

“It defined Manon’s life.”

“No. Hugo defined Manon’s life when he chose to hurt her. You didn’t make that choice. He did.”

Esme looked away. “I should have stopped it.”

“Yes. You should have. And you’ll carry that. But carrying it doesn’t mean drowning in it.”

Inside, someone clinked a glass. Toasts were starting.

Vivi picked up her camera. “Come on. You can spiral later. Right now, we’re celebrating love that lasted.”

The next morning, they were driving south, the world narrowing back to skyline and noise.

Thursday - New York City

The Upper West Side apartment had always felt like a second home. Esme had spent every summer here, most winter break, sometimes more, running through streets she knew as well as the ones in Paris. She and Margot had shared the smaller bedroom, the one with the window facing the courtyard.

Her great-grandparents’ furniture still filled the rooms, the same chairs and cabinets Vivi’s mother had grown up with. Vivi had added her own layers over the years: a velvet armchair from a Brooklyn flea market, bookshelves overflowing with film theory and poetry, plants in mismatched ceramic pots.

Her grandmother’s art hung on the walls, bold abstract shapes and portraits Esme had grown up with.

The hallway displayed family photos, some artful black and white shots mixed with snapshots across the years. Esme at three, covered in paint. Margot at twelve, rolling her eyes. Vivi and Jess laughing at something off-camera.

Jess had been in this apartment longer than Esme had been alive. Rent-free in exchange for looking after the place. It was the kind of arrangement that only made sense in families like theirs.

Around noon, Jess showed up with bagels and coffee, the scent of antiseptic from her tattoo shop still faintly clinging to her leather jacket. Ink stained the edges of her fingernails.

“Hi.” Esme didn’t look up from the counter.

“Bonjour to you too,” Jess replied, raising an eyebrow.

Jess pulled Esme into a hug that lasted longer than usual. When she pulled back, her eyes were sharp, assessing. “You’ve been off since you’ve arrived. I know the wedding kept us busy, but… is now a good time to talk?”

“Vivi needs to mind her business.”

“She didn’t say anything. I have eyes.” Jess poured coffee into two mugs. “Come on.”

They settled by the living room windows. Morning light streamed through, casting long shadows across the family photos on the wall. Below, traffic hummed like a distant heartbeat.

Jess waited. She’d always been good at that, letting silence stretch until Esme filled it.

“I told Max everything,” Esme finally said. “About Clara. About what I did to Manon.”

“How’d she take it?”

“She stayed, in the moment, but now I don’t know if she’ll still show up tomorrow.”

“Do you want her to?”

“More than anything.”

“Then why do you look like you’re planning her not to?”

Esme’s throat tightened. “Because I don’t deserve her showing up. I hurt someone I cared about because I wanted something more than I wanted to be good. How do I come back from that?”

Jess set her coffee down. “Okay. We’re doing this now.”

“Doing what?”

“The part where I tell you to stop torturing yourself.” Jess leaned back in her chair. Esme braced herself, she knew that tone, calm and deadly accurate. “You think you’re the first person to do something stupid because you wanted someone too much?”

Esme looked away. “It’s not the same.”

Jess exhaled. “Actually… it is.”

Jess stayed silent, eyes fixed on the city. For a moment, it seemed like that was the end of it. Then she turned and looked at Esme with a steadiness that made everything else feel far away.

“I’m the reason your parents split up.”

Chapter Text

“I’m the reason your parents split up.”

The words hung in the air. Simple. Devastating.

Esme's head snapped back. "What?"

Jess' expression didn't change. Calm, matter-of-fact, like she'd been waiting years to say this. "Your mom and me. When you were a baby. Your dad found out, and he left."

Esme stared at her, trying to process. "You and my mom. How long?"

"On and off for thirty years." Jess let that land. "You never knew because your mom doesn't share that part of her life. Especially with you girls."

"Thirty years?" Esme's voice climbed. "I've spent every summer here, every winter break. I've watched you two together my entire life."

"We were careful. And honestly… maybe part of you suspected something but never asked. That's how your family works, isn't it? Vivi doesn't offer, you don't push."

That was true. Her mom never talked about who she dated, who she saw. It wasn't discussed. One time they even bumped into a boyfriend of hers and he had no idea she had kids.

"I thought you were close," Esme said finally. "Best friends. I knew you loved each other, but I didn't know it was… I didn't know it was like that."

"It's both," Jess said simply. "We are best friends. And we're also more than that. Always have been." She looked out at the city. "Your parents were already on and off after Margot was born. The intensity was too much. But when they moved here for that movie and you were born… for a minute, I thought maybe I was going to be raising you and your sister with Vivi. I got attached to that idea."

A family. Jess had wanted to be her family. The thought was a strange mix of warmth and a deep, aching loss for a life she never knew she'd almost had. But in a way, she did get it. Jess has always been family to her.

"What happened?"

"Your dad walked in on something he shouldn't have seen. He was devastated. He left with Margot, and your mom followed with you a few weeks later."

Esme's voice went small. "Wait, my dad abandoned me?"

"No." Jess' response was immediate, firm. "He had to leave, Esme. For his own sanity. He couldn't be in this apartment, couldn't be near your mom or me. But it wasn't abandonment."

"But he chose Margot," Esme whispered, the words a raw, childhood wound.

Jess reached over, her voice gentle but insistent. "It wasn't a choice about love. It was logistics. You were five months old, still nursing, without a passport. He took the daughter he could take, and your mom followed with you as soon as she could. He felt terrible about it. Still does."

She thought about her dad. How present he'd always been, living just across Paris, weekly dinners, school pickups when Vivi was traveling. He'd built a life with someone steady years ago, someone who fit him better. He'd made peace with all of it long before Esme was old enough to understand what peace even looked like. He was fine. Better than fine.

"They never got back together," Jess added quietly, reading something in Esme's face. "When your mom came back to Paris with you, it wasn't to try again with Vincent. That was over. He'd already made that clear: he couldn't keep waiting for her to choose him. They became friends. Co-parents. But the romantic part? That ended the day he walked out of this apartment."

She fell quiet, her gaze fixed on the window. "Took me a long time to get over it. Losing that possibility."

Esme sat frozen. Her mom. Jess. A family she'd almost had. The apartment felt suddenly unfamiliar, like the walls had been hiding something all this time. She thought of Margot, always so guarded, so put-together. Of course she was. She'd lived through the noise. Esme had only inherited the silence.

Jess stood, walked to the railing. Looked out at the city for a moment before turning back.

Esme felt like the ground was tilting. "But... why? He was your friend. I don't understand how you could..."

"He was," Jess agreed, her voice thick with the memory of that pain. "What I did was a betrayal of my friendship with your father, and I will always carry the weight of that. But to understand why it happened... you have to understand where we all were."

"Your parents loved each other. Intensely. But they wanted different things." Jess paused, watching Esme's face. "Your father craved a settled life, something permanent. But Vivi… she can't be contained."

Esme nodded slowly. "She told me once she feels like she's always running."

"She is." Jess gave a small, sad smile. "Before New York, their relationship was fracturing. He begged her to stay, but that just trapped her more. So she came here, for the movie, for a change. And then you happened."

"He thought I'd fix it," Esme murmured.

"Exactly. Holding you, this perfect new life they'd made, was supposed to quiet her restlessness. But it made her want to run even more."

"I don't think she came to New York with a plan to have an affair. I think, subconsciously, she came here to see me because she knew it was the one thing that would be impossible to take back. It was the only way she knew how to finally show him the truth she could never say out loud: that she couldn't be the person he needed her to be. It was a cruel, destructive act of honesty."

She paused, letting the weight of it settle. "And I was there, hoping this was finally my chance. I let my own hope blind me to the pain we were causing. We were three people who loved deeply and hurt each other just as deeply. She loved both of us with everything she had. She didn't choose me over him. She chose both of us. And neither of us."

"So what, you just accepted that?"

"Eventually." Jess was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "When I was younger, in my twenties, I kept thinking, if we love each other, why can't we just build a life together? Why does it have to be so complicated?"

"Why can't she just stay," Esme said flatly.

"Exactly." Jess looked out at the city. "But your mom doesn't build things the way most people do. She touches them, stirs them up, makes them brighter, and then pulls back before she gets too close. Because staying feels more dangerous to her than leaving."

"That's fucked up."

"That's love for her." Jess turned back to Esme. "What happened with Vincent broke something open for me. I finally understood that your mom loved both of us, and that for her, love needs air. Space. Freedom."

"So you just… gave up wanting more?"

"I redefined it." Jess' voice was firm, certain. "Out of wisdom. Out of reverence for what we actually have. And because refusing to accept her reality would've meant losing her completely."

Esme stared at her. "But doesn't it hurt? Knowing she's with other people? Knowing she'll always leave?"

"Knowing she always comes back," Jess corrected gently. "We've already passed every test. We've survived eras, heartbreaks, parenthood. We don't need labels to know what this is."

She just stared. Nothing she thought she knew felt solid anymore.

Jess reached over, squeezed Esme's hand. "Your mom loves deeply. She stays in her own way. And love can exist without ownership. Without constant updates. Without moving in or planning forever. Intimacy without possession can still be real. Someone can choose you without trapping you."

"I don't know if I can do that. Love like that."

"You don't have to love like your mom. You don't have to love like me." Jess pulled her into a hug. "What you have with Max, it's love. Safe, expansive, free. And you get to define what that looks like."

Esme cried into Jess' shoulder, the kind of crying that felt like excavation. When she finally pulled back, her voice was raw. "What if she gets on that train and realizes she can't do this?"

"Did she leave when you told her?"

"No."

"Then trust that." Jess wiped Esme's face with her sleeve. "Max is offering you something your mom and I never had, the possibility of staying. Don't run from it because it feels too good."

"But what if it gets too intense?" Esme's voice was small. "What if I can't handle how much she loves me? What if I panic and—"

"Then you tell her. You say 'I'm overwhelmed, I need space.' You don't disappear. You don't run." Jess' voice was firm. "Intensity isn't dangerous, Esme. Silence is. Running is. Your mom ran because she never learned how to say 'I need air' without leaving completely."

Esme nodded slowly, letting that sink in.

"You get to have both," Jess continued. "You can love Max and still need space. You can stay and still have boundaries. Staying doesn't mean losing yourself. It means trusting someone enough to tell them when you're scared."

"What if I mess it up again?"

"Then you deal with it. Love doesn't come with guarantees." Jess stood, pulling Esme up with her. "But Esme? You need to hear this."

Esme looked up.

"You're punishing yourself. You think as long as Manon doesn't forgive you, you don't deserve to be happy. You're holding yourself hostage to her pain."

Esme's throat went tight. "I hurt her."

