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R emi got ready for the Halloween party, The Strokes blasting and the windows open, the cool October breeze carrying the smell of rain into her small beachfront house.

Trying like hell, she failed to push back the disappointment that sat in the pit of her stomach. The disappointment associated with Max not accepting her invitation. And why would he? He was a professional athlete, and she was his housekeeper. He most likely dated models and celebrities. Shy or not, he probably had some big crazy party in a mansion he would be going to. Why would he want to come slumming it in Huntington Beach with her?

Her phone chimed, and despite not wanting to get her hopes up, she lunged for it, her heart sinking with disappointment when she read the name “Randy” on her phone’s screen. Randy was the bartender who was throwing the party, and the text was a simple reminder to bring a bottle of alcohol.

She sat her phone down and willed herself to accept that she would be going to this party solo, and that was fine, right? She would know plenty of people there, it wasn’t like she was going to be alone. If she drank enough, everyone would eventually feel like a friend or a date.

She pulled the pastel sequined bodysuit off its hanger and admired it for a second; she had knocked it out of the park this year, it turned out perfect. She stepped into the body suit, pulling it over her glittery white tights, it fit like a glove. She stood in front of the mirror, and realized she looked like Taylor Swift in her Lover era, but that wasn't where her costume ended.

She slipped her feet into a pair of pastel purple and white checkered Vans she had gotten to go with her costume, because give her Vans or give her death. Her phone chimed again with another text.

“I know, Randy, the party starts at seven,” she said, opening her phone, shocked to find a text from none other than Max Miller, the mutha-fuckin'-enigma.

Max:

Invite still open?

Remi laughed, and with shaky fingers, responded.

Remi:

Depends.

She waited, and when he didn’t respond, she remembered her audience and texted him again.

Remi:

I mean, it depends on if you have a costume or not.

She watched the three dots dance on her phone screen before they disappeared; no text came through.

“Come on, Max, don’t overthink this. For once in your life just say yes,” she said aloud to herself.

He responded.

Max:

I don’t have a costume.

She laughed. Of course he didn't have a costume. He didn't even have pictures hung in his house, he didn’t sleep on his own bed, and he was, well, he was so very Max .

Remi:

Don’t worry about it, I’ll figure something out. Meet me at my house, and we can walk to the party. It’s only a block away.

***

Max found a parking spot a few streets away from Remi’s address and paid to park there until 2 a.m.—optimistically. He had never gone to a Halloween party. Hell, he’d never even dressed up for Halloween, his mother couldn't be bothered by such nonsense.

As he walked up the small beach road, he noticed the tiny houses sitting closely together that lined the street. Each of them had tiny porches and small patio furniture sets. Some of the homes were nicer than others. Some of the homes, it was obvious, belonged to people who had lived there since the day the house was built and had never done any upkeep since; the moist ocean air stripping what seemed to have been vibrant colors of paint. Remi’s house was the last on the street, the only thing separating it from the sand was a walkway, where a man on rollerblades flew past wearing a Minion onesie, blasting music from a small portable speaker.

Remi’s house was, as she had warned him it was, tiny . The exterior was pale blue, the paint chipped and faded. Her porch had a small wicker patio set and an abundance of potted plants. He opened the small gate that surrounded the patio and made his way to the front door, which was open, the only thing keeping him from being inside was a battered screen door. He could hear music coming from deep in the house and a breeze pushed through, carrying with it the lemony scent he associated with her.

The old screen door rattled under his knuckles as he knocked. He waited until he heard her familiar voice call out. “Come in,” she shouted from deep in the house.

Panic flooded him.

Instead of stepping inside, he stood there battling between entering her home like an old friend or waiting until she came to let him in like the stranger he was.

He saw her approach the door from the back of the house and his vision blurred, but it had nothing to do with his eyes and everything to do with Remi wearing some kind of glittery bathing suit, with her sparkly legs on display and her hair in two space buns on top of her head. He didn't know what she was dressed as, but he liked it.

