Chapter 9 Max

Chapter 9

Max

McKay is running with me today.

It's rare that I'm able to pull him away from Brynn or his busy social commitments, so I savor the hour we share running down winding roads, alongside creeks, and through dense tree lines carved with walking paths. When we're breathless and parched, we take a break and sit side by side on a gnarly-looking log and gaze out at the lake through leafy branches.

McKay pulls a water bottle out of his backpack, then hands one to me. After chugging down the whole thing in a few swallows, he lets out a sigh and stares at the ground between his feet. "This is nice," he says. "It's been a while."

"Too long," I agree.

"Sorry, I just… I've needed to do my own thing, you know? Nothing personal."

It sure feels personal when you're on the receiving end of someone's cold shoulder. Still, I say flippantly, "I get it."

"I know I've been distant lately. That shithole of a house is depressing and spending time with you reminds me of…" He blinks a few times, and his voice trails off.

My jaw tics as my eyes remain firmly fixed on the gleaming lake. "I remind you that Mom didn't love us enough to stay, Dad has more issues than People magazine's entire publication history, and our dream house is one strong wind away from becoming a pile of kindling. Glad that's clarified."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You did." I gulp a few sips of water and they burn on the way down. "It's fine."

"Max, c'mon. You've always been the golden child. Even when Mom—" He blows out a breath and ruffles his shaggy hair. "Mom and Dad always preferred you."

" Preferred me?"

"Yeah. Mom would take you to run all the errands and go on happy, wholesome lunch dates. Dad would take you fishing because I didn't know how to swim until I was nine. You were the one he sat down with and talked construction and building-code crap. I'm the odd one out. Always have been and you know it."

"That's bullshit. It was an even playing field growing up."

"Ask Dad," he shoots back. "I dare you. Ask him in confidence which son he likes better and you'll see exactly what I'm talking about."

Anger filters through me, hot like the sun on my skin. "Well, you only have yourself to blame for that now. I'm the one keeping him safe and sober. I'm the one cleaning up his puke and piss when he drinks himself nearly to death. I'm the one who keeps the place clean, cooks, and does your fucking laundry. Don't try to act like the helpless victim, McKay."

His eyes radiate fury for a heartbeat before he blinks it away. Sighing, he shakes his head and kicks at a jagged rock. "Fine. You're right."

"I know I'm right." I glance at him. "Besides, your life isn't that bad. You have an awesome girlfriend. Brynn loves the shit out of you. Your grades are good, basketball keeps you busy, and you're less than a year away from graduating and getting out of this town."

His lips thin. "I guess."

"Am I wrong?"

"I mean…grades don't matter in the long run, basketball can only take me so far, and I have no real plans after graduation. I don't know what I want to do with my life," he says bleakly. "Brynn is a nice distraction, but she's going to Florida State."

I frown. "She got in already?"

"She will. She's smart as hell and she wants to pursue criminal justice."

Nodding, I swallow down the rest of my water and squeeze the empty bottle in my hand. "Good for her. You could follow her."

An indifferent shrug is his reply.

I'm not sure what I was expecting out of this impromptu bonding session, but I was hopeful it wasn't going to turn into this. I miss the relationship we used to have. I miss my twin brother who always had my back, who followed me around like I was king, and who never once looked at me with bitter, resentful eyes.

I hate what we've become.

Swiping my palms down my shorts, I turn to him, taking in his slumped shoulders and hollow expression. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't have the option of leaving after graduation. As long as Dad's alive, I'll be here."

A hint of sympathy glimmers back at me. "It doesn't have to be like that. We could get out of here together. Travel, start up a business, get an apartment. Lay roots in a big city with bright lights and excitement on every corner." Hope seeps into his words. "We could do anything, Max. See the whole fucking world if we want to. Just like we used to talk about."

I swallow. "And Dad?"

"Dad's made his bed."

"He was nearly paralyzed in a freak accident."

"And then he turned to booze instead of his family to help him through it," McKay counters. "There's assisted living housing, programs that can—"

"No." I cut him off. "There's no fucking way can we afford that."