"You did. And you'll carry that. But you don't get to use her unforgiveness as an excuse to sabotage your own life. That's not penance. That's just more damage." Jess' voice softened. "Manon gets to be unforgiving. That's her right, but you also get to heal. You get to let someone love you. Those two things can be true at once."

Esme's eyes were wet. "I don't know if I can."

"You can. You just have to choose it." Jess squeezed her shoulder. "Stop waiting for permission to be happy. Manon doesn't owe you that. You owe it to yourself."

Jess' hand rested briefly on her shoulder before she gathered their mugs. "Now. Max arrives tomorrow?"

"If she comes."

"She'll come. And you're going to trust that." Jess headed for the door, pausing to glance back. "Come on. Your mom's probably wondering if we've solved all the world's problems in here."

Esme followed, a small smile breaking through. "Not even close."

Thursday Night

Esme lay in bed, her phone on her chest. The dark floral wallpaper of her side of the room felt like a familiar forest in the low light. Across the room, Margot's breathing was a soft, steady rhythm in the quiet. Esme watched her sister, who had been a witness to the parts of their history Esme only knew as stories. Margot had been there for the shouting matches that echoed through the Paris apartment. She had been the one their father packed into a taxi, at age 4, leaving a five-month-old Esme behind with a mother who was falling apart. Esme wondered what memories Margot held from that year, if she saw their father's heartbreak, their mother's desperation. 

Four messages from Max:

taking the train from Boston tomorrow morning
should be there around 11
Marcus is being annoying about packing
will probably uber from the station unless it's chaos

She’s coming, for real. 

Esme typed back:

can't wait to see you

Then, because she was feeling brave:

thank you for coming

Max responded immediately:

obvs
where else would I be

Esme set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. Sleep felt impossible. Her mind kept replaying Jess' words, circling around the impossibility of her family.

She got up, restless, and walked to the bookshelf by the window.

The kaleidoscope sat there, next to her grandmother's old jewelry box. She'd kept it all these years, a gift from Max when she was eight. She'd loved it immediately, the way the colors shifted and bloomed with every turn, creating patterns that never repeated.

Esme picked it up, held it to the city light. The glass was cool against her palm.

The faded initials were still etched on the bottom—M.B.—barely visible after all these years. Maxine Baker, marking what was hers before she gave it away.

Esme turned it slowly, watching fractured light dance across her hands, then set it back on the shelf.

Tomorrow. Max would walk through that door, and Esme would know for sure.

Outside, the city hummed and buzzed and kept moving, full of people carrying their own impossible loves.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Chapter Text

Upper West Side, Sixteen Years Ago

On the third night, Esme wouldn’t sleep unless she was being held.

Jess tried the bassinet. The carrier. The vibrating rocker with the fake womb sounds. Every time, Esme’s cries turned frantic, like her tiny body could feel what had been taken.

So Jess curled up on the living room floor, a blanket between her and the hardwood. She laid the baby on her chest, one hand curved around her back, the other bracing her heart.

Esme’s weight settled slowly. Small and warm and heartbreakingly real. Her fingers clenched the edge of Jess’s shirt like she’d always known her.

Jess stared at the ceiling and counted seconds.

One. Two. Three.

Where are you, Vivienne?

Four. Five. Six.

Why did you leave her with me?

Seven. Eight.

Why did you leave me too?

It hadn’t been a fight, exactly. More like the inevitable thing that always happened when Vivi loved too much. She vanished. Sometimes in her mind, sometimes in her body. This time, both.

The bag had been packed quietly. The words had been soft.

“I need air,” Vivi had whispered. “I need to not feel like I’m suffocating.”

Jess didn’t stop her. That part still haunted her.

Day 1 - Night

The laptop sat propped on the coffee table, Skype’s ringtone cutting through the apartment’s silence. Jess shifted Esme carefully, her tiny breaths warm against Jess’s neck, and answered.

Vincent’s face filled the screen. Unshaven. Exhausted. Behind him, she could see Margot’s toys scattered across an unfamiliar floor.

“You’re the last person I want to talk to,” he said. His voice was flat. “But you’re also the only one.”

“I know.”

“How is she?”

Jess angled the laptop so he could see Esme sleeping on her chest. “She’s okay. Fed. Changed. Breathing.”

Vincent stared at his daughter through the screen. His expression crumpled for a moment before he pulled it back together. “Are you sure you can do this? Take care of her right now?”

Jess felt the words sting. “I’ve been doing it since she was born, Vincent.”

“Alone, though. Without…” He stopped himself.

“Without Vivi,” Jess finished. “Yeah. I know.”

Esme stirred, made a small sound.

“I can do this,” Jess said, quieter. “I promise.”

Vincent nodded. “Call me if anything happens. Anything.”

“I will.”

He didn’t hang up right away. He sat there, watching his daughter sleep in someone else’s arms, four thousand miles away.

Day 2 - Evening

“She likes being walked,” Vincent said through the screen. “Around the apartment. It helps when she won’t settle.”

“I figured that out around three AM,” Jess said dryly. “We’ve done approximately eight hundred laps.”

“The song helps too. The one from—” He stopped, looked away.

“The lullaby Vivi sings. I know it.”

Vincent was quiet for a moment. Then: “I feel like I abandoned her.”

“You didn’t.”

“I left my five-month-old daughter.”

“The job came up. You needed it.”

“I could have stayed longer.”

“Could you?” Jess met his eyes through the screen. “Really?”

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “No.”

“Then you did what you had to do.” Jess shifted Esme against her shoulder. “You didn’t abandon Esme. She’s here. She’s safe. You’re still her father.”

“You took the daughter you could take.”

“Yeah.” His expression softened slightly. “I did.”

“Margot asked about her today,” he said after a moment. “About her baby sister. About why we’re here and they’re there.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That Mama had to finish her work. That we’d see them soon.” He rubbed his face. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

Neither did Jess.

Day 3 - Late Night

Esme finally fell asleep around midnight. Jess kept the Skype call running, laptop angled so Vincent could see the bassinet.

“What if she never comes back?” Vincent’s voice was low, careful.

Jess looked at the screen. “I don’t know.”

“Has she done this before? Disappeared like this?”

“No, never.”

Vincent was quiet for a long moment. “So we don’t know. We have no idea if—”

“No,” Jess said. “We don’t.”

“What if she doesn’t come back?” His voice cracked. “What if you take Esme and I never hear from either of you again?”

“Vincent…”

“I don’t know if I’d keep you in our lives. If it came to that. I don’t know if I could.”

Jess kept her face still, but the words cut deep. After everything, after days holding his daughter, after every 3 AM call, he still saw her as the person who could take Esme away.

“I wouldn’t take her from you,” she said quietly.

“How do I know that?”

“Because I love her too.” Jess looked at Esme sleeping in the bassinet. “And she needs her father. She needs Margot. She needs more than I can give her.”

The bassinet creaked softly as Esme stirred, her whimpers echoing in the empty room.

On the screen, Vincent put his head in his hands.

They sat like that for a while. The connection humming between them. Four thousand miles and one sleeping baby and two people who loved the same impossible woman.

Day 4 - Midnight

“Try The Godfather soundtrack,” Vincent said. “The waltz. It used to put Margot out like a light.”

“A mafia movie soundtrack for a baby?”

“The music is beautiful. Trust me.”

Jess found it on iTunes and queued it up on her laptop. The opening notes filled the apartment, gentle and melancholy. Esme’s eyes started to close within minutes.

“Okay,” Jess admitted. “You were right. It put her to sleep so fast.”

Vincent smiled. Barely. But it was there.

“You were there before me, Jess.” His voice softened, eyes distant. “I always knew that. I just hoped she’d choose me, only me. It made her run more. The harder I held on, the more she needed to go.” He met her gaze. “You get that. You’ve always gotten that.”

“I’ve never wanted to,” Jess whispered.

“Me neither.” A pause. “But here we are.”

On the screen, Margot appeared, sleepy-eyed, climbing into Vincent’s lap. “Papa, can I see Esme?”

Vincent angled the laptop. Jess turned hers so Margot could see the bassinet.

“She’s so little,” Margot whispered.

“She is.”

“When can I see her for real?”

Vincent looked at Jess through the screen. A question neither of them could answer.

Day 5 - Afternoon

Time had stopped making sense by the end. Everything blurred, naps no longer than a movie, feedings spaced just far enough apart to trick her into thinking sleep was coming, lullabies looping endlessly.

She didn’t have a real lullaby, not one of her own. But she had this. A borrowed melody. A borrowed daughter. And five quiet nights to give her both.

Vivi came back on a Thursday.

She simply opened the door and stood there, smaller somehow, hollowed out.

“I didn’t know if I’d come back,” she said quietly. “But I missed her so much I thought I’d die.”

Jess stood, walked across the room. Picked up Esme from the bassinet. Placed her in Vivi’s arms.

Esme looked at her like a stranger. It lasted a second. Then she curled into Vivi’s shoulder and exhaled like she’d been waiting.

Vivi looked at Jess over Esme’s small head, tears streaming. “I love her too much. That’s the problem. I love both of them so much I can’t hold it. This love, it’s too intense. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Jess understood. She’d always understood. “I know.”

“Do you feel it too?”

“Yeah,” Jess said quietly. “I do.”

And Jess knew. Right then.

Whatever she and Vivi had been to each other, this was the end of that dream. The end of hoping Vivi might stay.

Eight Days Later

The apartment was empty. Vivi had left for Paris with Esme three days ago. Vincent was waiting for them there, but Vivi wasn’t going back to him. That was over. He’d made that clear in one of their late-night calls. “I can’t do this with her again, Jess. I’ll be her co-parent. I can’t keep waiting for her to choose me. I’m done.”

This should have made Jess feel better, but it didn’t.

The family Jess almost had was four thousand miles away.

She found remnants in the quiet: little baby socks tucked behind the couch cushions. A burp cloth folded on the kitchen counter. A pacifier that had rolled under the bookshelf.

Jess picked up the socks. Soft and impossibly small, with tiny elephants printed on them.

She sat on the floor where she’d held Esme for five days, and let herself cry.

She wasn’t Esme’s mother. But for five days, she was the only one who stayed.

When Vivi walked back through that door and Jess handed her the baby, the almost-family vanished with that single gesture. The apartment felt too big without them, but it was home.

Two Weeks Later

Her phone buzzed with a text from Vincent.

Vincent: Promise we never tell the girls about this. About those five days.

Jess stared at the message. Understood what he was protecting them from. The knowledge that their mother left. That she might not have come back.

Jess: I promise.

Vincent: Thank you. For everything.

Jess: You would have done the same.

Vincent: I know.

Vincent: Talk next week?

Jess: Yeah. Talk next week.

