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The shower knob grazes Chloe on her hip when she turns too quickly and slips on soap suds on the tiles. She slams an elbow on the wall to keep from dying. The tacky pink soap containers jiggle, fall with an inelegant string of cracks, echo around the tiny bathroom. She hisses fuck and rubs her elbow until it’s extra sore.
“Chloe?”
“Yeah! Yo, I’m fine,” She calls out. Shadows materialize on the gap under the door. Fidgeting feet. “I’m cool. Just dropped the shampoo.”
Chloe breathes, water droplets trailing on the goosenips of her thighs. She wraps a towel around herself, checks around for her toothbrush. It fell with the container and she’s glaring at the tail end of it sticking out of the toilet.
“Are you sure?”
“Totes! Yeah. Hey,” She picks the toothbrush up with a thumb and forefinger, grimacing. “Mind if I borrow your toothbrush? I can’t find mine.”
“Go for it. Rinse it well when you’re done.”
Chloe calls out an affirmative and chucks her toothbrush back into the toilet. The water plops.
They eat lunch at the diner a few blocks down. The truck looks like a junkyard beast parked between a vintage convertible and a secondhand bought-looking SUV. Chloe covers up the bruise on her elbow with a sweater. LA hasn’t been very hot these past few days.
A replay of some football game is playing on the TV suspended above the counter. Chloe watches it, feigns interest so she doesn’t have to watch Max nervously order not-Two Whales food from a not-Joyce waitress. She snaps her eyes forward when Max is done.
She asks, “What’d you get?” so it wouldn’t be too obvious she’s watched that stupid football game at least five times already since they came to LA.
“Pepsi. Chili dogs. Cheeseburgers,” Max answers, and Chloe nods mechanically. “I was gonna get you bacon but the waitress said they’re out.”
“That sucks.” Chloe says, rolling her tongue around in her mouth. She smiles through the unspoken the Two Whales always has bacon for all.
“They really should start stocking stuff for emergencies, if they don’t already do that.”
“Maximus, the diner tycoon. Imparting food service wisdom,” Chloe lowers herself until her chin’s on the tabletop, creeps her fingers forward to clasp Max’s. “Are you gonna go do this can I speak to your manager thing any minute now? ‘Cause I’ve always wanted to see you do that.”
Max laughs through a bitten lip. “Is that the kind of thing you fantasize about? I swear, you get turned on by the weirdest things.”
“Anyone could get turned on by bitch gals dishing out sass where it’s due.”
“And barbecue sauce on boobs?”
“Kinkshame!” Chloe pounds a fist on the table, points viciously. The people on the adjacent booth throw them curious eyes and Max tucks her chin, snorting. “I divulged to you the deepest parts of myself and you shame me!”
“Oh god, stop.”
“This is unacceptable.”
“I promised we’d try, didn’t I?” Max whisper-yells, ducking her head, cheeks going pink. Chloe sees the contrast of the color against her freckles and it’s adorable.
Max laughs and Chloe feels the flutter of her heart, the stutter of her ribs, and the dread crawling across her collarbones and brushing its nails around her throat.
LA is way too windy for April. Chloe scratches her elbow and leans on the truck, foot tapping.
A pinprick of ache shoots up to her bicep when she digs a nail in too hard. She rubs the bruise, shifts her weight to the next foot to distract herself. A dog passes with its leash wound around its owner’s wrist. Its tongue flops with every bob of step. The guy, thick, burly, wild hair in a bun smiles at Chloe and Chloe smiles back.
“What’s his name?” She asks. The guy pauses to scratch the dog under the chin, bending low to compensate. His beer belly juts out.
“Ludwig,” He says, a happy crinkle in the crow’s feet of his eyes. “He’s a Lab. Got a bit of Golden Retriever in ‘im. See?”
The dog wags its tail, looks up at Chloe with shining mica beads for eyes and Chloe’s smile trembles a little. “Yeah, I do.”
“You got dogs?”
“Nah,” She answers, shrugs. “I move around too much to be able to take care of one properly. I’m friends with a guy who’s crazy for 'em, though.”
“Say hi to your pal for me.”
“I’ll try.”
The guy turns away and his dog goes back to prancing happily. Chloe feels a thick lump where air is supposed to be going down to her lungs. She rubs her elbow until the pain turns raw and angry, salty stinging coming alive behind her eyeballs.
Max steps out of the pharmacy with a tiny bag of tablets. For the migraines. They’ve still got Kleenex back at the motel for the nosebleeds. She looks at Chloe blankly but smiles at least, head tilted.
“Are we good to go?” Like this is normal life. Nothing strange going on. Max nods impassively and gets into the passenger side.
Chloe lingers outside to feel the cold of not-April LA air a little more.
Chloe picks the Lamborg because fuck, why wouldn’t anyone? She eases back on the lumpy seat, yanking the gear shift forward and back to pass idle time. The loading screen lingers, a spinning wheel sprite catching smoke where it continues to grind on concrete.
