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R emi let herself into the beachfront house of Max Miller to clean as she had so many times before. Only now, when she entered, she felt like an intruder. Having the code to his front door felt like a conflict of interest.

Now that he wanted nothing to do with her; his simple thumbs-up emoji— even though she said she would settle for it—followed by his silence led her to accept that whatever they had shared between them romantically, had ended as quickly as it had started. What hurt the most about his silence was that he asked her to say yes to everything, only to take away her opportunity to do it before she could.

Motherfucker.

She called out to announce herself after letting herself in, giving him any chance he might need to run and hide like the coward he was.

“It’s Remi, your house cleaner ,” she said, making sure to emphasize her position.

The window coverings were drawn closed, and the typical inviting smell of clean linen and fresh ocean breeze was replaced with something stuffy and thick, like old air and sweat. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was wrong, all wrong. Panic flooded her.

She should have reached out again.

She should have called again.

She should have shown up.

She reached for the light switch; the normally bright house was uncharacteristically dark, causing bile to rise in her throat as her stomach turned with uncertainty.

“Max, are you home?” she called out, this time her voice less informative, and more worried.

No response came. Flicking on the kitchen lights, she was shocked to find the house completely trashed, which wasn’t an uncommon thing for a house cleaner to walk into, unless it was this particular house. Max Miller's house, which up until today, had always been pristine upon her arrival.

She opened the windows in the living room to get fresh air circulating, damn near tripping over dirty clothes strewn across the living room floor. Pushing open the slider that led to the beach, she allowed the bright sun to light up the living room around her. Following the sun's path over the trail of filth, like breadcrumbs from Hansel and Gretel, it led her to the massive, unmoving body of Max Miller laid out on the couch.

“Oh, fuck,” she cried, falling to the couch beside him. “Max,” she shouted, shaking his body, only to find him unresponsive. “Max, are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with panic. Reaching into her back pocket she pulled out her phone. “Please don’t be dead,” she said. Her hands shook, her fingers struggling to dial 9-1-1.

Right as she managed to hit the call button, Max reached out and slapped the phone from her hand, sending it flying across the room.

“I’m not dead,” he shouted. The voice of the operator boomed from Remi’s phone that had landed in a pile of dirty clothes, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

She crawled over to retrieve her phone, and in a panic, ended the call, hanging up on the operator. She looked over at Max, who was now sitting up on the couch, his red hair sticking up on one side where he had slept, his beard flattened against his right cheek while deep red indentations from the couch's throw pillow lined his face.

Her phone began to ring; it was the emergency number. She looked back up at Max searching for help.

“Answer it so they don’t send the cops,” he said, calmly. His voice was extremely even-toned and steady considering the series of events he had just woken up to.

“Hi,” she answered, “I’m sorry. It was a false alarm.” She looked over at Max who was now holding his head in his hands, his body hunched over, accentuating how massive his shoulders were.

The operator responded, “I thought I heard someone say something about being dead.”

Remi looked back over at Max who was currently massaging his temples. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the coffee table and her stomach lurched at the very thought of smelling it.

“I’m sorry for the confusion. He wasn't dead. Just… really fucking drunk.”

The operator went on to ask if they needed an ambulance and Remi reassured her it was just a misunderstanding before hanging up.

She sat back on her heels, her heart still pounding in her chest with adrenaline, fear, anxiety, and all the things one might feel when they think they just found a loved one dead on the couch.

Loved one? How had he so quickly become someone that meant so much to her?

A small sigh escaped her. Maybe it was relief that he was alive, but this caused Max to finally look up at her. She noticed he had dark circles that hung low on his cheeks, the whites of his eyes bloodshot.

“I’m mad at you,” she said after a moment, her voice cracking. And she knew it didn’t matter. His silence over the past few days had made it clear they weren't a thing anymore. He didn’t owe her an explanation, but she was still mad, and her anger with him was valid. He needed to know that.

Max shook his head and looked down at his feet. “Not as mad as I am at myself.”

“You scared me,” she said weakly.

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were—” she started, only to be cut off.

“Dead. Yeah, I know.”

“I know you’re allowed to get shit-faced on your couch. I know that. I really have no right to be mad at you. It’s just, your house…” she stammered, unsure what her defense was. “Your house is never like this ,” she said, signaling to the mess all around her; empty bottles, take-out boxes, dirty clothes, black briefs, a porn magazine…

Her eyes instantly darted away from the magazine, just knowing he had been looking at it felt gross and intrusive. Her eyes locked back on him, on the top of his head because he was clearly too cowardly to face her.

“You can’t just change it up on me like that, Max. It’s not fair. You can’t be so fucking consistent and then bam , have me walking into a fucking crime scene.”