The friendship they’d build from wreckage. Bonded by sleepless nights and The Godfather waltz and loving the same woman who couldn’t stay.

Present Day

Esme lay still on the couch, head on Jess’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of the heartbeat that had been there before memory. The one that hadn’t left.

Jess’s hand moved to Esme’s hair, smoothing it back. “You know what the pattern is, right? Your mom runs when love gets too intense. You’re doing the same thing, bracing for Max to leave before she even gets on the train.”

Esme didn’t answer.

“Don’t run from love because it feels too big,” Jess said quietly. “Don’t mistake intensity for danger. Let yourself be loved, Esme. It’s rare when it’s real.”

Esme shifted, her cheek pressing against Jess’ shirt, the fabric soft and familiar, like those long-ago nights she couldn’t remember but somehow felt.

Outside, a siren wailed past. The city kept moving.

Her eyes fluttered closed, for a second. Just to breathe.

Chapter Text

The cab slowed outside a building that looked like someone had dropped a Beaux-Arts palace into the middle of Manhattan.

Max leaned closer to the window, eyes catching on Corinthian columns, limestone balconies, a sculpted archway. A black wrought-iron gate guarded the courtyard like something out of a fairytale.

Marcus whistled low. “Wait. This is where she lives?”

“In New York,” Max clarified. “Not always.”

He snorted. “Didn’t realize we were dating the Parisian Gossip Girl.”

“You’re not,” Max said, already reaching for the door. “I am.”

The gate opened with a mechanical groan, revealing a hidden courtyard: flowering trees, stone pathways, and a fountain glinting in the late August light. Max barely had time to process it.

Because there she was.

Max’s heart kicked hard.

Black jeans and boots. A white blouse with puffed sleeves, a knotted scarf anchoring the collar. Her hair was pulled back in a high, slick ponytail that made her cheekbones stand out in sharp relief. She looked like she’d stepped out of a French New Wave film, perfectly composed.

Six days. It had been six days since they’d touched. Talked, sure. Texted. Laughed, even. But Max hadn’t seen her. Not really. And now she was here and real and—

Esme’s face broke into a smile. She stepped into Max’s arms without hesitation, her satchel slipping off one shoulder as Max pulled her in.

They met in a full, immediate kiss. There was that quiet gasp, and the entire week apart evaporated.

“Hi,” Esme whispered, her fingers still tangled in Max’s shirt.

Max smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re here,” Esme murmured.

“Of course I’m here.”

Marcus cleared his throat as he pulled their bags from the trunk. “Hate to interrupt the epic reunion, but I’m two minutes from fainting on the sidewalk.”

Esme turned toward him, a little flushed but not letting go of Max’s hand. “Welcome to the Apthorp.”

Max glanced up at the building again as they started toward the entrance. “It’s like stepping into another century.”

“The building’s over a hundred years old,” Esme said. “It was my great-grandparents’ apartment originally.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Naturally.”

A doorman in a crisp uniform tipped his cap as they approached. “Miss Delorme, welcome home.”

“Hi, Lou,” Esme said warmly. “These are my friends. Lou’s known me since I was born.”

Lou smiled at Max and Marcus. “Well, don’t cause too much trouble. The city’s not as forgiving as Paris.”

They stepped into a grand lobby, and the elevator that took them to the ninth floor was wide and brass-trimmed, the kind of antique that felt like it belonged in a Wes Anderson movie. It opened onto a quiet, carpeted hallway. Esme led them to a heavy wooden door at the end: 9C.

The door opened before they could knock.

Vivi stood barefoot in linen pants and a black tank top, holding a small handheld camera like she’d been filming something. She greeted them with a grin, sweeping the lens up dramatically.

“Say bonjour to your adoring public,” she said cheerfully.

Max laughed, trying not to look directly into the lens. Marcus, however, leaned right in.

“Is this one of those experimental documentaries that starts with an unsuspecting guest getting murdered in a heritage building?”

Vivi grinned back. “Not yet. But give it a few days.”

She stepped back to let them in as Margot appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, eyeing the camera.

“Are we recording everything this weekend?” Margot asked flatly.

“Yes, because I’m a documentarian and also because you make excellent facial expressions when annoyed,” Vivi replied without missing a beat. Margot rolled her eyes, then her gaze landed on Marcus and his duffel bag.

“Wait. Where’s he sleeping?”

“Your room,” Vivi waved vaguely. “You’ll share.”

“What?”

Marcus raised a hand. “Couch is fine. I’m happy to suffer wherever.”

“Oh good,” Margot said dryly. “A martyr.”

Esme appeared from the kitchen, untying her scarf. She grinned at Marcus. “You okay sharing with my charming, cold-blooded sister?”

“Excuse you,” Margot muttered.

“I’ve seen her teeth,” Marcus shot back, grinning. “I’m prepared.”

“You two are in my room,” Vivi told Max, pointing down the hall. “Clean sheets. Please pretend I never sleep there.”

Vivi kissed Max on the cheek, then hugged Marcus a little too hard. “Glad you’re both here,” she said, before turning back to the group. “Welcome to 9C. Rules are flexible, snacks are in the kitchen, and if anyone needs to scream into a pillow, pick one without embroidery.”

Vivi clicked the camera off and turned to the group. “Drop your stuff. Go be tourists. Dinner later, there’s an excellent pizza place on Bleecker street. Jess will join after work. I have edits to finish, but I’ll catch up.”

She disappeared toward her study, leaving the four of them in the quiet entryway.

“Let me show you the bedroom,” Esme said, leading the way.

Marcus stopped in the hallway, staring at three large paintings. “Okay. Wow. These are incredible.”

“They’re all my grandmother,” Esme said, coming up beside him.

Marcus blinked. “Wait, for real? Are these self-portraits?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said. “That one’s from when she was about twenty. Just before she left New York for Paris.”

The first canvas was loud and alive, messy brushwork in neon blues and oranges, full of hunger and ambition.

“Looks like she did take over the world,” Max murmured.

“She always said artists have to live out loud to make something honest.”

Esme moved to the middle portrait. “This one’s from the years she was married to my grandfather.”

The painting was all steel greys and bruised violets. The face was more rigid, more careful, but right at the center of her chest, a violent bloom of red paint broke through the muted tones like a pulse.

“My grandfather was a child Holocaust survivor,” Esme said quietly. “She loved him. But she couldn’t fix what had already broken him. And I think, in trying, she lost herself for a while.”

The words landed heavy in the hallway. Max reached for Esme’s hand and held on tight.

Marcus went very still. His gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders hunching.

After a long moment, Marcus looked back at the painting.

“That heart, though.” He pointed at the burst of red. “It’s like rage and hope and grief all in one.”

“Yeah,” Esme said. “She never stopped feeling deeply. She just stopped showing it.”

The final painting was lighter. Brighter. An older woman with silver streaks in her hair and laugh lines, staring right at the viewer with quiet defiance.

“That was after he died. When she started painting again. She said widowhood gave her permission to be selfish. To be free.”

“These are perfect,” Max said.

“She really was,” Esme replied, touching the frame.

Then Marcus turned to the black-and-white photograph hanging beside the paintings. He took a full step back.

“Wait. Stop. Is that her too?”

The photo was striking. A young woman leaning against a stone wall in Paris, a street sign above her shoulder. Her long dark hair fell around her shoulders in waves. She wore a beret tilted dramatically sideways, a mod mini skirt, and tall boots. A cigarette hung from her lips. She stared directly into the lens, chin lifted, with a defiant pout-smirk that said: *I am not asking for your permission.*

“Rebecca Rosenfeld,” Esme said, reverent. “The original icon. She took this with a self-timer. Sent it to her parents with no note.”

Marcus stared. “She probably dated Sartre and then ghosted him.”

Esme grinned. "She probably did."

Max leaned in. There was something uncannily Esme about her. Not just the eyes, but the way she dared you to underestimate her. “I love that she looks like she’s about to punch the patriarchy and then read you a Sylvia Plath poem.”

Esme laughed. “That’s not far off.”

She lingered on the photo for a moment, then glanced back with a small smile. “Come on, let’s get you settled before Vivi starts filming us again.”

They moved down the hall toward the bedroom, Max trailing her fingers along the molding.

When Esme opened the door, Max stopped in the doorway.

“Oh my god. This wallpaper is incredible.”

Esme smiled. “Right? Margot calls it my enchanted forest of existential dread.”

It was deep and moody, midnight blue with climbing vines and shadowy birds and glimmers of silver that caught the light just right. On one side of the room, the bookshelves were stacked with zines, journals, sketchpads. The other half was cleaner, tidier. Margot’s half.

“I picked it out when I was twelve,” Esme said, stepping inside. “During one of our summer visits. My mom was mildly horrified. But my grandmother? She just said, ‘An artist needs her own space.’ And then she let me paint half the closet black.”

Max walked across the room. “This was Rebecca’s room, too?”

“Yeah.” Esme nodded. “Her childhood bedroom. I always imagine her here, when she was fifteen, in the late fifties. Sitting at the desk, dreaming of Paris, probably writing in one of her journals.”

She crossed to the shelf and ran her hand along a line of old sketchbooks. “These were her diaries,” she said. “She started them when she was twelve and kept going well into her forties. They’re full of drawings, little collages, pieces of herself.”

She looked back at Max. “They’re the reason I started making zines. After she died, I found these. They felt like her whole soul on paper.”

“That’s beautiful,” Max said quietly.

“It was like finding a map,” Esme said. “To grief, to expression, to survival.” She paused. “She was the most influential person in my life,” Esme said, closing one of the journals carefully.. “She died two years ago. I miss her every day.”

Max came to stand beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“After my grandfather died, she came back to life. Started painting again, opened a studio in the 10th. Every Wednesday, I spent the whole day with her.”

“Just you and her?” Max asked.

“Every week,” Esme said. “We’d take the métro in the morning. She’d make me tea and let me sit in on her workshops. I used to pass out flyers on the weekends to help promote them. She was famous, actually. Her studio got really popular.”

Max looked at her. “Is that when you started making art?”

“I think I always did. But that’s when I started thinking of myself as an artist.” Esme smiled. “She never talked down to me. Never acted like I was too young to understand anything. She treated my ideas like they mattered.”

Max leaned her hip against the dresser. “No wonder you’re who you are.”

“She saw the world differently,” Esme said. “She taught me how to look. How to express the parts of yourself that don’t have words yet.”

She finally turned to Max. “That’s what the zines are. I started them after she died. The first one was all about her.”

“I’d love to read it. If you’d let me.”

“You’re looking at it,” Esme said, pointing to a copy tucked between two sketchbooks. “The cover’s that photo of her in the beret.”

Max picked it up carefully. “This one?”

Esme nodded.

