1. Maxine
CHAPTER 1
maxine
I pulled into the driveway, and my heart skipped when I spotted Mom's silver Mercedes. Something was wrong. She was never home this early; she should have been at the club, probably on her third martini by now. The late afternoon sun caught the car's chrome trim and, for a second, it blinded me like a warning.
The sight of her car in the wrong place, at the wrong time, triggered a memory of Dad teaching me to parallel park last summer, his patience endless as I repeatedly tried to maneuver my car into a tight spot. "Take your time, Maxie," he'd said, his voice calm even after my tenth attempt. "Life's not a race—unless you're actually racing, then it definitely is." He'd winked at me then, and we'd both burst out laughing, remembering the go-kart track where he'd let me win every single time until I was old enough to actually beat him.
I'd known he was letting me win, of course. The way he'd always somehow just miss that final turn or get ‘distracted’ by something off-track right when I was about to pass him. But that was Dad—always finding ways to build up my confidence without making it obvious. Even when I finally managed to beat him fair and square at thirteen, he'd made such a show of dramatic defeat that other parents had turned to stare. "Bested by my own flesh and blood!" he'd proudly declared, clutching his chest. "The student becomes the master!"
My hands were shaking slightly as I gathered my things. The strap of my purse kept slipping off my shoulder, and my backpack felt unnaturally heavy. The walk to the front door felt longer than usual, each step carrying a weight I didn't yet understand.
The house was dark, which is unusual for this time of day. Dad always insisted that the curtains should stay open, saying homes should be filled with natural light. "Houses need to breathe, Maxie," he'd always say. Just last week, he'd caught Mom closing the drapes in the middle of the day and had dramatically thrown them open again, dancing in the sunbeam like a kid. "Life's too short to live in the shadows, Ciara," he'd told her, trying to coax her into dancing with him. She'd just rolled her eyes and walked away, but he'd kept dancing, grabbing my hands and spinning me around the living room until we were both dizzy and laughing.
Now, the living room was bathed in shadows, and there sat my mother, a silhouette on our leather couch, still as a statue.
"Mom?" My voice came out smaller than I intended. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"
She looked up, and something in her expression made my stomach drop. Her face was composed—too composed—like she was wearing a mask. When she spoke, her words sliced through the air with surgical precision.
"Your father was in a car accident today, and he didn’t make it. I wanted to be the one to tell you. I didn't want you to hear it from someone else."
My backpack slid off my shoulder, the bag of leftover carrots I'd saved for Thunder spilling across our welcome mat—the one Dad had picked out last month, with the terrible horse pun that had made us both laugh while Mom rolled her eyes. The carrots rolled in different directions, bright orange standing out against the hardwoods, and all I could think was that Dad would have made a joke about them escaping.
Her words didn't make sense at first. They floated in the air between us like alphabet soup, refusing to form meaning. Just this morning, Dad made his signature ‘Sunday on a Tuesday’ breakfast. It was a tradition he started when I was seven and complained that the weekends weren't long enough. "Why should Sunday get all the good breakfast?" he'd declared, flipping chocolate chip pancakes with exaggerated flair. He'd been wearing that ridiculous ‘World's Okayest Chef’ apron I'd gotten him for Christmas, while he hummed an old Beatles song under his breath...
I heard myself laugh—it was a strange, hollow sound.
"Mom, that's not even the least bit funny. Please tell me this isn't true."
"I am not joking, Maxine." Her voice was flat, mechanical. "He passed away this morning." She delivered the news like she was reading the weather report, and something inside me shattered.
My legs gave out first. I didn't sit so much as collapse, my knees hitting the hardwood floor with a thud I barely felt. A sound escaped me—not quite a cry, not quite a scream—something primal and broken. The room started to spin, and I pressed my palms against the cool, wood floor, trying to anchor myself to something, anything.
Dad. My dad. The man who taught me to ride my first horse, who'd spent every Saturday afternoon at the stables with me even though he was allergic to hay. Who'd sneezed through every lesson but never complained, just brought his antihistamines and thermos of coffee, watching proudly as I learned to post and canter. "You're a natural, Maxie," he'd say, his eyes red and watering, but his smile never dimming. "Just like your old man." It had become our private joke because we both knew he'd never even sat on a horse.
