It had been less than twenty-four hours, and Maks thought for the fifty-seventh time that he was making a mistake. The conviction intensified along with the time he spent with his parents. The mere existence of these people gave the institution of marriage bad publicity.

He was trying to tell himself that it was only natural to feel anxious after making such a huge life decision. He didn't know why he even wasted his time on doubts when he'd known from the very beginning how it was going to end. So what if sometimes there was a small, lost question in his mind, asking if it was really all he would ever get from life? Maks hated his inner voice; its advice usually sucked, and it was awfully pessimistic.

He apologized, interrupting his mom mid-rant, right when she was accusing his dad of treating everyone like garbage. Wiktoria's eyes rose from her iPhone when he stood up from the table, and she gave him a long stare. For a second, he thought she was going to react in some way, but eventually her head dropped back without a care in the world. Holding back a heavy sigh, he left the living room quietly. His sister's momentary engagement in family matters involuntarily drew attention to her, and now their mom was complaining about how she spent the whole time with her nose glued to the screen, and was there anything that even interested her anymore? Her voice, full of distress, became more distant with every step Maks took.

He sat on the toilet after entering the bathroom and stared for a moment at the cream-colored tiles with flower adornment. He remembered that years ago, when he'd still been in high school, his mom had been hassling him to help her choose these tiles, and he remembered precisely all fourteen patterns that had been shoved in his face. He didn't know why he kept bullshit like that in his memory or why he didn't have the healthy reflex of removing useless information. He always remembered everything.

He remembered when he'd seen her for the first time in the school hallway. He'd been getting back from the theater rehearsal; she'd been stuffing books in her backpack. They didn't all fit, so she left a pocket copy of William Wharton's 'Last Lovers' on the windowsill and walked away. He waited hidden behind the column for two whole minutes before taking the book, and he spent the next four days scanning the hallways obsessively. Now he knew that she'd caught the flu the next day, but back then he'd thought that maybe he'd made her up. Eventually he found her and almost followed her to the ladies' room before he realized what he was doing. He returned her book, stuttering as if he were having a stroke, which was really lame for someone who spent the majority of his life arduously polishing up his diction. She smiled like someone who knew perfectly well that shyness was sexy, and when a few hours later he looked around her room for the first time, he felt like an idiot because of all the effort he put into this one book when she had around a hundred thousand of them.

That had probably been the moment he'd kind of fallen in love. They had been like two peas in the pod ever since; he was all bright and pale, with hair curvy just like wrinkles on his forehead after thinking too much and crumpled like his shirt, while her hair was all smooth and glistening just like the rest of her. Kind of absurd, as if people actually adapted to be more like their hair.

That had been eight years ago, when Maks and Ewelina had given each other their first sacramental 'maybes'. And now he was going to marry her for real. He'd come back from England after two years, and she'd been waiting, just as she'd promised, but a little bit forged. A little bit less smooth and glistening, her eyes less sparkly, and her smile less honest, she would drop by his place after work at nine p.m. with eco-friendly bags full of hummus and cherry tomatoes and eyelashes so long that Maks was kind of scared to approach and get impaled on them. She would never make sure that he was listening to her when she ranted about her boss, who sucked at confrontations, and why such a lousy person had such a high position anyway, moving her gel nails rapidly on her smartphone's screen at the same time. Then she would ask casually when he was going to find a job, seeing that he'd been back in Poland for more than a month already and not everybody had such an easy start in life where they didn't have to put in any effort to get whatever they wanted. Did she sound like a bitch? Probably, but he tried to tell himself that his Ewelina still had to be hidden somewhere. So what if all of her books were long covered in dust?

Since he'd come back, it was like he couldn't find a place for himself, as if this city had disinherited him, and in order to belong again, he needed to pass some kind of test, but he had no idea what it was or what the rules were.

"Maks, baby," whispered his mom, who was lurking outside of the bathroom. She gave his hair a gentle caress, hugging his arm lightly. "I'm sorry, I still can't get enough of you," she confessed, so he returned the hug awkwardly. "I know you need time to get back on your feet, but I can see you're struggling. Maybe if you tried," she started, her voice full of hope. It was about the thousandth time she said it.

"Come on, no," he whispered back, stealing a glance inside the living room.

