Chapter 11 Ella

Chapter 11

Ella

Pneumonia.

That's what I get for thinking it would be easier to float away than to fight my way back to the surface. Truly, that's what it came down to. It's not that I actively wanted to die. It just felt… easier somehow. It was less work to allow the universe to have its way with me.

We'll call it laziness.

Now I'm suffering the consequences, bedridden at home after a three-day hospital visit where I was poked and prodded by a woman in scrubs who smelled like uncooked rice and wore her hair in a lopsided beehive. The good news is I'm out of school for two weeks. I'll take the win where I can.

Mom doesn't know all the gory details of my near-death experience, nor will she ever know. After Max carried me the two-mile trek home that evening, he stayed with me until my mother returned from work twenty minutes later. He told her I went swimming in the lake and my shoelaces tangled in the underwater vegetation.

Luckily, she was too blindsided with worry to question why I was wearing shoes while swimming.

A small oversight.

Everything inside of me yearned to call out Andy Sandwell and his meathead cronies, but the only thing I yearned for more was peace . And peace would never come if I began an uproar in Juniper Falls. I'm done with battles, done with unproductive wars that can't be won. Besides, Andy didn't intend to drown me. He's not a murderer like Jonah. It was my choice to lay down my sword.

I surrendered.

He won.

That's that.

Now I'm lying in bed five days into my at-home recovery when Brynn! breezes into my bedroom with bouncing pigtail braids and the brightest smile I've ever seen.

It's too bright. It hurts my eyes.

I pull the covers up over my face and hide.

"Ella!"

I groan into my blanket cocoon. "My lungs are filled with mucus. My body feels like I was on the losing side of a UFC match. My brain is as responsive as an AOL dial-up connection." I wheeze a little. "I smell like feet."

"AOL?"

"That's what Mom always says when I complain about the Wi-Fi connection."

The covers are whipped off me, revealing my lowly state. Brynn! winces when she drinks me in but recovers well. "These are from me and my dads."

"Dads?" I wonder, blinking slowly.

"Yep. I have two."

"Lucky. I don't even have one." My gaze trails over to a platter of chocolate-dipped fruit made up of pineapple stars and strawberries turned into heart-eyed emojis. "This is supersweet. Thanks."

"You're welcome!" She sets the plate down on my cluttered nightstand strewn with used tissues, antibiotics, and fifty-thousand water bottles, and plops down beside my legs. "I'd ask how you are, but you already gave me a detailed rundown."

"I'm sorry I smell like feet."

She sniffs me. "You don't. You actually smell like orange peels and sweat. It's not a terrible combination."

"I was eating an orange when my fever broke," I tell her. Finding my strength, I inch up to a sitting position and lean back against the wooden headboard with a sigh. Air-dried tangles of hair fall across my face from my latest showering attempt, and I flick them aside to look at the beaming ball of sunshine perched next to me. Her posture is impeccable. Her hair is like mulberry silk. Her teeth are whiter than freshly fallen snow. She can't be human. "Thanks for visiting me. You didn't have to."

"I wanted to. I tried to come by yesterday, but your mom said you weren't ready for visitors yet."

True enough. Mom is using her vacation time to stay home with me while I recover. She's been adamant about me getting enough sleep, staying hydrated, and making sure I take my antibiotics at exactly the precise time to avoid a relapse. I'm grateful that our state medical insurance kicked in last month while we get back on our feet, so my hospital bills were fully covered. I have no idea what we would have done otherwise.

Guilt gnaws at me because I'm responsible. If only I had pushed my way to the surface, none of this would have happened. Mom has been a nervous wreck, thinking I'll croak in my sleep.

I force a weak smile. "How is school?" Not that I care, but it's the one thing we share in common.

"It's good. McKay officially asked me to the Fall Fling today." She beams. "Do you think you'll be well enough to go?"

"Probably."

"Yay!"

"Doesn't mean I'm going."

Her nose scrunches up. "Oh, you should! You can ride with us in McKay's truck. Technically, it's the family's truck, but it's so vintage. One of those classic models from the sixties; a Chevy, I think—" She notices my eyes have closed, so she taps me on the shoulder. "We can get ready together. I still need to pick out my dress."

"Pass," I mumble groggily.

"Come on…you should go with Max. Last year he went with a girl named Libby, but she was boring and had a weird fascination with pickling things. Onions, cucumbers, beets. Even pigs' feet. You're a lot more fun."

"That's arguable."

She sighs. "Max is really worried about you, by the way."

My eyes ping back open, one at a time. "He is?"

"Yup. There's a rumor going around that he saved your life, but he doesn't want to talk about it." Hesitating, she nibbles on her rosebud bottom lip and lifts her hazel eyes to me. "Is it true? Did he save you?"

I close my eyes again and flash back to the lake. The quiet lull. The stillness. The warped twinkling of orange and yellow sunlight rippling above the surface.

Max.