The man who stayed up all night helping me with my science-fair project in seventh grade, turning our kitchen into a makeshift laboratory. We'd accidentally dyed one of the countertops blue while testing pH levels, and instead of getting mad, he'd just laughed and said we'd given the house ‘character’. Mom had been furious, but he'd somehow convinced her to keep it, saying it was ‘our signature touch’. Even now, that blue stain remained, a permanent reminder of that night.
The man who just yesterday had winked at me over dinner and slipped me an extra twenty ’for gas money’, even though he knew perfectly well that my tank was full. It was his way of making sure I always had a little extra spending money without having to ask Mom, who monitored every penny I spent. "A girl needs her independence fund," he'd whisper conspiratorially, like we were planning a heist instead of getting ice cream after school.
Gone? The word felt impossible, wrong, like trying to force together puzzle pieces that didn't fit.
Through the blur of tears, I saw my mother still sitting there, watching me with clinical detachment. Her stillness ignited something in me, rage, maybe, or desperation.
"Why didn't you call me?" My voice cracked. "I could have left the equine center—they would have understood! Why did you let me go through the whole day not knowing? You should have told me this morning!"
I looked at her—really looked at her—and what I saw chilled me to the core. There was no redness around her eyes, no tremor in her hands. She was sitting there like it was any other Tuesday, like her husband of twenty years didn’t just die, like she didn’t just blow up my entire world.
Her response, when it came, was like ice water dripping down my spine. "What would be the point of calling you and having you come home? Wasn't like there was anything you could do to change what happened to him."
The words hit me like physical blows. I staggered to my feet, my legs numb, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. Without another word, I fled upstairs to my bedroom, my sanctuary. Behind me, I heard Mom call my name, her voice cracking, but I couldn't stop. Couldn't turn around. Couldn't face the truth.
I slammed my door shut and pressed my back against it, then slid down until I hit the floor. My room looked exactly as I left it this morning—riding boots kicked off in the corner, yesterday's homework spread across my desk, the photo strip from Dad and my trip to the state fair pinned to my bulletin board. We were both making ridiculous faces in the last shot, Dad crossing his eyes while I stuck out my tongue. "That's a keeper," he'd said. And now I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't process how that same person who was so alive, so full of life, and so present just hours ago, could simply cease to exist.
My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably one of the dozen messages I ignored on my way up here. I pulled it out with trembling hands and saw Dad's last text, sent while I was still at the barn: Looking sharp! Save some carrots for dinner though kiddo. Making your favorite pasta tonight . There was a horse emoji after it, because he'd recently discovered emojis and had been using them at every opportunity, especially the corny ones.
I hurled my phone across the room. It hit my pile of dirty laundry with an unsatisfyingly soft thud. Downstairs, I heard the low murmur of conversation, and I wondered who my mom was talking to. The sunlight streaming through my window felt wrong, too bright, too normal. Everything felt wrong.
I collapsed on my window seat dad built for me when I was twelve. He’d spent an entire weekend getting it just right. "Every princess needs her tower," he'd said, though, we both knew I was more interested in being a knight. He'd added little details that made it perfect: a hidden compartment for my diary, cushions in my favorite shade of purple, and a small shelf for my books. He'd even carved tiny dragonflies into the wooden frame, a preview of the theme that would become our special connection.
My fingers grasped the dragonfly locket he gave me for my sixteenth birthday, and I clutched it so hard that the metal dug into my palm. The memory of that day flooded back: how he'd made me close my eyes while he fastened it around my neck, how proud he'd looked when I'd opened them to see my reflection. "I saw this and thought of you," he'd said. "You know, dragonflies spend most of their lives underwater, but when they finally spread their wings, they become these amazing creatures that can fly in any direction—even backward. They remind us that life's biggest changes can bring about incredible beauty."
Outside, the world kept moving—cars passed, birds flew, the sun continued its slow descent—everything obscenely normal while my universe crumbled. I thought about all the future moments that had been stolen from us. Dad wouldn't be there to help me move into my college dorm next fall, wouldn't get to tease me about my first serious boyfriend, wouldn't get to walk me down the aisle someday. He wouldn't ever again make his terrible dad jokes that I pretended to hate but secretly loved or surprise me with midnight milkshakes when was studying too hard or...
My phone started to ring—first Tabby, then Melissa, then Marla. I couldn't bear to answer, couldn't bear to say the words out loud. Voicing them out loud would make it real and, right now, in this moment, I needed to pretend it wasn’t real. I got up and dug my phone out of the laundry basket and turned it off. Curling up on my bed, I hugged my spare pillow to my chest like it would somehow fill the dad-shaped hole that was just torn from my world.
