Page 150 of Find My Way Down to You

She goes quiet again.

I breathe deeply. She smells of those spicy samosas from the Indian kitchen on State Street she loves. Salty from a breeze I associate with the Santa Barbara State campus.

Her hand is faintly sweaty as it closes around mine.

I turn my head to study her frown.

“What’s even worse is”—she pauses to sigh—“I lost my bestfriend that night. Instead of grieving over someone I’ll never get back, I’ve had to watch you stop existing right in front of me.”

I swallow a lump. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology!”

The hoodie’s sleeve is twisted in her fingers. The second Max realizes it, she lets go, cheeks pink.

“I know,” I say. “But I need to say it anyway.”

Max has never pushed me. From the moment she showed up at the hospital, letting me sob on her shoulder, to the day of the funeral, to now. She wasn’t like everyone else.

That’s why I owe her this.

“I kept thinking one day I’d wake up and feel better,” I admit. “I’d be normal again.”

“You were never normal,” she teases.

My shoulder bumps hers.

“Everyone moved on.” The lump swells again. I push through. “And I thought I was taking too long. That I needed to figure it out by myself.”

Because everyone else did. No one else needed two years to grieve. Not London’s friends from school. His parents. My parents. Only me.

Tears shine in Max’s eyes. “You know that’s not how grief works, right? There’s no time limit.”

I shrug. “It feels that way.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Anger wrinkles my face. “Because I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

“It’s not pity,” she says firmly. “It’s love.”

My head rests against the wall. I stare up at the ceiling. When you’re drowning, it’s hard to tell love from pity. Someone reaching a hand to you from someone waiting for you to save yourself. I guess I could never tell which it was.

“If you need more space,” she starts, “I’ll give it to you.”

I try to imagine a world where I see Max less. Where she’s not always right there, cracking a joke or talking about a girl she likes or complaining about a lack of coffee. Where our friendship is a flicker instead of a flame.

Exhaling through my nose, I say, “I don’t want space.”

Max leans against my shoulder.

“I don’t want you to go away either,” I continue. What she said a minute ago hangs on my thoughts like smoke. “I didn’t mean to get like this. To…disappear.”

“I know,” she echoes my words from earlier.

I see her hesitation. Afraid to say what she’s thinking. I give her permission with a gentle nudge.

“My mom says when someone’s grieving, they just check out. It’s not on purpose. They can’t control it.” Her finger taps the back of my hand. “Youcan’t control it, Auggie.”