The hope fades, tinting his eyes to that familiar bitter gray. He stuffs his empty water bottle into his backpack. "Can't say I didn't try." Before he stands from the log, he falters, his attention snagging on something above us and slightly to the left. "Is that Ella?"

I follow his stare. Sure enough, Ella is perched on the bridge again, her long hair glowing an electrifying shade of red beneath the sunlight. It matches the bike I gave her, the one currently leaning against the guardrail. I'm glad she's getting use out of it.

For a moment, I empathize with her. She has a brother, too; one who's changed, one she can no longer reach. I can see the weight of that burden in her eyes, the same heavy burden that I carry for McKay. It's a different kind of struggle, but I can't help but relate to it, anyway.

Ella is staring down at the water with two sticks in her hands. I gaze at her for a few seconds, watching the way she aligns the sticks side by side, hesitates, then lets them go. They splash into the water and she moves to the other side of the railing, her back to us. "Yeah, that's her," I say.

"Brynn heard from Madi what happened yesterday at lunch, so she snitched to Principal Walker. Heath has detention all week."

"Good. He's a prick."

"I heard a rumor that Caulfield is also catching heat for some comments she made to Ella in class." McKay pauses. "You see that video? When Ella was crying to the reporters?"

My defenses flare. "Her brother had just murdered two people. I'd be crying, too."

He doesn't say anything.

Part of me wonders if McKay is Team Everyone Else and thinks Ella is no better than her brother. And that's shit. The poor girl hardly stood a chance after her name was smeared by the media and that video of her, at her lowest moment in life, was made a mockery of all across the internet. Only seventeen years old and she's already a villain who committed no crime other than harboring undying love for someone who did a really bad thing.

Kids our age are fucking sheep.

Society is a cesspit.

The human race is on a downward spiral, and I'll be damned if I contribute to the charade with a pitchfork mentality. If we're all heading for the same cliff edge, I'd rather take the scenic route.

McKay pops up from the log, pulling his backpack over one shoulder. He glances up at the bridge again as Ella reaches for more sticks piled near her feet. "You got a thing for her?" he wonders, nodding toward the bridge. "Like you used to when we were little? I remember you were always saying stuff about getting married."

My brows pull together. "No. We were just kids. It was dumb."

"I saw you two acting all chummy at the bonfire."

"So? She's cool. She's funny and smart." I swallow, following his stare. "Maybe she just needs a friend."

He shakes his head. "Leave the kumbaya shit to Brynn. She's good at that."

"Maybe I want to be her friend."

It's true.

I avoided Ella at first because there hadn't been any room in my life for new friendships or connections. It's not that I cared about her media interview. I didn't care about her reputation, or mine.

I just wanted to be left alone.

But…I don't think I want that anymore.

McKay shoots me a baffled glance, blinking a few times before nodding slowly. "All right, then. Good luck with that. I'm going to head home and check on Dad."

I scrape my teeth together as I watch him retreat. "Check on Dad" is code for "sit on my ass and listen to podcasts until Max gets home to check on Dad." I mutter a goodbye he doesn't hear, then look back up at the bridge. Ella's back is to me again and she's staring down into the water, half-draped over the shoddy railing. Curiosity has me standing, and a burning fascination to get to know this girl again has me moving to join her.

I make my way up the ravine until I'm within earshot. The bridge creaks beneath my weight, causing her to whip around with a look in her eyes that wages war.

My hands fly up, palms forward. "I come in peace."

She relaxes a little when recognition settles in. Ella gives me a once-over, as if checking for hidden weapons, before lifting up from the railing. "Peace," she murmurs. "An unattainable concept as elusive as a rainbow's end. Always within sight, yet perpetually out of reach."

"That's grim."

"That's life." Looking me over one more time, she stalks back over to the opposite side of the bridge and plucks two sticks from her stockpile. "Are you here to give me another list?"

I stuff my hands in my pockets as I study her. I have no idea what she's doing, but she looks focused. Ella bends over the guardrail, carefully extends both arms, and drops the thin branches into the lake. Then she rushes over to watch them swim downstream. "I can if you want me to."

"Sure," she answers, sounding uninterested.