Max ran her fingers along the edge. “She sounds magic.”

“She was.” Esme sank onto the edge of the bed. “She stayed. Even when everything else felt like it was breaking around me.”

Max sat beside her. “Of course she did. She’s all over your art.”

Esme leaned into her. “I hope so.”

After they dropped their bags, the four of them headed out. The afternoon melted into bookstores, record stores, poetry on Bleecker, soft pretzels, and vintage shops.

At dinner, they met Jess, Vivi, and Margot at a place called John’s of Bleecker Street, where the pizza was thin and greasy and perfect. Jess hugged Max like they’d known each other forever and had Marcus cracking up within minutes. Vivi filmed half of it. Margot looked like she wanted to disappear.

By the time they got back, the city outside was pink with evening. The hallway lights were low, the apartment hushed.

Esme reached for Max’s hand and tugged her toward the room at the end of the hall.

Max’s heart kicked. Six days of waiting for this. This room. This girl.

Finally, they were alone.

Chapter Text

Max and Esme were alone in Vivi’s bedroom, their bedroom for the weekend. It had high ceilings and vintage furniture, a king size bed draped in white linens that probably cost more than Max’s entire wardrobe. City lights filtered through the tall windows.

Max stood by the window, pretending to look at the city below. She was vibrating. Not metaphorically, actual body-humming, hands tingling, butterflies everywhere. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, and her brain was like: ALERT: FEMALE GODDESS IN ROOM, POSSIBLY ABOUT TO TOUCH YOU. Being alone with Esme here felt impossible and inevitable at the same time.

“You okay?” Esme asked from where she sat on the edge of the bed, taking off her boots.

“Yeah. Just… this is a really nice view.”

“Max.”

Max turned. Esme was watching her with that expression, the one that said I see you spiraling.

“I’m not freaking out,” Max said.

“You’re standing six feet away from me.”

“Strategic distance.”

Esme smiled. Stood up. Crossed to Max with deliberate slowness. “Come here.”

“I’m already here.”

“Closer.”

Esme’s hands found Max’s waist, pulled her in. Close enough that Max could feel Esme’s heartbeat, fast, maybe faster than her own.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Esme said quietly. “But I want to. Do you?”

Max’s brain tried to come up with something hot. Or at least coherent. She’d gotten a Brazilian wax that made her want to cry. Spent forty-five dollars at Victoria’s Secret on a matching set Abby would actually approve of. She’d even shaved her legs twice, just in case.

But all she could think was: yes please touch me oh my god.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“You need to tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“And stop worrying about being good at it.”

Max let out a shaky laugh. “How did you know?”

“Because I know you.” Esme kissed her softly. Once. Twice. “I’m gonna show you what I like. And you’re gonna show me what you like. And we’re gonna figure it out.”

“What if I don’t know what I like?”

“Then we’ll find out.” Esme’s smile turned softer. “I have some ideas.”

Max inhaled sharply. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Esme pressed her lips to hers, slow and careful and sweet. Max leaned into it, her hands finding Esme’s hips. They stayed like that for a while, kissing by the window, the city lights spread out nine floors below.

When Esme pulled back, she was breathing harder. “Bed?”

Panic! No wait. Yes. BED. That’s a good idea. Very pro-level decision.

“Yes. God. Bed.”

Esme took her hand, led her the few steps to the bed. They sat on the edge together. Max’s hands were shaking.

“Hey.” Esme threaded their fingers together. “We can go slow. There’s no rush.”

“I know. I—” Max looked at their joined hands. “I want this. I’m nervous.”

“Me too.”

Max looked up, surprised. “Really?”

“Really.” Esme’s smile was vulnerable in a way Max had never seen. “This matters. You matter. So yeah, I’m nervous.”

Max felt herself relax. “Okay.”

Esme kissed her again. This time when Max's hands slid under Esme's blouse, Esme didn't stop her. The fabric was soft, warm from Esme's skin.

“Can I take this off?” Max asked against her mouth.

“Yes.”

Max's fingers fumbled with the buttons. Esme sat there in a simple black bra and jeans, and Max was transfixed. 

Esme smiled, reaching for Max’s crop top. “Your turn?”

“Yeah.”

The cardigan came off, then the crop top. Esme’s hands moved down Max’s sides and Max shivered.

“Cold?”

“No. Definitely not cold.”

When they tipped back onto the bed, it felt natural. Esme settled on top of her, the weight perfect, and Max’s hands found her back, her shoulders.

Esme’s mouth moved to her jaw, then her neck, taking her time. Kissing, tasting, learning.

“God, Esme—”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know.” Max’s breath hitched as Esme’s hand skimmed her ribs. “More. I want more.”

Esme’s hand slid to the clasp of Max’s bra. “Can I?”

“Please.”

The bra came off. Esme pulled back to look at her, and Max resisted the urge to cover herself.

“Here we are again,” Esme murmured.

Max laughed breathlessly, remembering. “Except this time…”

“This time we’re not stopping,” Esme finished.

“No,” Max agreed, pulling her close. “Definitely not.”

Esme’s mouth moved to her collarbone, then her breasts. She took her time, paying attention to what made Max’s breathing change, what made her arch into the touch. When Esme finally moved lower, to her stomach, her hip, Max’s hands were gripping the sheets so hard her knuckles were white.

Esme reached back, unclasped her own bra, and tossed it aside. Max watched as Esme’s skin came into view. I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe she’s mine.

“I wanted you to be able to feel me too,” Esme said, as she moved back up to kiss Max.

Then they were skin to skin, and Max had never felt anything like it. The warmth, the softness, the intimacy of it.

When Esme’s hand slid to the button of Max’s jeans, she paused. “Still with me?”

“Yeah, keep going please.”

The jeans came off slowly, carefully. Then her underwear. And suddenly Max was naked and Esme was topless in her jeans.

Esme kissed her hip bone, and Max’s whole body tensed with anticipation.

“Relax,” Esme murmured. “I’m right here.”

“I’m trying.”

“Breathe. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I won’t want you to stop.”

Esme smiled against her skin. “Good to know.”

Esme’s breath brushed her skin, and then her mouth was on her and Max’s hands flew to the pillow above her head because she needed to hold onto something.Nothing, nothing had ever felt like this. With Sophie it had been fast and fumbling, but this was something else entirely.

“Oh my god—”

Esme hummed against her and Max nearly came apart right there. Her hand found Esme’s shoulder, needing the connection.

Esme took her time. Learning her. Paying attention to every gasp, every tremor. When Max was shaking, unable to form words, Esme added her fingers. Max stopped being able to think at all.

“Es—oh god—I can’t—”

“Let go. I’ve got you.”

Max did. It hit her like her body had been holding it back for years. Her legs locked, breath tore out of her. Esme kept her there, right at the edge, until Max tipped over completely.

Esme kissed her way back up, and Max pulled her into a deep kiss, tasting herself on Esme's mouth.

Everything went still. Breath, bare skin, Esme's warmth beside her.

“Holy shit,” Max breathed.

“Yeah?”

“I’m dead. You killed me. This is what dying feels like.”

Esme laughed, kissed her forehead.

They lay there for a moment, both catching their breath. Esme's nails scratched lightly down Max's spine, leaving goosebumps.

Max looked at Esme, still half-dressed, still watching her with those green-hazel eyes. She wanted to give back what she’d been given. She didn’t want to overthink it.

“Can I?” Max asked, reaching for the button of Esme’s jeans.

Esme looked into her eyes. “Only if you want to.”

“I do.” Max sat up. “I wanna make you feel like that.”

Esme smiled. “Please.”

Max helped her with the jeans and underwear. And then Esme was naked too and Max looked for a moment.

Please don’t let me make this weird. Please let me make her feel good. Please let her know how much I want her without being cringe about it.

“You’re staring,” Esme said quietly.

“Yeah, well, you're gorgeous. Sue me." Max kissed her, easing her back onto the bed. Her hands weren't quite steady as she touched Esme's sides, her ribs, moving down.

“Here,” Esme murmured, guiding Max’s hand between her legs. “Like this.”

Max followed her lead, watching Esme’s face for cues. The small gasps. The way her eyes fluttered closed. Esme’s hand over hers, showing her the rhythm.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.” Esme’s hips moved against her hand. “Just like that.”

Max gained confidence with every sound Esme made. She tried different pressures, different rhythms, learning what made Esme gasp, what made her back arch.

She kissed down Esme's body slowly. Her neck, her breast, lower. When her lips found a small birthmark on Esme's hip, she paused, traced it with her thumb.

“I didn’t know you had this.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I’m paying attention.” Max kissed it. Esme made a sound that went straight through her.

“Can I—” Max looked down, then back up. “Can I try what you did?”

Esme’s eyes darkened. “Yes. Please.”

Max moved between Esme’s thighs, then paused. “Wait. Hold on.” She sat up, gathering her hair.

“What are you—”

“Hair. I need to—” Max twisted her hair into a bun, securing it with the hair tie from her wrist. “There. Okay. Where was I?”

Esme laughed, surprised and delighted. “You’re thinking this through.”

“I’m trying to be practical here.” Max kissed her hip. “Is that weird?”

“No.” Esme’s hand came to cup her face, thumb tracing her cheek. “Not at all.”

Max leaned in, breath warm against her skin. She had zero idea what she was doing. There was no handbook. There was only Max Baker, panic gay, operating on vibes and instinct and sheer determination.

“Max,” Esme said, her fingers gentle in Max’s hair. “You’re overthinking. Just feel. Pay attention. I’ll tell you what I need.”

Max did. She started slow, tentative, using what Esme had done to her as a guide. When Esme’s fingers curled against the mattress, Max knew she was doing something right.

“Right there—yes—like that—”

Max added her fingers like Esme had done, and Esme gasped, raw and desperate and beautiful. Max stopped second-guessing herself.

“Max—don’t stop—please—”

Esme’s body trembled. Pride and tenderness washed over Max. She’d done that. She’d made Esme fall apart.

Max kissed back up Esme’s body, and Esme pulled her into a kiss the moment she was close enough.

“Hi,” Max whispered.

“Hi.” Esme’s voice was rough in a way Max had never heard before.

“Was that okay?”

“That was…” Esme pulled her closer. “You have no idea.”

They lay there for a while, legs tangled, breathing slowing down. Max's head rested on Esme's chest, listening to her heartbeat.

“Was I actually good? Like, genuinely? You’re not being nice because you love me?”

Esme’s hand traced down Max’s spine. “You were incredible. I’m not just saying that.”

“But how do you know? What if I was doing it wrong and you were—”

“Max, I literally came. Hard. So yeah, I know.”

Max’s face went red. “Okay, fair point.”

“You were amazing. Stop worrying.”