She opened the screen door for him, a huge toothy grin on her face, and he noticed she had little pastel jewels surrounding her blue eyes. They were stormy tonight, and he wondered if they were predicting the weather that was upon them.

“I’m so happy you agreed to come. I was certain you would say no.”

And to be fair, so was he.

“Welcome. It’s not much, but it's home,” she said, and something about that statement filled Max’s heart with longing. A longing for a sense of what she had here—a sense of home.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“It’s just okay. Nothing in comparison to your house,” she teased, and she couldn't be more wrong.

Remi’s house was everything. It was colors, pictures, and little sentiments tucked away on shelves. It was a life lived and being lived. There were memories etched in the chipped flooring; maybe a bottle falling during a drunken night. There was love and happiness in the mismatched furniture. There was a sense of family present, in the small fish tank, with a singular betta.

She was so wrong. His place had nothing on this.

“So, did you come up with a costume? Or do I have to force you to wear something from my box of Halloweens past?” she asked.

“I brought a jersey, figured I could be a hockey player,” he said, feeling stupid.

“No. That won't do.”

“I didn’t have anything else,” Max stated.

“Well, lucky for you I have just the thing,” Remi said, bolting from the living room.

When she returned, she had a headband with cat ears on it.

“No,” Max said instantly.

“You have to dress up, it's the rules.”

“I can’t be a cat.”

“And why not?” she asked.

“Because I’m a massive redhead.”

“Yeah, exactly, you can be a ginger cat, it’s a whole fucking breed,” she said, handing him the ears.

“But these are black,” he argued.

“Max Miller, put the cat ears on or I’ll find something else, and trust me, it’ll only get worse.”

Max put the bottle of alcohol he brought under his arm and took the headband cat ears. Hesitantly, he put them on as Remi bounced on her toes in front of him with excitement.

Once they were on, Max held out his hands in a “ta-da” gesture and Remi squealed with joy.

“Max Miller, you are the hottest black cat I’ve ever seen.”

He felt his face blush. “I thought you said I was a ginger cat.”

“Whatever kind of cat you are, you look purrrrrrrrrrty good,” she said with a wink, and Max laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. He genuinely laughed, and his reward was a double-dimple smile from this beautiful girl.

“Okay, let me grab my bottle and the rest of my costume and we can head out.”

Remi turned to grab her things, and Max tried and failed to not watch her walk away. Her body was so readily available for him to look at, and while he knew he shouldn't, he feasted on the sight of her. The way the costume hugged her ass, and the way her legs were so long and fit. He felt a stir in the pit of his stomach; he ached for her. He ached for more of her than she was offering. It was an ache that would only be dulled by him slowly pushing the sequined straps of the bodysuit from her shoulders and pulling it down her body.

“Ready to go?” she said, appearing out of nowhere, snapping him from his inappropriate sex-fueled fantasy of her.

She invited him as a friend. She was his cleaning lady. He had to draw a line in the sand somewhere, right?

“Ready,” he said, noticing they both had a bottle of Pink Whitney to bring to the party.

She tapped her bottle of pink vodka against his. “Twins,” she said with a wink, before leading the way out, locking the door behind her, then handing him her house keys. “Can you hold these for me since you have pockets?”

He took the keys without hesitation. “Hope this isn’t offensive, but what are you supposed to be?” he asked incredulously.

Remi took the umbrella she had in her hands, which Max assumed was for the storm that was headed their way and opened it. As soon as the umbrella opened colorful ribbons fell from it. Remi flipped a little switch on the handle and the umbrella lit up. She did a small twirl, making the dangling ribbons dance around her and finally, it all made sense.

“A jellyfish?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

She leaned into him and tapped his nose, “Ding-ding-ding.”

“It’s…” he said quietly, “you’re perfect.”

Remi blushed at his compliment.

Max blushed at his compliment.

And then without another word, they made their way to the party.