Cause for Concern ✓

five

WEDNESDAY. 29. SEPTEMBER.

"REMEMBER when you told me to tell you if there were any plans and you'd see what you could do?" Cole asked, sliding into the chair directly across the table from where Max was sat, hunched over his notebook and scribbling away quotes and bullet pointed analysis.

"Hello to you, too," Max replied dryly, glancing up for only the briefest second before he continued scribbling.

"There's a party this Friday," he said, his arms folded on the table as he pushed himself out of his seat to peer over at Max's work. "You think your mom'll be cool with it?"

Slumping back against his chair, Max barked a wry laugh. "Not a chance. Not a motherfucking chance. But like I said," he sighed, "I'll see what I can do."

"Sneaking out the backdoor too easy?" He teased, falling against the back down into his seat as a soft smile spilled onto his lips and twinkles of amusement danced across his eyes.

"Everyday I have to text her when I'm on my way home and the minute I step foot through the door she takes my keys. Front door, backdoor, car. Then in the morning she gives them back to me again so I can drive to school and let myself in the house again," he said.

Maybe his memory was failing him but he hadn't remembered his mom being so dedicated to her punishments. She'd never really punished him for anything when he lived with her last but he'd been, like, twelve back then.

Now, he could barely remember what being twelve was like. The only thing that really stood out to him from that time was the move to his dad's. After that, he hadn't seen so much of his mom anymore. He spent the weekends with her sometimes or joined her for dinner through the week every now and again but the visits seemed to have faded into near nonexistence as he got older— by the time he was fourteen, his dad said he was too much of a pain in the ass for his mom to handle.

Sticking so firmly to her punishments was probably only because she had no idea what else to do with him— better to play her cards safe by confiscating his keys than risk letting him get into even more trouble. He tried not to think about it too hard because it was starting to make him feel bad again— and, honestly, a little sheepish.

"She's just trying to make sure I don't pull some stupid shit," he shrugged.

"She confiscates your keys, huh," he said, frowning. Max could see the cogs turning in his head and stifled a laugh. "Where does she put them?"

"Her bedside drawer, I think? I don't know," he said, flickering open his copy of Gatsby as he scoured the page for his next quote.

"Where's the key for that?" Cole frowned, leaning forward again. "For her drawer."

For a moment, Max stopped writing and held his pen tight in-between his index finger and thumb, his other thumb flat between the pages of Gatsby. "If you asked me that with a gun pointed to my head, you'd have to shoot me," he said.

Amusement flashed across the blues of his eyes like moonlight over a still lake and his dark eyebrows were knitted tight, his lips pressed into a humorously contemplative smile. "What about your mom's keys?"

"Locked in the same drawer," he murmured, a faint smile falling over his face. "You're not gonna drop this, are you?"

"I want you at that party, man," he muttered, picking up the Gatsby copy that had been dropped on the table and inspecting it, skimming the blurb and flicking through the pages. "What are you gonna do?"

"Didn't say I was going," Max reminded, tilting his head to look at Cole whose face was scrunched in thought.

"What?" He asked, letting his gaze snap up to Max and tossing Gatsby back down on the desk. A soft disappointment sank into his eyes. "You're not gonna come?"