“After Sophie broke up with me, two days after we had sex, I kept thinking I must have done something wrong. That maybe I was too much, too intense. That I scared her off somehow.”

Esme was quiet for a moment. “Sophie was wrong. You’re not too much. You never were. What happened with someone who didn’t deserve you doesn’t mean anything about who you are.”

Max felt tears prick her eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

They kissed again, slow and deep. Max's heart finally settled. This is what it was supposed to feel like.

“Hey Es?”

“Hmm?”

“We had sex in your mom’s bed.”

Esme froze for half a beat. “Oh my god.”

Then she started laughing, real surprised laughter that shook both of them.

“In Vivi’s master bedroom. On her fancy French sheets.”

“They are very nice sheets.”

“What if she knows?”

“Oh, she definitely knows why she gave us this room.”

“ESME.”

“What? My mother is incredibly sex-positive and also very French. She one hundred percent gave us this bedroom knowing exactly what would happen.”

Max groaned into Esme’s shoulder. “I can never look her in the eye again.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I will literally spontaneously combust from embarrassment. I’ll die.”

Esme kissed the top of her head. “She likes you. She wants me to be happy. And this—” she gestured at them, naked and tangled together, “—this makes me happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Esme’s voice went softer. “Really happy.”

Max traced small circles on Esme’s hip, letting the quiet stretch.

“Is it weird if I wanna go again?”

Esme tilted her head. “Already?”

“I just… I wanna try something. Like…” Max blushed. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding—”

“Say it.”

“At the same time? Like, your hand and my hand, and we’re both—you know—”

Esme rolled them over so she was on top, looking down at Max with warm eyes. “Yeah. Show me what you like.”

They did. Slower this time, less nervous. Max guided Esme’s hand, showed her the rhythm that worked, the pressure. Esme did the same, patient and encouraging, until they were both moving together, breathing together, getting close together.

Their breathing fell into a shared rhythm, the faint taste of salt on their lips as they kissed through it.

“Esme—”

“I know—me too—don’t stop—”

They came within seconds of each other, and afterward Max couldn’t tell where she ended and Esme began. Heartbeats and breathing and warmth.

“Okay,” Max said after a very long silence. “I genuinely can’t think straight.”

“Same.”

“Like, I literally don’t think I can move.”

“Then don’t.”

“Let’s never move again,” Max mumbled. “We live here now.”

Esme laughed softly. “Right here?”

“Right here. On your mom’s eight-hundred-dollar sheets.”

A pause. Then Max added, “We should probably shower or something—”

“Morning. We’ll shower in the morning.” Esme pulled the duvet up around them, tugging Max closer. “Stay close to me. Sleep.”

Max snuggled closer, fitting perfectly against Esme’s side.

They were quiet for a while. Max thought Esme had fallen asleep when she spoke again.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being patient with me. For—I don’t know. For making me want this. For real.”

“I feel the same”. Max kissed Esme’s shoulder.

They lay there quiet, breathing slowing down together.

“We’re both just figuring it out,” Esme said after a moment.

“Yeah,” Max whispered. “We are.”

Max kissed her shoulder again, then the curve of her neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Esme shifted, stealing more of the blanket. “Your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Sorry.” Max adjusted, then immediately knocked her phone off the nightstand. It clattered loud enough that they both froze and laughed.

“Smooth,” Esme whispered.

“Shut up.”

They settled back down, Esme’s head finding that spot on Max’s chest, Max’s fingers automatically going to her hair. Outside, someone’s car alarm went off, then stopped. The radiator clanged once. New York being New York.

Esme made a soft sound that might have been something she tried to say or might have been her falling asleep. Max stayed awake a little longer, listening to Esme’s breathing even out, feeling the weight of her girlfriend against her chest, thinking about how tomorrow they’d have to pretend to be normal at breakfast while Vivi absolutely knew everything.

Worth it, though. Completely worth it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

Saturday morning light filtered through the tall windows, turning everything golden. Max was stretched out on the bed in an oversized t-shirt, legs tangled in the sheets, watching Esme move around the room in an old band tee and underwear.

Esme handed her a mug of coffee—three sugars, generous cream, exactly how Max liked it—and settled cross-legged on the bed beside her.

“Here," Esme said. Her voice still had that raspy edge from last night.

Max took the mug. She felt herself soften. “Thanks.”

They'd woken up wrapped around each other an hour ago. Max had kissed her way down Esme's body before either of them had said a word. After, they'd laid there giggling because Marcus and Margot were next door and had definitely heard something.

“I can’t believe we…” Max started.

“Three times,” Esme finished, smirking into her coffee.

“I was gonna say ‘in your mom’s bed,’ but yes, also that.”

“We’re never going to be able to look at this room the same way.”

Max grinned. “Worth it.”

Esme leaned over and kissed her, soft and slow. Max’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, but she ignored it.

“You’re popular this morning,” Esme said against her mouth.

“Don’t care.”

The phone buzzed again. Then again.

Max groaned, reaching for it. “Fine. If it’s Marcus texting because he heard things and now can’t look his twin in the eye, he can process that in therapy.”

She stopped.

Sophie

hey! just saw on insta ur in nyc

im here for college starting 

would u maybe want to meet up? for coffee?

closure I guess? we haven’t actually talked since mousse

Max reread the messages. Of course Sophie was in New York.

“Who is it?” Esme asked, still relaxed against the pillows.

“Sophie.” Max looked up. “She’s in New York. Starting college here. She wants to meet up.”

Esme’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes went flat. “Oh.”

"She says for closure. Since we haven't actually talked since, you know. Opening night." Max kept her eyes on her phone, not looking at Esme.

“Right.” Esme took a sip of coffee, her fingers tightening around the mug. “Are you going to?”

“I... yeah, I think so?" Max was already typing, her thumbs moving before she'd really decided. "I mean, the last time I saw her, I literally yelled at her backstage. And she kissed me. And Silver was there. It was like, a whole thing."

I should probably ask Esme first. But it’s just coffee. It’s literally nothing.

Her thumbs moved across the screen.

sure! when?

Sophie responded immediately.

today? where are you staying?

Max typed back:

the apthorp, upper west side

Sophie
oh wow fancy
there’s a coffee place on amsterdam near you
like 10 min walk
11:00? Is that too soon?

Max didn’t think twice.

perfect see you then

She looked up. “Okay, so. Eleven. At a coffee shop on Amsterdam, like ten minutes from here.”

Esme went completely still, like she'd stopped breathing. "You already said yes."

“I… yeah. I mean, it’s just coffee. She lives here now, so it’s not like we can get back together or anything. And last time was so messy.” Max hesitated. “You could come with me? If you want?”

"No." The word came out sharp, final.

“Esme—”

“It’s fine, Max. You want to go. I get it.” Esme stood up, grabbed her towel from the chair. “You should probably get ready if you’re meeting her at eleven.”

Max could actually feel the temperature drop. Like all the warmth from five minutes ago had just vanished.

“Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You went from being all…” Max gestured at the bed, at them, at the coffee mugs like they'd been having the perfect morning. "To ice mode in literally two seconds."

Esme moved toward the bathroom. “I’m not in ‘ice mode.’ You have plans. That’s fine.”

“Esme.”

“What do you want me to say, Max?” Esme turned to face her, towel in hand. Her voice was too measured. Too controlled. “You already said yes. So go.”

Max froze. “I thought you’d understand. You know what happened with Sophie. You know it’s been unresolved.”

“I do understand. Go meet her.”

But the way Esme said it, flat, careful, made Max feel like she’d missed something important.

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“I need to shower.” Esme disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than if she’d slammed it.

Max sat there, holding her cooling coffee, replaying the last five minutes. She'd been honest. She'd told Esme immediately. She'd even offered for Esme to come. So why did she feel like she'd fucked up?

She got dressed slowly. She probably should shower, but there wasn’t time now. She brushed out her hair from last night and pulled it into a fresh ponytail, found her shoes.

When the bathroom door finally opened, Esme emerged in her towel, hair twisted into a wet bun. Max froze. Esme's skin looked weirdly pale, almost gray. Her lips had this bluish tint, like she'd been swimming in cold water.

“Are you okay?” Max asked. “Did you… was the water cold?”

“I’m fine.” Esme’s voice was even, controlled.

A shiver ran through Esme's whole body. She tried to hide it, but Max saw.

Max’s brain made a connection. Wait. Is this like the bathtub thing?

That night in Wellsbury when Esme had spent over an hour in a too-hot bath, spiraling. Vivi had brushed it off. Oh, that’s just how Esme deals with things, she’s been doing it since she was a kid. Like it was no big deal.

But this felt different. Or maybe the same? Max didn’t actually know.

Did she take an ice cold shower? Is that… is that a thing she does?

“Esme—”

“Go, Max.”

Max opened her mouth to ask, but Esme was already turning away, and Max’s phone was buzzing with Sophie’s message. The cafe address.

She could ask. She could cancel Sophie right now. They could talk about whatever this was. But Esme had said it was fine. And Vivi had made the whole temperature thing sound totally normal. Just Esme being Esme. Processing in her own way. Nothing to worry about.

If Esme wanted to be weird about this, Max would deal with it after, once Esme realized it was nothing.

I’ll ask her when I get back. We’ll talk about it then.

So why did she feel sick?

She left the apartment at 10:50, passing Marcus and Margot in the kitchen. Marcus was making pancakes while Margot read something in French, looking vaguely disgusted by his technique.

“Where are you going?”Marcus asked, looking up from the pancake batter.

“Coffee.”

“Without Esme?”

“She’s… showering.”

Marcus gave his that twin look. The one that said I know you're full of shit. But Max was already out the door.

The morning air was thick and warm, the kind of August heat that made the city feel slower. Max walked the blocks to Amsterdam Avenue, her hands tightening around the phone, following the map.

Halfway there, she texted.

Max
hey
are we okay?

She watched the three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again.

Esme
we’re fine
have your coffee

The words stung. This was worse than anger. This was Esme shutting down, pulling away, going somewhere Max couldn't reach.

She typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:

Max
I love you

No response.

Max shoved her phone in her pocket and kept walking.

The cafe was one of those hip places with exposed brick and vintage movie posters everywhere. Sophie was already there at a corner table, fidgeting with her phone.

Of course she’s still hot. Dark hair in a high ponytail, simple t-shirt, jeans. The same casual confidence that had first attracted Max back in October.

Max waited for the racing heart. The stomach flip. The desperate need to be seen by her.

Nothing.

She thought about last night. The way her heart had raced when Esme touched her. The way everything else disappeared when they were together. The way “I love you” felt like the most important words in the universe.

This, sitting across from Sophie, felt nothing like that.

Oh. I’m actually over her.

“Hi,” Sophie said, standing up awkwardly.

