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Max Jägerman lost his virginity in the backseat of a car that smelled like weed and body spray, the kind of car that felt like every bad decision started and ended there. The girl, Jenna he’s pretty sure, had a quick mouth and glossy lips. The kind of girl who knew how to look at someone like she wanted them. She wasn’t shy about it. She’d tugged him in by the collar of his jacket at a party after the first game of his sophomore year, grinning like she was doing him a favor.
And Max had let her.
Because wasn’t this what he was supposed to want?
It was over fast. Too fast. Max was rougher than he meant to be, fumbling, distracted. Jenna didn’t seem to mind. She touched his face afterward and said something about how he’d “loosen up next time.” But Max didn’t say anything. He stared out the fogged window, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with what just happened. He figured she wanted a second round and he’d be fine then, just first time anxiety.
But it wasn’t.
Because the whole time…
All he could think about was Richie.
Not hot Richie. Not some wet dream half-dressed Richie. Not even how he sounded. Not even how pretty he would be in the spot Jenna was under him right now. Just the idea of him, stuck in Max’s head like a damn curse. Richie’s face, bloodied and bruised, from the last time they’d actually talked.
If you could call it talking.
Max had slammed him into a locker that day, spit venom through his teeth, called him names he didn’t even mean. Not really.
Richie hadn’t even fought back.
It had been years since they were friends. Years since they’d been them. Now, they barely shared the same oxygen. The only times Max had “interacted” with Richie recently were moments of aggression. Petty threats. A hard shove in the hallway. One time he socked him in the jaw so hard his knuckles split open. He bled for hours. He told his coach it was from practice.
The truth was Max couldn’t even remember why he hit him. Only that Richie had smiled like he had used to at lunch, talking about some show probably, and Max had felt something ugly coil in his chest. Like something he didn’t want to name.
Jenna curled against him in the backseat, and Max tried not to recoil. She was warm. She was nice. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
But her hands weren’t Richie’s. Her laugh didn’t hit his ribs the way Richie’s used to. Her eyes didn’t know him. Not like Richie’s had, once.
He sat there for a long time after she fell asleep against his shoulder. Listening to her breathe. Staring blankly at the windshield. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. He had done what he was supposed to do. Checked the box. Played the part. But it didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make the ache go away.
Not because she was bad. Not because he didn’t try. But because no matter how hard he kissed it, fucked it, even looked at it… it wasn’t Richie. And god if that didn’t make his skin boil.
Max drove her home in silence, made sure she got in okay, everything he thought he was supposed to do.
He drove back home in silence too, carefully walking around the empty beer cans and his dad passed out on the couch with some random football game rerun playing a little too loudly on the TV.
Max took the hottest shower of his life that night. Letting the water nearly burn him raw, just trying to get whatever this feeling was off.
Max sat on the edge of his bed that night, knuckles pressed into his temple. He tried to piece together the last time Richie had really looked at him. Not flinched. Not cried. Not bled. Just looked at him. Probably middle school.
“Jesus Christ,” Max muttered, voice low and ragged. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
He wasn’t just confused. He was furious with himself. Disgusted. Because maybe the bruises on Richie’s face weren’t about power or pride or anger.
Maybe they were just a coward’s version of I might love you and I’m scared of that.
And now Richie is gone. Not physically, but gone in the way that matters. Untouchable. Unreachable. Max was safe from him. Well… not really safe. Richie sure wasn’t safe from him.
And Max?
Max couldn’t even feel proud of the thing he was supposed to do. Couldn’t even enjoy the story he was expected to tell the team.
Because all he could feel was that familiar, choking need.
For something he’d already broken.
Maybe he just needed to find someone else to do it with.
A few other random, eager girls.
Maybe he could find one with blue hair and chipped nail polish.
Yeah, Max thought with a genuine sincerity, that might fix him.