I fumble for something to say that might change that. "Okay. This list will be titled, ‘Things We Should Do Together Now That We're Friends.'"

Ella scoffs and shakes her head, attention still pinned on the running river water.

"One: Skip stones across the lake. You've been throwing sticks, but I bet I can teach you to make stones skim the surface. I'm a pro."

She glances over at me, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

Progress.

"Two: Stargaze. There's an open field not too far from here that's perfect for a clear night. My dad used to take me there when I was a kid and we'd try to count the stars." I hold up a third finger. "Three: Attend a local music festival. Tagline unnecessary."

I pause, searching her face for a reaction, and see a flash of consideration.

Something has her interest piqued.

"And four…" I clear my throat and take a tentative step toward her. "Go to the Fall Fling."

Her expression sours quicker than milk left out on a hot summer's day.

I should have stopped at three.

"Fall Fling?" she echoes, her voice dripping with as much enthusiasm as a cat offered a bath. "Somehow I've led you to believe that I enjoy dancing, social gatherings, and wearing dresses. I'm sorry for that."

"What do you enjoy these days? Do you still love books, butterflies, and orange Popsicles?"

"Nice try." She glances back down at the water, though her resolve seems shaken. "And for the record, I never agreed to being friends."

The Fall Fling was a stretch, I know. I had no intention of going either, but I also had no intention of going to that bonfire. She made it better.

She made it fun.

I continue to step forward until I'm close enough to get a whiff of citrus and honeysuckles. Ella looks up at me as I approach, her wide green eyes panning to my face. I offer a smile to soften her steel. "I thought my list was effective. It wasn't as detailed as the bullet points you listed off back at the clearing the other day, but I felt good about it."

She blinks up at me before letting out a breath that sounds like surrender. "You're obnoxiously persistent," she mutters. "Skipping stones, huh?"

"Pro," I confirm.

"Jonah tried to teach me how to do that, but I could never get it. I didn't have the touch. Eventually, we started collecting sticks to toss over bridges." She holds up two knotty branches. "Pooh sticks."

I make a face. "Sounds gross."

Her lips twitch, a prelude to the laugh I'm desperate to hear. Ella doesn't really laugh and she hardly ever smiles. I've caught her smirking a few times but never a full-fledged grin. There were no dimples, no sparkling flash of teeth. Only a flicker of buried happiness clawing to the surface.

And maybe it's silly, but I'm determined to be the cause of that dimpled, toothy grin.

Real, genuine belly laughter would be a plus.

"It's from Winnie the Pooh," Ella explains. "Each person drops a stick over the upstream side of a bridge and the one whose stick first appears on the downstream side is the winner. My brother and I used to—" Looking away, she swallows. "I played it when I was a kid."

I glance at the two sticks in her hand. "But you're playing alone."

"Yeah. I guess I am."

"That's no fun."

Her head pops up, jade eyes narrowing. "It doesn't need to be fun," she says. "Fun is a privilege. Fun is the result of good, wholesome living." She pivots back to the bridge rail and stares down into the water, any trace of that would-be smile stolen by a sweet life gone sour. "I'm just trying to survive at this point."

Melancholy threatens the fragile moment, so I do my best to hang on to the levity still within reach. Extending a hand to her, I open my palm. "Can I play with you?"

Her eyes fixate on my hand before her gaze travels up the length of my arm and settles on my face.

My smile stretches, calling for hers.

"Okay." Ella doesn't smile, but she does hand me a stick. "We need to align them just right, then drop them at the same time."

"Got it." I move in right beside her until our shoulders brush together. Her tangerine top is a formfitting V-neck and her shorts are faded denim. Our hips bump. I look down at her, at the way her throat works, and at the way she stiffens slightly but doesn't inch away from me. The sun still bathes her hair in a rosy glow, making it hard to concentrate on the simple task of releasing a stick. I clear my throat and lean over the guardrail, holding out my arm. "All right. Tell me when."

She mimics my stance, nose to water. "Okay…now."