“Hey.”

They did an uncomfortable half-hug. Max ordered a latte she didn’t want and sat down across from her.

Neither of them said anything at first.

“So,” Sophie started. “Thanks for meeting me. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Yeah, well.” Max shrugged. “We should probably talk. Last time was kind of a disaster.”

Sophie winced. “Opening night. I know. I’m sorry.”

Max picked at the edge of her cup. “Why did you do it? Like, actually. The kiss.”

“I don’t know. I think…” Sophie looked down. “During rehearsals, when we started talking again, I started feeling things again. Real things. And I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. Back in November.”

“So like, what changed? You literally weren’t in love with me in November.”

Sophie was quiet. “I panicked when you said it. I wasn’t there yet. I didn’t know how to tell you that without making you hate me.”

“So you went with the vacation thing instead?” Max’s voice was getting louder. “Like that was supposed to be better?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, I know. You were trying to be nice or whatever. But do you have any idea how that sounded? Like I was this fun distraction from your real life. Not even a person. Just something that happened to you for ten days.”

Sophie’s eyes filled. “I didn’t mean you were disposable. I meant you were an escape. From all the pressure. You made me feel like I could be myself. But I said it wrong and it came out like you didn’t matter and that’s…” She stopped. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Well it hurt,” Max said quietly. “Like, a lot.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence. Max’s leg was bouncing under the table.

"I lost my virginity to you," Max said quietly, her voice catching. "And two days later, while my brother was literally in the hospital after his motorcycle accident, you broke up with me."

“Max…”

“Every weekend. I had it all mapped out. The bus schedule, how much money I'd need to save. I was gonna come see you all the time because I loved you and I thought..." Max's voice cracked. She had to look away. "I thought you loved me too."

Sophie’s eyes were glassy. “I did care about you. So much. But at the time, we barely knew each other… I didn’t expect things to happen so fast.”

They sat quietly. Max exhaled. The anger was gone.

“It took me forever to get over it. And then, the Mousse rehearsals,” Max finally said. “We started talking again. We were bonding. I finally thought we could actually be friends, but then you kissed me during that one rehearsal and it made everything so confusing.”

“That kiss…” Sophie paused. “I felt a lot during that kiss.”

“So did I,” Max admitted. “And I hated that I did. Because I was with Silver and I thought I was over you and then suddenly I wasn’t.”

“I kept thinking about you after that. All through the rest of rehearsals. That’s why I kissed you opening night. Because I thought maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe we could try again. But then Silver walked in and you were so angry and I realized how badly I’d messed everything up. Again.”

Max stared at her coffee. “You did. So you finally figured it out and it’s too late. Great. That’s perfect.”

“The timing is shit. It’s always been shit with us.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m starting college in a week. You’re going to be a senior. I’m moving here and you’re staying in Wellsbury. It couldn’t work even if we both wanted it to.”

And there it was. The truth neither of them had said out loud before.

“So what, you wanted to mess with my head one more time before you left?”

“No!” Sophie looked stricken. “No, Max. I wanted to apologize. For real. For the way I broke up with you, for the mixed signals, for the rehearsals, for the backstage kiss, all of it. You deserved better than how I treated you.” She paused, her voice getting smaller. “And honestly? I'm terrified. About NYU. About being in this huge city where I don't know anyone. About whether I'll even like who I become here."

Max softened despite herself. Something in Sophie’s voice reminded her of how young they both were. “You asked to meet up because you’re scared?”

“Yeah.” Sophie looked embarrassed. “I know that’s stupid. Like, you have every right to tell me to fuck off. But when I saw you were in town, I needed to see a familiar face. Someone from home. Someone who knows me.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“My parents dropped me off at my dorm yesterday and my mom cried the whole time but also kept giving me this look like ‘don’t mess this up.’ And my dad gave me this whole speech about how I’m the first person in our family to go to a school like this, how much they’ve sacrificed, how I need to make them proud.” Sophie’s voice wavered. “And I know they love me, but I also know they expect perfection. And I’m already exhausted and I haven’t even started classes yet.”

Max remembered that about Sophie’s family. The pressure. The expectations. First-generation kid, parents who’d given up everything to give her opportunities. The weight of carrying all those dreams on your shoulders.

“That sounds really hard. That pressure to be perfect for them.”

“And they still don’t really get the whole…” Sophie gestured vaguely. “Bi thing. They’re not horrible about it, but they’re not exactly throwing me pride flags either. My mom keeps asking if I’ve met any nice boys at orientation.”

“God, that sucks.”

Max’s phone sat face-down on the table between them. She flipped it over quickly, checking for messages.

Nothing from Esme.

Her hands tightened around the phone. She should wrap this up. Get back to the apartment. But Sophie was still talking, eyes wet, and Max couldn’t just walk away.

“So when I saw you were here, I wanted to see someone who gets it. Who knows me. Even if I fucked everything up between us.” Sophie’s eyes were wet. “I’m not trying to get back together. I know you have a girlfriend. I saw your Instagram, she’s really pretty. I needed… I don’t know. To talk. To see someone from home. Someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m supposed to be perfect all the time.”

She’d meant to text Esme that everything was fine, that she was right, that this was nothing. But every time she thought to reach for her phone, Sophie said something that needed a response, and the moment passed.

She thought about Esme back at the apartment. The pale skin. The shivering. The ice-cold shower.

And I left anyway.

But looking at Sophie now, nervous, scared, vulnerable, Max felt protective. The way you feel about someone who mattered to you once, who you want good things for, but who you don’t want to kiss anymore.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Max said. “At NYU. In New York. All of it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I kind of do. You’re like, stupidly smart and talented and you’ve wanted NYU forever. You’re gonna find your people. It’s gonna take a minute.”

Sophie smiled slightly. “Thanks.”

“And for what it’s worth? You didn’t destroy everything.” Max paused. “You hurt me. Like, badly. But I’m okay now. Better than okay, actually.”

“Because of your girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Esme. She’s…” Max felt her chest warm saying her name. “She’s everything.”

“I can tell. The way you said her name. You never said my name like that.”

Max felt her cheeks flush. “I thought I did. But maybe I didn’t know what that felt like until now.”

“You looked at me like that too, I know you did. But with her... it's not just looking, it's letting her see you.” Sophie smiled sadly.

"Yeah." Max swallowed. "She told me she loves me, and when she said it, I believed her. Like, I knew she meant it.”

“That’s good. You deserve that.” Sophie was quiet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that. I don’t think I knew how.”

They talked for a bit longer. The conversation got easier, lighter. Sophie told her about NYU orientation, about her dorm roommate who seemed cool, about how overwhelming everything felt.

“I know this is weird,” Max said after a while, “but there’s this woman, Jess. She’s basically Esme’s family. She’s queer, she’s lived in the city forever, knows everyone and everything. If you ever feel overwhelmed or need support or whatever, I could give you her info.”

Sophie looked surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean it. Your parents, if they’re not being super supportive about the bi thing, it might help to have someone who gets it. Jess gets it. Her parents were immigrants too, so she knows that whole dynamic.”

“That’s nice, Max. Thank you.” Sophie’s eyes were wet again. “I don’t deserve that.”

“Everyone deserves support.” Max pulled out her phone, typed out Jess’s contact info. 

Sophie saved the contact. “I might actually reach out. If that’s okay.”

“It is.”

They talked for a little bit longer. When they stood to leave, Sophie hugged her. It was less awkward this time.

“Good luck with everything,” Sophie said. “With Esme. With senior year. With life.”

“You too. With NYU. With your parents. With finding your people.”

They stood there for a second longer.

“So like… text me if you need anything?” Sophie offered. “Or if you’re ever in the city?”

Max hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t know if we will. But I’m glad we did this.”

Sophie nodded slowly, understanding dawning. “Yeah. Me too.”

It was honest. Better than a promise they wouldn’t keep.

They exchanged a final small smile. Neither of them knew if they’d actually text.

Max walked back toward the apartment slowly, the late morning heat making everything shimmer. 

The apartment was quiet when Max let herself in. Too quiet.

“Hello?” she called.

No response.

Vivi’s bedroom door was open, but empty. Margot’s door was closed. They must be out.

Max pulled out her phone.

Max
hey where are you?

Max
just got back

She wandered to the kitchen, filled a glass of water. Waited.

The three dots appeared.

Esme
at brunch with marcus

Max exhaled slightly. Okay. Marcus. That was good. At least she wasn’t alone.

A door opened down the hall. Jess emerged from her room, earbuds in, surprised to see Max.

“Oh. Hey.” She pulled out one earbud. “You’re back.”

“Yeah.” Max’s voice came out smaller than she meant. “Esme’s at brunch with Marcus.”

“Alice’s Tea Cup,” Jess said. “Her grandmother used to take her there.”

The realization hit. Oh no.

Jess’s expression changed, knowing, gentle. “She’d made a reservation, for you two this morning.”

And Max had chosen Sophie instead.

Chapter Text

Jess moved toward the kitchen. "Come on. You look like you need tea or something."

Max followed, her legs feeling weirdly shaky. She sank onto a stool at the counter while Jess filled the kettle and set it on the base.

"It's good she went with Marcus,” she said. "They're both artists, dealing with big stuff. They probably understand each other."

“Yeah,” Max said quietly. Good. Marcus needed people right now. Things to do.

Jess set two mugs down.

Max traced circles on the counter with her finger. She hesitated. "When she came out of the shower this morning? After I told her about Sophie? She looked… pale. Her lips were almost blue." She looked up at Jess. "Was the water cold?"

Jess glanced at her, then nodded. "Probably."

"Does she... is that a thing she does?"

"Sometimes." Jess poured hot water into both mugs. "Hot baths when she needs to let herself feel everything. Ice showers when she needs to stop feeling so she can function."

Max stared at her tea. "So this morning, she needed to..."

"Hold it together while you left."

Max’s grip tightened on the mug. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

"When Esme was little, she had these huge feelings." Jess chose her words carefully. "Meltdowns. Vivi would pick her up, fully dressed, and put her in a cold shower. Left her there until she stopped."

Max’s eyes went wide. “Until she stopped?”

"Until she could breathe again. Until the feelings shut down." Jess kept her voice neutral. "It wasn't meant as punishment. It worked. Esme still does it when feelings get too big. The cold shuts them down so she can function."

Max could see it too clearly: little Esme, five or six years old, fully dressed in a cold shower, gasping. Learning that big feelings had to be stopped. Her chest felt tight.

"And the hot baths?"

"That's all Esme. She figured that one out herself." Jess's tone made it clear that one worried her more.

"What about Margot?" Max asked.

"Vivi tried it once. Margot fought it so hard Vivi never tried again.” Jess paused. “After that, when Margot got upset, she’d call her dad. Talk things through with him.”