The pillow still smelled faintly of the horse barn—hay and leather and that distinct earthy scent that usually brought me comfort. Dad always teased me about it, saying I carried around my own personal petting-zoo perfume. "You know, most teenage girls go for vanilla or strawberry," he'd joked, helping me wash my barn clothes separately, so the smell wouldn't infiltrate my regular wardrobe. But he'd been the one to buy me special detergent for my riding clothes, researching the best brands to maintain the technical fabrics while still getting out stubborn stains.
Through my window, I could see the maple tree in our backyard, its leaves starting to turn gold at the edges. Dad and I had planned to rake them together when they fell, same thing we did every year since I was little. He'd always let me jump in the piles after we'd gathered them, even though it meant having to rake them up all over again. "Some messes are worth making," he'd say, and then he'd jump in, too, sending leaves flying everywhere while Mom watched from the kitchen window, shaking her head and giving us one of her frozen smiles as always.
Now, the leaves blurred through my tears, and I squeezed the pillow tighter, as if I could somehow press pause on the world, freeze everything before this moment. Before the accident. Before the word ‘doesn’t’ became ‘didn't’ and past tense for my father's entire existence.
Time became fluid, flowing around me without touching me. When I heard a knock on my door, I realized the sky outside had turned black. My voice came out raw when I called, "Come in," and suddenly they were there—my three best friends, bursting in like a rescue party. “Your Mom let us in, looking bitchy as always when we come over,” Marla said.
"Girl, why are you not answering your phone? I have been calling for hours and keep getting your voicemail?" Tabby demanded, but then they saw my face, and their entire demeanors changed. They surrounded me without a word, creating a cocoon of warmth and understanding. These girls, who'd been my anchors since we moved here, held me together when I felt like I was falling apart.
"My dad was in a car accident this morning”—I choked out the words—"he didn’t make it." Their shock and grief mirrored my own.
"What? No, not your dad," Marla whispered. "We just saw him last night in the media room. How could this happen?"
The memory of last night hit me like a physical blow: Dad bringing us popcorn, perfectly seasoned with his secret spice mixture that he claimed was passed down through generations, but we all knew he'd made it up. He had pretended to be annoyed by our loud singing during the musical we were watching, but I'd caught him mouthing the words to "Summer Nights" when he thought no one was looking.
We cried together, shared stories, and remembered the man who was more of a father to all four of us than some of their own dads. "Remember when he took us all camping last summer?" Melissa said through her tears. "And he spent two hours trying to put up that tent?"
"Only because he refused to read the instructions," Tabby added with a watery laugh. "What was it he said? Instructions are for people who don't believe in adventure," we all quoted in unison and, for a moment, it was like he was here with us, grinning that goofy grin of his.
When I told them about Mom's reaction, Tabby's response was immediate. "I'm not even surprised. She's such a cold bitch." She twirled her hair around her finger, a nervous habit she’d had since middle school. Melissa just shook her head, unsurprised but still disgusted. Marla just looked at me like what did you expect from her?
Before they left, we hugged again, and Melissa's words wrapped around me like a promise. "If you need something, anything, we are a phone call away, girl. You call us no matter what time it is."
As I watched them go, I felt simultaneously empty and full—empty because my dad was gone but full because I had three amazing friends, I knew will help me survive this. Because they'd have to—my mother, with her perfectly arranged face and her perfectly empty heart, wouldn't know how to comfort anyone if her life depended on it.
I touched the dragonfly locket again, remembering how Dad's eyes crinkled at the corners when he gave it to me. I wish he were here to help me find the beauty in this change. I didn't know how to do it without him. I closed my eyes and could almost hear his voice. "You're stronger than you think, Maxie. You always have been." But for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure he was right.
I glanced at my desk, where a stack of college brochures sat—another thing we'd never get to do together. Just last week, we'd been planning a road trip to visit campuses, and he'd been so excited about it, already mapping out the best diners to stop at along the way. "College visits are really just an excuse for a food tour," he'd joked. "The education part is secondary."
Now, those brochures looked like promises he'd never get to keep and dreams we'd never get to share. I turned away from them, curling tighter into myself, and let the memories wash over me like waves—each one a reminder of what I'd lost, each one a treasure I'd have to hold onto alone.