We drop the sticks and watch them flutter to the stream below. The moment they break the surface with a small splash, Ella snatches my wrist and hauls me toward the opposite side of the bridge. Her fingers curl around me, and the feel of her dainty palm on my skin has me stumbling as I follow. We make it to the other side and peer over the rail, watching as both sticks emerge a few seconds later. They're neck and neck, side by side. I should probably keep watching to see which one prevails, but her hand is still loosely holding my wrist, so I look at her instead. Anticipation glitters in her eyes as she stares over the ledge. She squeezes me a little and I don't think she even realizes it.

I startle when she points down below with her free hand and announces, "I won."

Enthusiasm laces her tone.

Excitement skips across her face like a skillfully tossed stone across water.

I don't bother to look at the competing sticks. I'm too transfixed on her face as a smile blooms. I'm enchanted by that sun on her hair and how it softens her, warms her. Makes her look like she was made for it, just like I remember thinking it did that afternoon in the park.

I murmur gently, without thinking, "Nice job, Sunny."

She blinks a few times, registering the name. Finally, she lets go of my wrist and glances up at me. "Sunny?"

"Yeah." I scratch at my hair, wondering why the nickname spilled out of me, while also wondering why my internal thoughts have taken a sharp left turn onto Weird and Sappy Avenue. "Your last name is Sunbury," I explain with a shrug, glancing up at the light-streaked sky. "Besides…the sun turns your hair this ruby shade of red. It's kind of pretty."

Ella fidgets in place, seemingly allergic to compliments. Then she starts playing with her hair, letting the red-brown strands dance between her fingers. "I'm sure there are more fitting nicknames." She ponders them. "You could call me Monday. Nobody likes Mondays."

"I happen to like Mondays, but I'm a bit of a nonconformist."

Another tiny smile flickers as she peers up at me again through long, inky lashes. "Relatable."

"I guess we have something in common, after all."

At first I'm afraid she's going to shut down. Run away. Hop on her red bike and leave me in the dust, turning this budding friendship into a mere shadow that fades in the light of her swift retreat.

But all she says is, "Want to play another round?"

My heart gallops with the prospect of spending more time with her. With knowing that she's letting me in, even in this small, inconsequential way. Because I know it's not nothing—not for Ella. She's programmed herself to keep people out. I recognize the signs because I'm well trained in emotional evasion, as well. Like two sides of the same coin, we've both mastered the art of keeping the world at arm's length, turning solitude into our shield.

But her armor has slipped. Her shield is lowered.

I've breached her.

I make my way to the pile of sticks and pluck two more from the lessening mound. "All right, Sunny. Best out of ten. If I win, you have to go to the Fall Fling with me." Then I add, just to be safe, "As friends."

She purses her lips. "Not a chance."

"Fine. Go to a music festival with me this fall. My favorite band is playing in Knoxville." Again, I add, "As friends. We can invite Brynn and McKay and make it a group thing."

Contemplation twinkles in her eyes as she studies me, thinking on the terms. She relents with a sigh. "Deal."

I'm grinning ear to ear when I hand her a stick.

We spend the afternoon dropping sticks off the bridge, racing back and forth from rail to rail and watching as the water decides our fate. Each time we let go of our branches, Ella takes me by the wrist to pull me to the other side, almost like it's instinct—like I wouldn't know where to go without her hand to guide me—and every time, my skin tingles in the wake of her touch.

We play Pooh sticks until the sun dips lower and an hour has sailed by.

It's silly.

It's simple.

I think it's just what we need.

Ella manages to be the winner in every match, her sticks always edging out mine at the last second, prompting her arms to rise in victory as the sunshine blankets her in a new light.

She wins.

And yet, when I walk away from the bridge to go for a swim, with her easy smile ingrained in my mind…it feels like I've won it all.

***

I didn't mean to fall asleep.

My eyelids crack open, lashes fluttering with the telltale splashes of color from a setting sun. Pink, gold, orange.

Orange.

I immediately think of her.

I pull up on my elbows and my gaze snaps up to the bridge above me. Her bike is still there, leaning against the distressed salt-and-pepper railing. At least two hours have gone by since we dropped sticks over the bridge, but her bike is still there.

Problem is, I don't see Ella.