Her heart hammered in her chest; she couldn’t catch her breath. The smell of the pizza boxes, musty laundry, and the putrid stink of whiskey; she thought she might puke as her past flooded her. This was too much to walk into unprepared. She always knew what she was going to get with Max, even despite their recent circumstances. His house was safe. Max's house had always been a sure bet walking in, unlike the home from her childhood.

Until now.

Finding him this way.

He could have been dead, under his filth, with sour whiskey-stained lips.

It was too much.

It was too familiar.

It was exactly how she had found her mother.

The need for fresh air consumed her. She needed to get the fuck out of his house until her brain remembered how to make her heart work again.

Heading out the back door slider, she didn’t stop until she had made it across his patio and through the small gate that led to the beach. She didn't stop until she hit the shoreline. Only then did she let herself break completely.

***

By the time Max heard Remi return from the beach he had the living room cleaned up and had started working on the kitchen.

He should have gone down to the beach and comforted her. He had hurt her, upset her, scared her, and triggered something deep inside her, but he didn’t go to her. Considering what he had recently put her through, he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to try and comfort her.

So, he cleaned instead.

Shoes in one hand and her phone in the other, Remi let herself in through the back slider. Max turned off the sink water that had been running, in case she wanted to talk, but she said nothing. She sat her shoes down by the door, and he noticed her toenails were painted black this time, her feet so tiny, and tan. In fact, everything about Remi was tiny. But right now, in this moment, standing before him with a tear-streaked face, puffy eyes, and weak posture, she looked pocket-sized. Max considered going to her and bringing her into his massive arms. He could cover her body completely, hold her, and make her feel safe.

Only he didn’t, because he was certain he wasn’t allowed, not anymore.

Instead, he got back to loading the dishwasher in silence.

He tried not to look up and stare, but he couldn't help but watch as she took in the clean living room in surprise.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.

He put a plate covered in crusty pizza sauce in the dishwasher. “No, I did. I made a real mess of this place all on my own.”

“It’s my job to clean up after you,” she said coldly as she crossed the room towards him.

Maybe she would scold him. He knew he deserved it if she did, though he hoped she wouldn't; he didn't think he could handle being told how awful he was. Not after finding out what he had from his father. Not after being put on personal leave from hockey. Not from her. Not from Remi . She was the last person he wanted to let down, and yet he had done just that the second his life became too heavy.

“This is a different situation, I think,” he said timidly.

“How so? You make a mess. I clean it up. It’s Wednesday. It’s a mess. I clean it up. How is this time any different?” she asked, her voice elevating with each word.

“It just is.”

“Because I freaked out? Or maybe it’s because you fucking asked me to say yes to everything and then the second I asked for anything , for a simple response, you sent me a thumbs up. A thumbs up, Max. And then you let me walk into this ?”

He loaded an old oatmeal-covered bowl into the dishwasher, shifting his eyes from her stone-cold gaze. “You told me to give you a thumbs up.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t mean I wanted one, Max. Read the fucking room. I wanted more. I thought you did too. I guess I was wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong to want more, you deserved better than a stupid thumbs up.” He looked back up at her, afraid of what he might see in her eyes.

She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity and then looked over at the dishwasher and then back to him. Her shoulders fell. The tense line between her eyebrows relaxed, her pursed lips fell into a lifeless frown as if surrendering to this mess—she was giving up. It broke his fucking heart that he had caused her to look this way.

“You're doing that wrong,” she said weakly.

Max looked down at the jumble of dishes he had stacked awkwardly. When he looked back up, she was standing beside him.

Leaning across him to turn on the faucet, he watched as she stuck her hand under the water until steam rose up from the spray.

“That's your first problem, you need to use hot water. It helps break down the dried-up food.”

Max made room for her between the dishwasher and the sink; she was so close he could smell the ocean on her skin. His heart broke for her, and he hated what he had already managed to put her through.

Wishing she wasn’t so calm, he thought he actually might prefer her yelling at him over this. But she didn’t yell, or scold him, instead, she reached down to grab the oatmeal bowl he had just loaded and began to rinse it under the hot spray. The oatmeal was old, and stubborn, and wouldn't budge with just the water. Embarrassment flooded him, watching her clean up after him. He didn't like it, but he let her do it anyway because it took words to tell her to stop, words he did not have at the moment.

She reached into the cupboard below the sink, pulled out a scrub pad, and began to work on the dishes he had already loaded, scraping away pizza sauce and curdled milk before reloading them into the dishwasher with precision.

“You have to basically wash the dishes before the dishwasher can wash the dishes,” she said, offering him a weak smile. He noticed her small dimple appear on her left cheek and his heart ached to brush his fingertips across it.

