Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

Max: Sure, it will be good to catch up.

I click call, barely able to contain my excitement as I wait for him to answer.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I laugh, balancing my phone between my neck and ear. “It’s been weeks, man. You missed a great party the other night. Nash got punched in the face by some chick for hitting on her girlfriend.”

“I heard,” Max chuckles. “I’m sorry I missed it, but I had shit to do.”

I start walking toward the lift but stop when I realise I smell like cheap sex. I need a shower to wash the Darla off me.

I shove the key in the lock of my apartment and yank open the door, throwing my jacket over the hall table. I’m still in shock he actually answered his damn phone. It’s good to hear from the guy because, honestly, I’ve been worried about him. I know he’s sick and all that, but the last few weeks it feels like he’s giving up or something. I’m not used to seeing him like that. Max doesn’t quit anything. We’re talking about the guy who hassled his mum for months to let him join us at public school until she finally caved. So much for the twenty-thousand-a-semester world-class grammar school he’d been on the list to attend since birth. Mornington High was good enough for my boy.

“How’s things?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice light. I’m not great with all that disease shit.

“I’ve been better,” he laughs. “But you know me. Mum is a bigger problem than anything else at the moment. She can’t look at me without crying. It’s doing wonders for my positivity.”

“Any updates?” I ask tentatively. Last we heard, he was doing the third round of chemo and radiation because the first two didn’t put a dent into the disease. His scans lit up like fireworks.

“Nothing good enough to share,” he says. “It’s not looking great, but what can you do, huh?”

“Shit, man.” I run my hand through my dark, cropped hair. What the fuck do you say to that? “Is there anything I can do?”

“Maybe come over for a few drinks with the guys? I just need a night off from all this shit, you know?” He sounds tired. And angry. Not that I blame him. When you get cancer in high school and beat it, you think you’ll be fine for the rest of your life. Not Max, though. Twenty-seven years old and he’s going through this bullshit again. I’d be pissed off, too, if, after all that, things were still looking grim.

“Yeah, sure, of course. We already planned on coming over if you didn’t invite us. Consider us a walking get well soon card.” With a laugh from Max, we confirm a time, and he disconnects the call. It looks like I won’t be breaking and entering tonight, which disappoints me. I was looking forward to the rush.

Tossing my phone on the kitchen bench, the urge for a strong drink consumes me. One to make me forget for a second that I’m going to see my best mate who’s so sick there’s nothing anyone can do to help him. Above the fridge, in the small cupboard, a half-full bottle of expensive scotch is the first thing I see. Not even bothering with a glass, I twist the cap off and take a swig from the bottle. The haze kicks in quickly as the liquid hits the pit of my empty stomach, lighting a fire along its path.

I quickly run through a shower, making sure to wash away any remnants of Darla from my body. Tossing on a pair of dark jeans and my favourite Zeppelin tee shirt, I grab my keys and phone I left in the kitchen. On the way to the car, I text the guys and let them know ‘Operation Rescue Max from Self-Loathing’ is in effect and to meet me at his apartment in the city. From my place, the drive is short, and I arrive just in time to see Max’s mum leaving his building with a scowl on her face and tear stains on her heavily made-up face.

“Andrew,” she coolly states, acknowledging my presence as I step out of my car.

“Ms. Rosewood, it’s nice to see you again. How’s Max feeling?”

For a long time, especially when my parents were going through their divorce, Ms. Rosewood was like a second mum to me. She never complained about me staying over or eating her out of house and home during my teen years. She never seemed bothered by my presence until Max got sick for the first time when we were seventeen. It was like she looked at me as if she didn’t understand why Max got sick and not me. It hurt until I got old enough to understand she was hurting herself and didn’t know how to express it.

It was Max’s sister, Aubrey, who made sure to keep the peace. Ms. Rosewood was determined to keep Max from anything she thought would hurt him. Aubs made sure Max’s high school years weren’t affected too badly. It was hard enough for him to go in for chemo and radiation, miss a lot of school and nearly miss our formals. Aubrey was always there—even though she was six years younger than us—to put their mum in her place. Sweet kid, Aubrey. Grew up too fast for her age, if you ask me.

“He’s not well, Andrew. Please talk to him. I just want to help, and he’s not letting me. If I can’t fix this, the least I can do is make it easier for him.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, but I’ll have a chat,” I promise her. “He’s stubborn, though.”

“Just like his father.” She grimaces and slides into the driver’s seat of her luxury car. I turn to head into the building to find out what they fought about this time when Max comes storming into the parking lot.

“Just go upstairs. I need a second with my mum.” He tosses me the keys and stalks angrily toward his mother’s car. She’s crying, no less. Excellent job on the guilt trip, Ms. Rosewood.

I nod my head and do as he asks, not bothering to mention how terrible he looks. It’s only been a few weeks since we last saw each other and already, you can see the effects of his disease ravaging his body. His skin’s pale, cheeks sunken in, and he’s probably lost another eight kilos he didn’t have to lose. It’s frightening.

“What was that all about?” I ask as Max storms back into the apartment, out of breath and frail. He throws himself down on the couch, muttering something incoherent under his breath. I’ve never seen him this angry, but fighting with his mother isn’t anything new.

His mum can be hard work. I know she means well, but everything about him is off-the-charts wrong. As a kid, Max was always teased for shit his mum was doing. The whole school knew she was sleeping with our English teacher, but Max—being the kid he was back then—buried his head in the sand and pretended everything was fine. His dad had to have known what was going on, but for whatever reason, he ignored it, too—until he’d had enough. Then, when she had an affair with one of her husband’s students, he finally called it quits. That’s when he took Max’s sister and went back to the States, where he’s originally from. He wanted Max to come, but he’d just started Uni, and it made more sense for him to stay. Besides, Max could never leave Melbourne. He’d miss me too much.

“You know my mother,” he mutters, his dark eyes blazing. “She just shits me sometimes with the games she plays.”

I wince and take a sip of my beer. I know better than he realises. After our year twelve formal, I crashed at Max’s house because I was too pissed even to walk home. In the middle of the night, I got up to get something to eat, and his mum came on to me.

We made out, but then I realised what the fuck I was doing and backed off. The first rule of friendship is never touch a friend’s mum, no matter how hot she is or how horny you are. I’ve never told any of the guys or even my sister. I’ll take that secret with me to my grave.

“What’s she done this time?” I laugh, knocking back the last of my beer. I hold the empty bottle up and take aim, tossing it into the bin. Boom! I slap my hands together and reach for another drink.