Voices sneak their way into my sleep-glazed mind as I sit up fully and scrub both hands over my face. I passed out after my swim while staring up at the sky and counting the clouds. Sometimes I take catnaps by the lake since sleep is often compromised by my father's night terrors.

But I slept too long today. Dad is going to be worried, assuming he's sober and coherent. McKay will come looking for me soon.

And Ella's bike is still on the bridge.

The voices carry over to me again when a breeze rolls through, bringing me back to reality. I glance around, left to right. The water's edge is lined with mature trees, but there's a short dock a few yards away where kids from school occasionally gather to drink and smoke joints.

Reaching for my discarded T-shirt, I throw it over my head and wince when the fabric makes contact with a flush of sunburn. I'm an idiot for drifting off in direct sunlight.

But the sunburn becomes the least of my worries when I hear a scream.

I jump to my feet, glancing back up at the bridge, then at the abandoned bicycle.

My heart fumbles, the beats erratic.

" Let go of me! "

I fucking fly.

Dirt and weeds kick up as I race through the brush, forcing branches and leaves out of my way. It's not a far run to the dock. The final trace of sunset highlights four figures wrestling at the ledge of the age-old pier. Andy and a few of his football buddies.

And Ella.

Ella.

They're tormenting her. Tossing her orange backpack back and forth to one another, over her head, just out of reach.

"Give it back!" she shouts, jumping up on her tiptoes to no avail.

I cup both hands around my mouth. "Hey!"

Heads twist in my direction. Andy sees me and laughs, sending me a hearty salute as I pick up my pace. Two more classmates are hovering at the entrance to the dock, looking gleefully entertained. Fucking animals. I dart forward, slipping a few times as I make my way down the sharp incline, and the back of my calf scrapes along a patch of thorny undergrowth. I don't care.

Andy hollers over to me as he watches me approach. "Come to enjoy the show, Manning?"

"Leave her the hell alone," I growl back.

Ella looks horrified. Tears stream down her sun-kissed cheeks, her hair in disarray. She spares me a glance before charging at Andy and clobbering him with both fists.

"You asshole ." She pummels his back until he whirls around and picks her up, right underneath her rear.

I make it to the bottom of the ravine when the two football douches stop me, blocking my rescue attempt. Heath grabs me by the arm and his friend, Lisbon, snatches my other. Holding me back. Keeping me restrained.

Andy hauls Ella over his shoulder, her fists still pounding his lower back, her nails scratching, protests echoing through the stillness of dusk. Another guy chucks her book bag into the lake with a resounding splash. Ella shrieks. Andy stomps toward the edge of the pier, Ella squirming and flailing atop his bulky shoulder.

I try to fight my way out of the two-man hold, but they grip me tighter, their fingernails gouging my biceps. Motherfuckers. I'll kill them for this.

"Watch me take out the trash, Manning," Andy says, whistling as he stalks closer to the water. "This bitch doesn't belong here. You see her media interview, defending that sick fuck? She's no better than that scum. Good riddance."

Then he tosses her into the lake like she's a rag doll. A sack of rice.

A bag of trash.

Her scream pierces the woodlands.

Strangles my heart.

Andy swipes his hands together as if he's wiping them clean. "Time to cleanse this town of all the waste."

I'm snarling like a rabid dog, struggling against the two meatheads as I watch Ella break the surface and disappear into the murky lake. She'll pop back up any second and these bastards will let me go so I can dry her off and take her home. Then I'll crucify them. Somehow, some way. Don't know what I plan to do, but it won't be good. They'll be fucking sorry they ever laid a hand on her.

"Ella!" I call out as fat fingers bruise my skin.

Everyone is laughing except for me.

Everyone watches the water ripple and bubble in the space where she sank.

Everyone waits.

And waits.

I wait.

The seconds turn into a minute and fear stabs me like a pickax. Heath and Lisbon finally loosen their hold, their laughter fading when Ella doesn't resurface.

Is she drowning? Can she not swim?

Fuck!