Margot called her dad when she was upset. Esme shut down her feelings alone in a shower.

Max hesitated. “Was Esme close to her dad?”

Jess nodded.

“Yeah. Really close. But it looked different. They didn’t have long heart-to-hearts. She’d bring him drawings, little things she made. That was how they connected. He’s an artist too, you know? A set designer. He got it. And when she was upset, she’d go straight to him, throw her arms around him. She didn’t need to explain anything. She just needed to be held.”

“Esme’s always been more physical,” she continued. “She feels things through her body, connects that way. The dancing, the art, the way she expresses affection. It’s all very tactile. Touch is her language more than words.”

Max pieced it together as Jess went on.

“Vivi pushed her toward artistic outlets. Dance, painting, creative stuff. Better ways to process feelings than the cold shower method. And it helped. But the water thing was already part of her by then.”

"Which is also why it works for her," she continued. "She knows how to use physical sensation. To connect, or to shut everything down."

Max thought about herself at eight, fists clenched, face hot with tears, storming off to her room. Her mom's voice down the hall: "Max is being dramatic again. Another tantrum. Just let her be." Never following. Never checking. Letting her sit with it alone until she came out calmer. Quieter.

Watch over your brother. He needs you. He's sensitive and feels too much.

Different than Esme. But maybe not that different.

"Vivi was trying to help her," Jess said quietly. "She thought she was doing better than how she was raised. Every parent thinks that. Tries to be better than their own. We always mess up though. In different ways."

"But then how am I supposed to—" Max stopped, running both hands through her hair, messing it up completely. "This morning I could literally tell something was off. I asked her. I even offered for her to come with me. And she just... shut me down. Said it was fine." She looked at Jess. "So how do I know when 'fine' actually means fine?"

Jess was quiet for a moment. "That's a good question. And I don't have a perfect answer."

"Because I tried," Max said, her voice getting smaller. "I checked in. And she told me to go."

"I know. You did try." Jess leaned against the counter. "You also said yes to Sophie before asking Esme if she had plans. So when you checked in afterward, what choice did she have?"

The truth of it silenced her. She pressed her palms against her eyes.

"You're both learning," Jess said. "She needs to get better at saying what she actually needs. And you need to think before you commit. Ask first, then decide."

Max nodded slowly.

"I don't get it though," Max said. "Last night was—it was so important? And she seemed so happy this morning. I thought we were good." She looked up at Jess. "And Sophie lives here now. Getting back together isn't even possible. I just wanted to actually talk things through."

"Right. You know that."

"And I thought—" Max's words came faster, more scattered. She was gesturing wildly now, nearly knocking over her mug. "Okay, so we wake up, right? Super chill morning. Coffee. Whatever. And then Sophie texts and I'm like, okay, this is actually perfect timing. I can literally just go deal with this real quick, get it over with, it's ten minutes away, be back in an hour tops. Then the whole rest of the weekend is just me and Esme. No Sophie drama hanging over us."

Jess was quiet, listening.

"I didn't want her in my head all weekend, you know?" Max continued. "I wanted to close that chapter for real so I could actually be present with Esme. Actually focus on us." She looked at Jess. "I thought I was fixing it. And I told Esme right away. I showed her the texts. I tried to make it okay. I didn’t think I was doing something wrong."

"You'd already committed," Jess said gently. "So what was she supposed to say?"

Max stopped. That's exactly what Jess had just said before. She'd committed first, then checked in.

"Your first night together," Jess continued. "Big, vulnerable moment. And then your ex-girlfriend texts and you drop everything to go see her." She paused. "What might Esme be wondering?"

Max felt like the floor had dropped out. Her hands went numb. "She thinks I might want Sophie back." Her voice came out small, strangled.

"Maybe. Or she just feels like she wasn't part of the decision when it mattered."

That had never even crossed her mind. Of course she didn't want Sophie back. She'd been so sure Esme knew that. Obviously she knew.

Esme didn't know that. Not for sure.

"Oh my god," Max said quietly, covering her face with both hands. "Oh my god, oh my god." She could feel her heart racing, that familiar panic climbing up her throat.

Max pulled out her phone with fumbling fingers, nearly dropping it. She kept deleting messages faster than she could retype them, her thumbs shaking so bad she kept hitting the wrong letters. She had to wipe her palms on her jeans.

"What do I say?"

"The truth. Whatever you told me."

Max typed:

im sorry
i saw sophie and felt literally nothing
ur the only one i want
im so so sorry
please

She hit send and immediately wanted to throw up. Her leg was bouncing uncontrollably under the counter.

The three dots appeared. Max held her breath. They disappeared. She bit her lip hard. They appeared again. Her whole body was tense, leaning toward the phone.

Esme
we'll talk when i get back

Max stared at the screen, her stomach sinking further with each second. Not "it's okay." Not "I love you too." Not even a heart emoji. She pressed her fist against her mouth, eyes burning.

What if this was it? What if she’d ruined everything in one morning? They’d had one perfect night and she’d already messed it up.

"She's not shutting you out," Jess said. "She's not ready yet."

Max's voice cracked. "How do you know?" She was gripping the phone so tight her knuckles were white.

"Because if she was done, she wouldn't respond."

Max nodded, swallowing hard. Her throat felt like it was closing up. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying not to completely lose it.

After a moment, she said quietly, "I gave Sophie your info, by the way. She's totally freaking about NYU, and her parents are being weird about the whole bi thing. I thought maybe you could help or whatever."

Jess's expression softened. "Yeah, of course. That was kind of you."

"Now drink your tea," Jess added. "She'll be back soon."

Max wrapped her hands around the mug, trying to absorb its warmth, but she was still shivering. The knot in her stomach stayed tight, pulling tighter with each breath.

Jess gave her a gentle look, then stood. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

Max nodded without looking up.

She stayed in the kitchen for a while, turning the cold mug between her hands, then drifted to the couch without really deciding to move. She curled up in the corner, fidgeting with her bracelet, checking her phone every few minutes even though nothing had changed.

The city heat pressed in through the open window. The tea sat untouched beside her.

Finally, the key turned in the lock. Max sat up straighter.

Chapter Text

Esme turned the shower to cold.

Not cool. Cold. The kind that hurt.

She wasn’t mad.

She kept saying it as icy water pounded her shoulders. I’m not mad.

But if she wasn’t mad, why did she need this? Why did she need the cold to shock her system into numbness, to freeze out the tight feeling in her chest?

Max had said yes to Sophie without asking. Without checking. Without even pausing to think that maybe, on their first full day in New York together, the morning after they’d had sex for the first time—like real sex, not fumbling in the dark fully dressed on the stairs at a party—Esme might have had plans.

The water beat down.

And underneath the hurt about not being asked, underneath the disappointment about the ruined brunch, was the real fear:

What if she sees Sophie and realizes she wants her back?

Esme’s hands shook. She pressed her palms against the tile.

What if last night didn’t mean what I thought it meant?

She knew it was irrational. Max had said “I love you” last night. She had been so gentle, so present, looking at her like she was the only person in the world.

But Clara had looked at her like that too.

No. Max isn’t Clara. Max isn’t Clara. Max isn’t Clara.

The mantra didn’t help. Her body remembered: vulnerability, then abandonment. Always.

When she finally turned off the water, her fingers were numb and her teeth chattering, but her mind was clear.

She dried off, wrapped the towel around herself, tried to stop shivering.

In the fogged mirror, she looked composed.

Good.

Max was still there when she came out, and Esme could see the concern in her eyes, but all Esme felt was the need for her to leave so she could breathe.

After Max left, Esme returned to the bedroom and got dressed. She dried her hair carefully, running the dryer over damp strands until they fell smooth. She pulled on the pink and light mint floral swing dress she’d laid out the night before, slipped on her Mary Jane shoes. Planning. Control. Normalcy.

She just needed to get through this.

Esme found Marcus in the kitchen, elbow-deep in a bowl of pancake batter, looking completely exasperated. Margot was sitting at the counter, legs tucked up, holding a mug of tea, and for once, laughing freely.

“He’s been trying to flip the same pancake for ten minutes,” she said, grinning.

“It’s an art form,” Marcus muttered.

“It’s a disaster,’” Margot said, and laughed again.

“Marcus,” Esme said. “Margot. Are either of you busy at eleven-thirty?”

“I’m meeting Maman at the gallery in half an hour,” Margot said. “Why?”

“I have a reservation for brunch at Alice’s Tea Cup. Thought I’d see if anyone wanted to come.”

Margot’s expression softened slightly. “Rain check? Order the lavender scones. They’re the best.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Marcus looked between them. “I’m free. Where are we going?”

“A fairytale restaurant.”

Marcus looked at Esme’s dress. “Wait, how fancy is this place?”

“It’s a tea room.”

“Got it.” He looked down at his wrinkled t-shirt. “Yeah, I’m definitely changing. That’s a really pretty dress, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

After Margot left, Marcus turned to Esme. “Max bailed on you, didn’t she?”

Esme didn’t answer, but her face said enough.

“Got it.” Marcus headed toward his room. “Give me five minutes.”

While Marcus changed, Esme stood by the window, watching the street below. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to find that same numbness from the shower, but it was already fading.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing on the sidewalk when Marcus’ phone rang. FaceTime. His mom.

Marcus and Esme exchanged a look. He accepted the call. Ellen’s face filled the screen, Clint visible over her shoulder.

“Hi baby! How’s New York?” Ellen signed as she spoke. “Are you having fun?”

Clint signed: Are you being careful?

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” Marcus angled the phone so Esme was visible. “We’re good. About to go to brunch.”

“Oh, that’s nice! Where’s Max?”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Coffee.”

“Coffee? Without you two?”

“With Sophie,” Marcus said.

Ellen’s mouth fell open. Behind her, Clint’s hands froze mid-sign.

“Sophie?” Ellen’s voice pitched up. “Sophie Sanchez? The ex-girlfriend Sophie?”

Clint signed emphatically: WHAT?

“That’s the one,” Marcus confirmed.

“Why is she—” Ellen looked baffled. Clint was signing rapid-fire questions. “Esme, are you okay with this?”

Esme kept her voice even. “Max wanted closure. It’s fine.”

“Closure?” Ellen’s voice rose an octave while Clint signed disbelief. “She’s in New York with you and she’s getting closure with her ex-girlfriend?”

“Mom—” Marcus tried.

“Did she ask you first?”

Esme’s silence was answer enough. Ellen and Clint exchanged a look.

“Oh, Maxine.”

Clint signed: Our daughter is being ridiculous.

“It’s really fine,” Esme said, but her voice was less convincing now.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to say it’s fine if it’s not fine.” Ellen signed this too, and Clint nodded emphatically.