She pulled a cleaning pod from a clear jar below the sink, held it up to show him, then placed it into the small compartment on the dishwasher door, making eye contact with him before closing it. Max knew she wasn't trying to make him feel stupid for not knowing how to load a dishwasher properly. She was simply showing him how to do something normal, something common, something kids who lived normal childhoods did daily.

Max hadn’t had a normal childhood, but neither had she.

“All done,” she said, stepping back, away from the sink, the dishwasher, and him .

As if gravity had shifted, he felt the loss of her in his space.

He looked at the dishwasher, then back up to her. “Seems silly,” he said, because it did. What was the point of the dishwasher if you had to wash the dishes beforehand?

Her smile lifted a bit more, and there it was, above her lips on her right cheek, the other dimple. His heart hammered as his feelings warred inside of him; he longed for her, and he hated himself.

“It does, doesn’t it? Seem silly?” she said, pondering the thought. It wasn’t a profound conversation, but Max found a sliver of hope that she still wanted to converse with him at all.

Remi, without missing a beat, got back to cleaning the kitchen, leaving Max to feel like a speed bump in the middle of a busy road.

“Ummm, stupid question,” he started.

“There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, Max,” she said, sarcasm lining her every word, causing him to squirm a bit under the pressure of this whole situation.

“Well?”

“Where would I find a broom?” he asked, ashamed he didn’t know this for himself.

He was almost certain she was going to tell him to fuck off. Tell him it was her job to clean his house because technically it was her job, but something about today felt different, this mess felt different. It felt destructive, and somehow his self-destruction over the past few days had managed to trigger something in Remi too.

She didn’t tell him to fuck off, she simply pointed to the hallway. “There’s a broom closet next to the laundry room, that’s also where your mop is.”

Max found the broom exactly where Remi told him it would be, and when he returned to the kitchen, he found her peeling up ink-covered plastic wrap from the marble countertop from his last tally mark. He hadn’t lost a game. He hadn’t even played a game. But he felt the phone call with his father warranted a fresh line, this one for the biggest loss of his life. This one is for the loss of it all.

“What’s this about?” she asked, picking up the small cap of black ink.

He played dumb, shrugging his shoulders as if he was just as confused as she was.

She didn’t pry, and for that he was grateful.

He finished sweeping and was shocked when Remi met him with a bucket of mop solution that smelled like lemons. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with the high-tech mop bucket or the foot pedal thingy, and as if reading his mind, Remi took the mop from him. She dipped it into the water solution, then moved it to the strainer and began to press the pedal with her foot—he noticed her toes still had a little sand between them from earlier—the spinning made his vision blur. The majority of the solution had spun out before she handed it back to him.

“And now, you mop,” she said simply.

Clever , Max thought.

Remi gave him a knowing nod, so he gave her one back, letting her know he understood the assignment.

He began to mop.

She began to vacuum.

It was like a dance. A silent dance, as no more words were spoken. Only, they had never danced together before, so they had to be cautious not to step on each other's toes while learning the next move as they went.

When the house was clean, and the dance was over, Remi picked up her checkered Vans that were still sitting by the back slider.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her things as she made her way to the front door, pulling her cleaning cart behind her. Max followed at a safe distance.

“And Max,” she said, turning to face him. “You should probably shower, you reek of whiskey,” she said quietly.

His face flushed, he was embarrassed and ashamed. He didn't know if he wanted to beg her to stay, so he could apologize and make it right, or if he just wanted her to go. It would be easier for both of them if she just left.

He was a mess, and while she cleaned for a living, this wasn’t the kind of mess she signed up for.

“I’m sorry about today,” he offered.

“Me too,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry for freaking out.”

Max took a step towards her. What did he plan to do? Shake her hand? Hug her? She didn’t want a sloppy hug from him now, not while he smelled of stale booze. Not after he had kissed her with everything in him nights ago, only to leave her without an explanation as to why he had cut her out of his life the very next day.

“Do you…” He paused, not being good at this sort of thing, but his question had to be asked. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She looked at him, really looked at him, and asked, “Do you want to talk about it, Max?”

He just stood there. It was a real deer-in-headlights moment for him. His fast reactions in front of the net meant nothing in the real world. No one ever asked him if he wanted to talk. No one stuck around long enough to notice he might need to. No one asked the right questions to see that maybe he wasn't quiet by choice, he was quiet by default.

And he did want to talk about it.

About what she walked in on.

The mess.

Hockey.

The phone call to his mother.

And the one with his dad.

The way he wanted to kiss her in the dark and still be able to see her face.

“Pass?” he asked quietly.

It was easier this way. Less messy. Less complicated.

Remi shook her head, her disappointment in him was obvious. “Yeah, I had a feeling you might say that. But Max, just a heads up, pass only works when you don’t do it every time.”

Hanging his head in shame, he knew she was right.

She placed her checkered Vans on the welcome mat, slipped her tiny feet into them, and without another word, she left.