I rip myself free, catching Andy's wary expression as he stares blankly out at the too-calm water. "I–I didn't know she couldn't swim…" he stutters. "I just wanted to… Shit…"

I fly past him and his friends, my sneakers untied and pounding the rickety wooden planks as I race toward the lake. Yanking my shoes off, I inhale a lungful of air. And without a second thought, I lunge forward when I reach the edge and dive in, feet first.

Cool water surrounds me, eating me up. Swallowing me. Kicking my feet, I force my eyes open through the gray murk and search for Ella. The world shimmers above, distorted and dreamlike as a wash of stillness fills me. Everything is muted, quiet, familiar.

I see her then, through the muddy wall of water, her hair floating around her in crimson-brown ribbons. She's a few feet away, so I swim and I swim, and she comes more into focus the closer I get.

Her eyes are open. Her arms are extended at her sides, lazy and levitating. She's staring at me, the slight flare of her gaze telling me she's not drowning. She's not.

She's choosing.

I can't help but stare at her. It feels like an eternal moment frozen in time as I watch her and she watches me, and something raw and painfully tantamount passes in the watery space between us. A common thread.

She looks peaceful. Ethereal.

Done.

My mind races to years past, remembering that I've been here before. McKay and I used to hold our breath and stare at each other beneath the lake's surface, just like this, a battle of wills and strong lungs. A competition of who could hold out the longest.

I always wondered who would give up first. Who would give in. Who would submit to the dregs and sink away forever. We were cowards, though. Just kids. We'd kick our feet when our oxygen verged on depletion, gliding back up to the fresh air and sunlight, and it never really felt like an accomplishment when we'd resurface. In a morbid way, it felt like there was no winner.

We both lost.

I'm snapped out of the reverie when Ella's eyes roll up, and I realize the moment is not eternal. It's not eternal, but it will be. Fuck. What am I doing, staring at her when I should be saving her? My instincts snap back on and I paddle forward, my chest aching, lungs stretched and bruised. She's running out of time, dying right before my eyes. She's giving in to the quiet moment and I refuse to let that happen.

I reach for her. I grab her by the front of her tangerine top and haul her skyward as my oxygen dwindles and I begin to see stars. She doesn't fight, doesn't swim. She's weightless and drifting. Unconscious, somewhere else. I propel myself up and up as this sad shell of a girl dangles beside me, and I wonder if she'll hate me for this…if my saving her will feel like a tragic loss.

We breach the surface and I inhale.

Big, deep, greedy breaths.

Ella hangs against me, boneless, lifeless. She's not breathing. She's not drinking in the warm autumn air as sustenance like I am.

No, no, no.

Dragging her over the ledge of the dock, I haul myself up and situate her on her back, straightening her legs and tipping her head back.

I fall to my knees beside her.

Everyone else is gone. They fled the scene.

I slam both clasped palms to her chest and pump, terror sluicing me as my wet bangs bounce in front of my eyes.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I'm shaking, desperate, frantic.

I keep pumping. Keep trying. Keep begging.

"Come on, Ella. Come on."

I bend down. I'm about to press my lips to hers, to give her fresh air and new life, but then she lurches up off the deck and gasps, her eyes pinging wide open.

Lake water pours out of her.

She rolls onto her side and retches, coughing up bile and mouthfuls of clear liquid.

She coughs and coughs, choking and spluttering, before returning to her back and inhaling more wheezy breaths. I push strands of knotted hair out of her eyes, stroking her forehead with the pad of my thumb. It's an intimate gesture, but saving someone's life is an intimate event. It doesn't seem out of place.

Ella draws in waterlogged breaths, her lungs purging, her body convulsing as it comes back to life. Her wet top clings to her curves as her hair fans out across the dock in soaked, dark tangles. I keep stroking her forehead, telling her she's okay, looming over her until her eyes deglaze and pan over to mine. She blinks up at me, her chest still heaving. Limbs quivering. Her lips part, searching for something to say.

I don't let her speak. I'm too afraid of what those words might be.

I hate you.

How dare you.

You should have let me drown.

Instead, I lean down and whisper softly in her ear, just as the sun disappears beyond the horizon and the sky's fire is snuffed out. "Hey, Sunny."