Marcus was making frantic “abort abort” gestures.

“We’re handling it,” Esme said. “I promise. We’re going to brunch now.”

“Without Max,” Ellen said flatly. She sighed. Clint signed something that made Marcus wince.

“Okay. You two have fun. And Marcus—”

“I know.”

Ellen smiled slightly. “I was going to say take care of Esme.”

Clint signed: Be a good brother.

Marcus’s expression softened. “Already on it.”

After they hung up, Marcus looked at Esme. “My sister screwed up.”

Esme couldn’t argue with that.

The walk to the restaurant took them through tree-lined streets, past brownstones with window boxes full of geraniums. Esme could smell coffee from a corner café, bread from a bakery. Normal things. She focused on matching her steps to Marcus’ longer stride, on the sound of her Mary Janes against the sidewalk, on anything except the knot in her chest.

Alice’s Tea Cup was exactly as Esme remembered. Tiny, whimsical, tucked between two brownstones. Inside, everything was mismatched china, lace tablecloths, and the smell of bergamot and butter.

The clientele was almost entirely women and little girls having mother-daughter tea parties. Marcus was conspicuously the only man in the entire restaurant.

The hostess recognized Esme immediately. “Oh my goodness, Esme! I feel like it’s been years!”

“Hi, Maria.” Esme smiled. “Is my table still available?”

“Of course, honey. Your grandmother’s table.” Maria glanced at Marcus with barely concealed amusement. “Well, it’s not often we see you with a young man!”

“This is Marcus. My girlfriend’s brother.”

They were led to a corner table with a window overlooking a small garden. Esme slid in, Marcus across from her. He looked around, taking in the frilly curtains, the delicate teacups, the little girls in party dresses.

“So,” he said, picking up a menu decorated with painted flowers. “I’m the only dude here, aren’t I?”

“By a significant margin, yes.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.” He studied the menu. “Are tiny sandwiches socially acceptable for a sixteen-year-old guy?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about scones?”

“Mandatory.”

“Excellent.” Marcus set down the menu. “This is kind of like that tea party we had when we were eight, isn’t it?”

Esme smiled, remembering. “When Max made everyone sit a certain way and you asked if you could come?”

“And you said yes immediately. You made me feel like I belonged there.” Marcus’s expression was soft. “I never forgot that.”

A little girl at the next table waved. He waved back, grinning.

Esme sat there for a moment, remembering her grandmother in this same booth, pouring tea with exaggerated elegance, listening to ten-year-old Esme explain her latest art project.

“You okay?” Marcus asked.

“Yeah. My grandma used to bring me here every time we visited. When I was little, I thought it was the fanciest place in the world.”

“It’s pretty fancy.”

“She’d let me order whatever I wanted. And we’d talk about art and what I wanted to be when I grew up.” Esme looked down at her tea. “I always said I wanted to be like her.”

“You are like her.”

Esme looked up, surprised.

“From everything you’ve told me,” Marcus continued, “you’re exactly like her. Artistic, intense, kinda… I don’t know. Like you see things other people don’t see.”

Marcus looked thoughtful. “She taught you art. And when she died, that’s when you made your first zine. About her.”

A beat of silence.

“You turned grief into something,” he said. “That’s inspiring.”

Esme’s eyes filled with tears, but she nodded.

Their food arrived: a three-tiered stand with scones on top, tiny sandwiches in the middle, and delicate pastries on the bottom. Esme poured tea for both of them, buying herself time.

“How are you doing?” she asked. “Really. It’s only been a little over a week since you got home.”

Marcus considered this. “Some days are better than others. Today’s a good day.”

“What makes it good?”

“I’m here. In New York. With people who actually give a shit.” He took a sip of tea. “That’s a good day.”

“Are you struggling? With staying clean?”

“Every day,” Marcus said simply. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Esme nodded, respecting the honesty.

Marcus said after a moment, “This thing with my sister. Are you actually okay? Or are you saying you are?”

Esme looked down at her tea. “I don’t know.”

“I get it.”

“I’m not mad she wanted to see Sophie. I’m hurt she didn’t think to ask me first. Like maybe I had plans for us.” She took a small, shaky breath and admitted the deeper fear. “And… part of me is terrified she’ll see Sophie and realize she wants to go back to her. That maybe I’m not what she actually wants.”

Marcus leaned forward. “Hey. No. Look at me.” He waited until she met his eyes. “That’s not going to happen. I’ve been listening to her talk about you for weeks. Non-stop. She’s all in. She’s… an idiot sometimes. She doesn’t think things through.”

He paused. “And she doesn’t see things unless they’re spelled out. Like, really spelled out. When you said it was fine for her to go, that’s all she heard. She probably wanted to get it over with as early as possible so she could spend the rest of the day with you. Which is why she said yes to eleven without thinking.”

“But she needed it,” Marcus added. “The closure thing. With Sophie. Max doesn’t leave things unfinished. It would’ve eaten at her. So yeah, she should’ve asked you first, but I get why she wanted to… do it. Get it done.”

“I know she loves me,” Esme said. “And last night was really significant for us. We finally—it was the first time we—” She stopped, realizing. “Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear about—”

“We heard some of it,” Marcus said, unbothered. “Margot and I put earbuds in after like a minute. But yeah, Max already texted me this morning anyway. She was very… enthusiastic about how it went.”

Esme’s face flushed. “Of course she did.”

“She’s my twin. We tell each other everything.” He grinned. “Congrats, by the way. She said it was amazing.”

“Oh my God.”

“What? I’m happy for you guys.” Marcus took a bite of his scone, completely casual. “You’re good for her. She’s been different since you. More… I don’t know. More herself.”

Esme relaxed slightly. “That almost makes it worse. Knowing how much last night meant, and then this morning she…”

“Didn’t think,” Marcus finished. “Yeah. That’s Max. She gets an idea in her head and goes. She just acts without thinking sometimes.”

They ate in silence for a while. Esme picked at her scone.

“I was thinking about my grandma this morning,” Esme said eventually. “About her and my grandfather. He was the kindest man, but he carried this profound sadness his whole life.”

Marcus stopped moving, listening.

“His older sister, Liliane, died when he was a child. He was six, she was ten. He lost her, and his parents, all at the same time. He was the only one who survived. And my grandmother… she loved him so much. But she spent fifty years trying to fix a sadness that couldn’t be fixed.”

Esme was quiet for a moment. “I don’t really talk about it. About Liliane, Lili. Not with anyone.”

Marcus looked down at his cup, his own memories stirring. He was quiet before speaking, his voice rough. “Yeah. I don’t really talk about Bridge either. Not like this.”

“I lost Bridge when I was fourteen.” He continued. “I started drinking about three months after he died. Cancer. He was my best friend and then he wasn’t there anymore. I watched him suffer, fade away.”

“And the drinking… Everyone thought it was normal teenage stuff. Parties, whatever. Max was the only one who noticed it was different. That I was drowning myself in it. But by the time anyone else figured it out…” He shrugged.

Esme nodded slowly, seeing the parallel, seeing him.

“That’s what makes it different,” she said. “For people like us. We know what it’s like to lose another kid. Most people our age don’t carry that. The death of a child. You’re supposed to feel invincible when you’re young, but we learned what real pain is instead. And that… it stays with you.”

She looked at him, and he knew she was talking about both of them now.

“You get stuck in this loop. Like, if I don’t think about her, who will? But then when you do, it’s too heavy. So you push it away, which makes you feel guilty. It gets lodged in you.”

Marcus was quiet for a long moment. He looked up at her. “Is she the girl in the picture? Above the fireplace in the apartment?”

Esme looked up, surprised that he noticed and remembered. She nodded.

“You look like her,” he said. “She’s in you.”

Esme felt her throat tighten. She’d never let herself think that before. She took a breath.

Marcus flinched and looked down at his cup.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “And after, Ginny… she looked at me with so much hope. Like she was waiting for me to be okay so she could be okay. And I couldn’t handle that pressure. It made me feel like I was failing her every single day, on top of everything else.”

“Because you couldn’t be fixed,” Esme said.

“Yeah. The sadness was… part of me now.” Marcus picked at his scone. “So I pushed her away. Told her I didn’t love her anymore. It was the cruelest thing I’ve ever done, but I thought it would set her free. Let her move on instead of being stuck waiting for the broken guy to get better.”

He fell silent, staring into his cup.

“It’s more than that, though,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I feel guilty. Guilty for being alive when Bridge isn’t. How am I supposed to let myself be happy, to have any of this—” he gestured vaguely around them, at their lives, “—when he doesn’t get any of it? It feels wrong.”

Esme reached across the table, her fingers resting lightly on his arm.

“I know it’s different,” she said, “but I understand that feeling. With my friend Manon… I was partly responsible for her getting hurt. And for the longest time, I felt like I couldn’t let myself be happy. Not while she was still hurting because of me. It took me until… well, two days ago to figure out I couldn’t keep doing that.”

She looked at him.

“You can’t stop living your life,” she said, her voice level and gentle. “You can’t stop yourself from being happy because Bridge doesn’t get to. You have to go on. For him.”

Marcus met her eyes. He felt a little less alone with it. The weight was still there, but someone else was holding part of it now.

They finished their tea in comfortable silence.

Esme’s phone buzzed on the table.

Max
im sorry
i saw sophie and felt literally nothing
ur the only one i want
im so so sorry
please

Esme stared at the messages for a long moment. She could picture Max typing them, pacing, running her hands through her hair the way she did when she was anxious. Part of her wanted to respond immediately. But the hurt was still there.

Marcus glanced at her.

“Her?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“That she’s sorry. That she felt nothing with Sophie.” Esme’s thumb hovered over the screen.

“Are you going to respond?”

Esme thought about it. About Max sitting in that apartment, waiting. About last night, about the cold shower, about Alice’s Tea Cup. About how easy it was to love someone who didn’t think before they acted. And how hard it was to love them without losing pieces of yourself.

But she also thought about Max’s face when she said “I love you.” About the way she’d been so careful, so present. About how this morning was a mistake, not a pattern.

Finally, she typed:

we’ll talk when i get back

She put the phone face-down on the table.

“You’re not ready yet,” Marcus said.

“Not yet. But I will be.”

“That’s fair. Make her wait a little.”

Esme smiled slightly. “Is that terrible?”

“Nah. She messed up. Let her sit with it.” Marcus took another sip of tea. “She’s probably losing her mind right now.”

“Good,” Esme said.

They stayed for another hour, talking about art and recovery and family. When they finally left, Esme felt steadier.

On the walk back, Marcus bumped her shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth? I think you’re good for my sister.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You don’t let her get away with stuff. She needs that.”

Esme smiled. “She’s good for me too.”

They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence.