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The steam rising from the massive, sunken Jacuzzi tub is thick enough to blur the edges of the imported Italian marble walls. It is a crisp Monday evening, and inside the darkened, foreclosed Channing estate in Manhattan, Max Black is experiencing how the other half bathes. She sinks deeper into the bubbling water, letting the pressurized jets massage away a month’s worth of double shifts at the diner. Her dark hair is piled loosely on top of her head, held up by a cheap plastic claw clip that looks entirely out of place against the backdrop of gilded fixtures.
Outside the heavy mahogany door, the Upper East Side townhouse is quiet, hollowed out by the government and the scandal that shattered Caroline Channing’s life just weeks ago. But inside this specific bathroom, the water is still hot, and the air smells like exorbitant wealth. Max lets out a long, dramatic sigh of pure contentment, kicking her legs up slightly so her toes peek through the thick layer of white foam.
"I think me and your tub are going steady," Max calls out, her raspy voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling.
Caroline stands just inside the doorway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. She is wearing a slightly oversized sweater and a pair of leggings—a far cry from the designer dresses she used to wear, but she still carries herself with that rigid, straight-backed posture of a girl who went to boarding school. Seeing Max completely at ease in the space that once defined her old life brings a strange, fluttering warmth to Caroline's chest. Over the past month, Max has become a bizarre, unpredictable anchor in her newly upended world. Watching the soft candlelight catch the curve of Max's collarbone makes Caroline's throat suddenly feel dry. She swallows hard, trying to keep her tone light and conversational.
"Oh, you found the jacuzzi button," Caroline says, a small, genuine smile breaking through her usual mask of anxiety.
"I don't know who found who, but we're together now," Max shoots back without opening her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. She shifts her weight, sighing as a jet hits her lower back perfectly. "Seriously, Channing. If the FBI comes to lock this place up tonight, they're going to have to drag me out with a crowbar. I am totally stealing some of these ridonkulous bath soaps."
Max’s hand breaks the surface of the bubbles, dripping water onto the pristine tile floor as she reaches for the carved crystal tray sitting on the edge of the tub. Her fingers wrap around a beautifully molded, artisan bar of soap. It is an intricate, hand-molded piece of luxury, dyed a pale, pastel hue. Max lifts it up to the light, turning it over with a skeptical look on her face.
"This one's shaped like a vagina," Max states flatly, deadpan, holding it up like a trophy.
Caroline breaks into a sudden, bright laugh, the sound bubbling out of her before she can stop it. For a second, the heavy weight of her family's public ruin lifts entirely. "It was originally a seashell!" she protests, crossing the room to sit on the wide, tiled lip of the tub, just a few feet away from Max.
"Baby, this is a mint green vagina," Max insists, completely serious as she points a wet finger at the deep, carved groove down the center of the soap. She sniffs it loudly. "And it smells like expensive eucalyptus. Which is exactly what I imagine a rich girl's parts smell like anyway."
Caroline blushes, her cheeks warming up instantly, though she tries to roll her eyes to hide how much Max’s casual use of the word baby flusters her. Being close to Max always feels a little bit like standing too close to a bonfire—exciting, slightly dangerous, and impossibly warm. Caroline looks up at the massive glass skylight overhead, watching the moon peek through the autumn clouds, and a sudden wave of nostalgia hits her. The house is a ghost town now, but it used to be full of secrets.
"When I was fifteen," Caroline starts, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she looks back down at Max, "I paid the security system guys extra to not wire the skylight, and then I snuck out and went to Illiano Schapiro's sweet sixteen."
Max finally opens her eyes, turning her head against the inflatable bath pillow to give Caroline a long look. To Max, the stories of Caroline's youth sound like they belong in a movie about dystopian royalty. The sheer concept of having "security system guys" to bribe is completely alien to her. She treats Caroline’s wealthy upbringing like a bizarre safari exhibit—fascinating, slightly ridiculous, and entirely disconnected from reality.
"Weird Human Alert," Max mutters, though there is a soft, fond glint in her eyes that contradicts her tough words. She lets a lazy smile spread across her face. "Cute. You climbed out a window to go to a party. Look at you, Lil' Kim."
"In Greece," Caroline adds quickly, tilting her chin up with a mix of lingering pride and a desperate desire to impress the girl in the tub. "We took his dad's private jet to Mykonos for the weekend. My dad thought I was at a sleepover at Wharton."
Max’s smile morphs into a look of absolute, hilarious disbelief. She stares at Caroline for a beat, letting the absurdity of the sentence wash over her. A private jet to Greece for a sweet sixteen. It is the pinnacle of the "Rich Humans Are Weird" stigma that Max carries like armor, but looking at Caroline now—stripped of her fortune, sitting on the edge of a repossessed bathtub, just looking for a shred of validation—Max can't bring herself to be bitter.
"Hardcore!" Max says with a mock-serious nod, breaking the tension. She splashes a bit of warm water toward Caroline's knees. "You're a regular international fugitive. Meanwhile, in the real world, I used to sneak out of the house and huff spray paint with an ex-marine."
Caroline gasps softly, her eyes widening in horror, though she catches the teasing edge in Max's voice. "Max! That is incredibly dangerous! And highly toxic!"
"Yeah, well, Billy had a lot of thoughts about the government, and the silver spray paint made the stars look like they were dancing," Max jokes, leaning her head back against the rim of the tub again. Her expression softens, just a fraction, as she looks at Caroline through the rising steam. "Point is, Channing, we both had our ways of escaping. Yours just involved international airspace, and mine involved a guy named Billy who lived in a disassembled trailer."
Caroline sinks a little lower on the edge of the tub, her hand resting on the marble just inches away from Max's wet shoulder. The vast gulf between how they grew up is always there, a constant reminder of how temporary this arrangement might be. Max views the rich as an entirely different species, and Caroline is still trying to prove she belongs in Max's world of survival and grit. But right here, in the quiet warmth of a ruined empire, the differences feel smaller. Max reaches out, grabs the mint-green seashell soap again, and gently slides it across the marble toward Caroline's hand.
"Keep it as a souvenir," Max says softly, her voice dropping its usual sarcastic bite. "To remember the night you shared a bathroom with a girl who thinks a seashell looks like lady parts."
Caroline looks at the soap, then up at Max, whose dark eyes are fixed on her with an intensity that makes Caroline’s heart do a quiet, frantic flip. She picks up the soap, holding it tightly. "Thank you, Max. For... you know. Coming here with me."
"Hey, any time I can use a tub that costs more than my life expectancy, I'm there," Max cracks, but she doesn't look away.
The water continues to bubble around them, the steam wrapping them in a private, insulated world where the past month matters more than the last twenty-four years, and where a rich girl and a broke girl can find a strange, undeniable gravity pulling them closer together.