The loading screen lifts and she snaps the gear shift back in place. It’s a suburban race track, gray streets, gray buildings, polygon-headed people lining the sides. 3, 2, 1, and Chloe slams on that accelerator like it’s on fire.
She drives past a neon green Ferrari and ups the gear one number. She drives like she’s been driving for the past six months, storm clouds behind her head and cold bullets thumping where they hang below her clavicles.
(Going on seven.)
She finishes a lap in first place and the race is still up for two more laps. The driving just never ends.
She drives until everything gets left behind. The second lap is finishing up with the beacon of blinking green lights up ahead on the grand archway. Chloe almost expects the track to shift, to change to another city when she shoots past the finish line but the scenery stays.
When she finishes the entire race in first, she clambers off and a nearby kid professes, “Wow.” She shoots him a smirk and a thumbs up.
Max is having fun on the Street Fighter machine. Chloe rests her chin on Max’s shoulder, watches Chun-Li beat the ever living shit out of Ryu. Ryu’s health bar is on the left side of the screen.
“I’m so bad at this.” Max mumbles and lo and behold, Ryu falls back in a glorious, slow motion fly back and a humiliating whipping sound. Chloe snorts. Max doubles over and laughs.
“Come on. Let’s do two players.” Chloe says, grinning. Max huffs and nods her head.
Chloe’s hand pauses above the coin slot when the arcade doors slide open and teenagers start pouring in. Mostly jocks, Letterman jackets and all, some other kids trailing behind them with the air of cigarette smoke. They’re around Chloe and Max’s age. Probably from the nearby senior high school.
Max purses her lips. Chloe pulls her hand back and jams the coin back into her pocket. She says, “Need to gas up the truck,” and Max nods her head, brushing bangs out of the way with shaking fingers.
There’s this group of girls standing at the coin exchange counter when they slip out. One’s tall and super blonde. Another is short, thin, darker blonde hair up in a bun. Max pointedly keeps her head turned away.
Max is looking at the California state map pinned on the wall of the gas station’s convenience store. Chloe can almost see the gears turning behind Max’s eyes, the lines being drawn on the intertwining roads of red and white. She’s looking for the next city to migrate to. She looks so damn tired.
She’s gonna call up her parents in a day or two to ask for more money. For this spiritual cleansing journey, or whatever. They’re supportive parents. Step-dick would never approve money wasting like this.
Chloe pretends to be busy when Max comes ambling back with a bag of instant noodles and diet Coke.
“All filled up?” Max asks, smiling. Chloe’s heart jumps but her grin is a little too wobbly.
“To the brim,” She says, slaps the truck for the added effect. She cocks her head toward the road. “I’m ready for a kickass noodle dinner, Mad Max.”
“I can’t believe you’re still calling me that.”
“Maximo. Maximillian Supreme. Maxie wit'da Moxie, hot dang -”
“Chloe!” Max screeches, eyes squinched in a laugh that rings the bells of heavens and sends choir songs down the line of Chloe’s spine. Chloe pulls Max close, like she’s desperate. Like Max is the rope to drag her out of the ocean of dread filling her up to the chest.
She dollops a wet kiss on Max’s lips and her mouth fills with angels, with saints Chloe never bothered to learn the names for her prayers. With white hot pain that makes the back of her eyeballs throb like hell burning on heaven.
A couple of guys on the adjacent jeep whistle when they pull apart and Chloe flips them off, half-pissed, half-proud. Max slaps her arm and giggles on her climb to the passenger seat.
Chloe drapes the blanket back over Max’s bare shoulder. She’s crying, quietly, brain screaming at her to keep it the fuck down else she wake Max up. She throws her head back to breathe deeply through her mouth and grits her teeth, tells herself angrily to get your shit together come fucking on because they can’t keep doing this anymore.
(She can’t keep doing this to Max anymore.)
She redresses, doesn’t bother with a shower because that’ll be too loud. Grabbing her stuff is easy. They never bother unpacking their things because the storm clouds follow pretty quickly and they have to get moving before they fuck up another town.
She writes a letter with about one sentence because her hands won’t stop shaking and her tears are ruining the paper. It’s on the bedside table, right next to the lamp and her phone. The phone’s still got a couple minutes of calls left in it and the number of Max’s dad is saved at the top of the contacts list.
She packs a six pack beer for the ride because she doesn’t want to feel too empty with an unoccupied passenger seat.
A blue butterfly perches on the dash and Chloe looks at it like it’s a monster, an old friend. Like it’s salvation, or an endless punishment.
It flies away when Chloe revs up the engine. She turns on the stereo, cranks the volume of punk acoustics up and drives. Down the street, past lamp posts and buildings, speeding to the finish line of the last lap.
She’s driving toward the storm clouds that are rolling up in the distance.
She’s crying because all she left Max is a fucking I’m sorry on wet paper and a soggy toothbrush in the toilet.