He couldn't understand why she wanted to keep him unemployed for the rest of his life. He knew she meant well. She always did, but no one graduated from Cambridge in economics to become an actor; it simply wasn't done. Sure, it used to be his dream when he'd been young and foolish, but he'd chosen a different path in the end, and it wasn't his fault that his mom couldn't accept it and was convinced that it meant he was never going to find happiness. He would. When he visualized himself ten years from now, he did see himself as a financier. And he did see himself as Ewelina's husband. Really. Probably.

He actually liked his mom, unless she was reminding him that he'd sold his dreams and soul for his father's approval and his own peace of mind. It did sound quite sad when put that way. She was such a kind-hearted person, even though lately she hadn't even been drinking her liquid courage from a little glass like before, but straight from a bottle, which Maks thought was a little disturbing. It was almost as disturbing as the fact that she seemed to be doing everything in her power to turn him against his father. He knew it was awful, but he was really glad that they could afford to get him his own place, because if he had to stay here with them, he would have probably shot himself in the head.

They got back to the living room, and Maks thought it was a perfect moment for him to announce it was time to leave.

"All right, I should go."

He got the impression that his house had become a battlefield where two enemies fought, armed with ruthless words and only waiting for the right moment to attack.

"Monday, eleven o'clock. Don't be late, son," his dad said with eyes focused solely on the news. He didn't seem all that interested in persuading him to stay.

Wiktoria looked up again. "Hey, would you give me a lift?" she asked hopefully.

Maks frowned, but his mom was the first to speak. "Are you crazy? You're not going to Warsaw at this hour! It's close to midnight!" she snapped disapprovingly.

Wiki rolled her eyes. "So what? I could stay over at Julka's," she whined without much hope, knowing she wouldn't get her way.

"You're not staying over at Julka's," mom said in a stern tone. "If you want to go to Warsaw, you can go in the afternoon and take the last train back, not exploit your brother," she added before putting a hand on Maks' elbow. "Are you coming on Sunday? You could bring Ewelina with you."

"Will you just let him be? We didn't buy him that apartment for you to keep him here all the time. At least pretend that you want him to have some independence," his father snorted.

His mom sent him a death glare. Maks only nodded, trying not to get in the middle of it. It didn't always work because he felt kind of responsible for keeping the family drama in check. Wiki apparently didn't have that problem, she just casually went back to scrolling through her phone, appearing completely unflappable. On the one hand, he kind of envied her, but on the other, she was the one who had to live here, so it was understandable that she'd created some defense mechanism to survive. He knew she was waiting just as impatiently as him to hear that one liberating sentence: 'We're getting a divorce'. But they'd waited for years, and if it hadn't happened so far, it probably never would.

Monday, eleven a.m., he repeated in his mind. It was kind of pathetic that his dad had to get him a job interview, but he felt strangely powerless when it came to that. Maybe it was because he hated it—this whole world of economics, numbers, money, his peers, all of it. But he couldn't say that out loud, and it wasn't as if he had any other choice because his chances of becoming an actor were practically nonexistent. If there was anything he'd actually learned at freaking Cambridge, it was the balance of probability. Which also meant an almost one hundred percent chance of ending up hearing one of his father's 'I told you so's' and he had no wish to listen to that.

He got into the black Subaru and drove carefully through the gate. When he rolled slowly on the gravel road, it was like someone turned off the world around him. There were no stars visible, not one street lamp glowing, not one car, not a soul in this shithole except for him, and sure, it was late, but it was still Friday. But that was Sulejówek, and nothing ever happened here. Especially nothing ever happened on the way from Sulejówek to—

He slammed on the brakes when he saw a hunched silhouette on the side of the road. At first, he did it because he was concerned that the crazy drunk was going to fall under his car, but when he came to a full stop, he realized that the person in question might not be drunk and might not even be crazy. He was a little anxious, because what if they were dangerous? After all, how normal was it for anyone to be wandering around the woods at night in March? He struggled internally for a minute, because he had no problem admitting that he wasn't the bravest of men, and taking a risk to help someone who probably didn't even need his help didn't sound very appealing. He should just drive away and forget about their existence.

Apparently there was a short circuit in the part of his brain responsible for common sense, because instead he opened the door and got out of the car, squinting his eyes to see the figure through the darkness. It was a man, probably not old, but he couldn't tell much more. He was crouching in the grass and appeared to be looking for something.

"Hey, is everything okay?" he asked hesitantly. He had a feeling that the guy had been eyeing him suspiciously since he'd stopped the car.

He slowly straightened up. "Of course it is." His voice was flat; Maks couldn't tell whether it was supposed to be sarcastic or not. He sounded young and arrogant—maybe too arrogant—and Maks wondered if it was just a front.

"Okay," he said slowly, feeling quite silly with the knowledge that his question was as stupid as the answer insincere. "Is there any way I can help?"

The guy finally looked at him, and for a moment he seemed to judge him, as if he were trying to decide if he could actually be useful. "I've lost a phone," he gave up eventually. He was whispering.

Maks took a few more steps. "I can call you," he offered, taking his own cell out of his pocket.

The stranger frowned at him. "I don't have the number," he informed him rudely. "We need to find it the old way," he added, making a chaotic gesture with his hands and getting back to crouching down in the grass.

That should probably set off alarm bells in Maks' head—the guy was looking for someone else's phone?—but for some reason it didn't, so he just turned the flashlight on. The guy winced at the light and then looked around apprehensively. Maks could finally take a better look. He couldn't be older than twenty; he had dark hair with long bangs. He was also pale, his eyes were wide open, and he seemed fully focused, as if he was listening carefully all the time and not lowering his guard even for a moment. He was dressed in a gray hoodie. It looked pretty thin; he must have been cold. For one absurd second, Maks wanted to offer him his coat. Maybe it was just his way of dealing with the lack of meaning in his own life, helping strays to make himself feel better?

"Okay, hurry up," he hissed, so Maks obediently turned the light to the ground.

"Here," he said triumphantly after several minutes, forgetting that they were supposed to keep quiet, even though he didn't know why. He picked up the old Samsung model from the ground.

"Turn it off," the kid snapped at his flashlight, grabbing the phone and looking over his shoulder, visibly distressed. He dusted his jeans off when Maks finally put his own phone away. "Thanks," he muttered absentmindedly, looking like his mind was already somewhere else.

"Where the hell are you going?" Maks frowned when he realized that he was just going to walk away. In this weather, dressed like that? It was like asking for pneumonia.

The kid looked surprised. "As far away as possible," he shrugged.

Maks' eyebrows went up. "Is Warsaw far enough for you?" He had no idea what the fuck he was doing. The kid looked uncertain for a long moment before turning around rapidly. Had he heard something? The only thing Maks could hear was dead silence.

"Okay, whatever, just hurry up," he whispered, rushing to the car and tapping Maks on the shoulder on his way. He sat in the passenger seat, still behaving kind of paranoid. Maks suddenly felt like he was in a movie, but he preferred to focus on acting instead of thinking, so he just got behind the wheel and turned the keys. "Go," said the guy, studying the surrounding woods intently and sounding a little desperate. He seemed as if he couldn't wait to leave whatever was behind them.

Maks didn't look at him until they were safely back on the main road. His lips were clipped tightly, his eyes were still bulging unnaturally, and that was when Maks realized that he was driving a complete stranger late at night—a stranger who had been looking for someone else's phone in the middle of nowhere and was clearly scared of something in the woods. He must have gone completely insane.

It took a moment, but eventually the woods cleared a little, and they saw city lights ahead of them. The guy seemed to relax a bit, but Maks was only now starting to panic. He tightened his fists on the steering wheel, wondering if he should start a conversation and how to even do that. And if he should already kick this weird guy out of his car since technically they were in Warsaw.

He was surprised when the kid spoke up first.

"What's this?" he frowned.

Maks looked around wildly, thinking that something had actually come out of the woods, but then he understood what he meant. "Immanuel Wilkins," he said.

His companion pulled a face.

"What, not a fan of jazz?" Maks mocked, because seriously, here he was driving his ass to Warsaw, and the kid thought it was okay to whine at his music?

"I love jazz."

Maks glanced at him skeptically. He tried not to judge a book by its cover, but the kid looked like he could easily blend in with the crowd of football hooligans and didn't seem like someone who liked jazz at all.

"But it's a fucked-up name. Too long. I hate long names."

Maks thought that maybe the situation was getting to him as well, and he was now starting to talk nonsense. The corner of his mouth rose. "Maksymilian," he introduced himself without being asked.

The kid moved his wide eyes at him—really, Maks was convinced that he hadn't blinked once since he'd first seen him—and snorted. His laugh was high-pitched and a little hysterical, but it was nice, and Maks thought that maybe he would even give him a lift to the city center.

Nothing ever happened on the way from Sulejówek to Warsaw, indeed.