I think about the way he stared at me underwater, his brown hair floating around him like a halo of autumn leaves. Something told me he'd been there before, just like me. He knew what it was like to want to sink. And then he carried me all the way home without a single complaint, the warmth of his strong arms enough to extinguish the cold lake water threatening to freeze my bones.

Hey, Sunny.

Stay…

I won't deny that he saved me. Max Manning deserves full credit for bringing me back from the dead. "Yeah, it's true," I confess. "He saved me."

Tears glitter in her eyes as she clasps both hands to her chest. "Wow. That's something."

Turning my head, I stare up at the ugly popcorn ceiling. "I guess it is."

"Oh! That reminds me," she says, fishing through her romper pocket. "He said his dad was having some kind of episode, so he couldn't come over here with me…but he wanted me to give this to you. He'll try to visit you tomorrow if your mom is okay with it."

Brynn! holds out a folded-up piece of paper and my heart jumps. My fingers tremble as I reach for the note. "Thank you."

"No problem! I'll let you rest now. I just wanted to see how you were doing." She stands from the bed and gives her braids a tug. "Enjoy the fruit tray. The pineapple is my favorite."

I smile up at her—a real smile this time. "Tell your dads I say thank you. Maybe I can meet them sometime."

"Yes! They've already invited you over for fondue and charades. It's a thing." Stepping away, she gives me an enthusiastic wave. "Take care, Ella."

"Bye."

After she skips out the door, leaving me in a cloud of candied sweetness, I shift on the bed and quickly open the note from Max. Familiar black ink stares back at me and I bite down on my lip.

Three Reasons You Should Always Swim to the Surface

1. Swimming is good exercise. It's the reason my arms look so good. (Don't deny it. I know you like my arms.)

2. The sun is above the surface. The sun suits you.

3. I'd miss you.

—Max

I'm interrupted by my mother bounding into the bedroom with a mug of hot tea, her hair in curlers, eyes bloodshot. I stuff the note underneath my pillow and flash her a semi-maniacal smile. "Hey, Mom."

"Your fever broke." She approaches with a sigh of relief and sets the neon-orange mug down beside my lava lamp. "How's that cough?"

"Phlegmy and grotesque."

Pressing the back of her hand to my forehead cased in cool sweat, she smiles softly. "You look a little better. Less flushed."

"Yep." My head drops to the headboard as I twist to face her. "I'm back to my standard complexion of ghostly and pale."

"Your friend is lovely, by the way… Brynn." Mom takes a seat beside me. "She dropped off some homework assignments for you to work on once you're over the hump."

I groan. "The anticipation is too much. You shouldn't overexcite me in my current state."

"Oh, Ella." Sighing, she presses her palm to the blanket wad that houses my legs. "You have no idea how thankful I am for Max. I can't imagine…" She blinks away a wall of tears. "The thought of you… I can't…"

Her voice cracks. She can't even get the words out.

Guilt comes soaring back to the surface as gavels slam down all around me.

I was so fucking selfish. I almost left her entirely alone. Childless and bereaved.

I don't reply.

I'm too afraid I'll confess my horrible sin and my sentence will be a slow death.

Regrouping, she clears the anguish from her throat and forces a smile. "Grandma Shirley sent you a nice card and a check for fifty dollars. I told her you were struggling to find a job and this infection is going to set you back."

Grandma Shirley is one of those stingy old ladies who has spent her entire life putting her money away. She's loaded. She claims she's being responsible, but she's turning eighty this year.

While she was helpful in our time of need, buying us a used car and purchasing us this little house after Mom went close to broke paying for Jonah's legal bills, she still gave us a lecture on how important it is to dig our way out of the hole on our own.

I tug the bedcovers up to my chin and make a humming noise. "Cool. Thanks."

"I'm headed back to the salon tomorrow," Mom continues. "Will you be okay on your own? Should I wait a few more days?"

"No, I'm fine. I think I'm through the worst of it." I look out the window when I hear some kind of crashing noise across the street. Nothing looks amiss at the Manning residence from the outside—but I know better than anyone that outward appearances can be deceiving. I blink back to my mother. "I'll call you if I need anything."

"All right." She gives my thigh a squeeze and stands from the mattress before hesitating briefly. "Oh, and Ella?"

I glance at her. "Yeah?"

Mom studies me for a beat, her eyes thinning with contemplation. Then she shakes her head full of pink curlers and asks through a frown, "Why on earth were you swimming with your shoes on?"

***

A tapping sound wakes me from the dead.

Tap, tap.

My eyes fly open and I'm met with darkness. Scrambling for my cell phone charging beside me, I see that it's a little after 10:00 p.m. I must've fallen asleep after my succulent feast of pea soup and year-old saltines. Yawning, I rub my eye sockets with the heels of both palms.

Then I hear it again.

Tap, tap, tap.

I glance over at my cracked window. A light breeze shimmies through, causing my peach drapes to dance with foreboding. Goose bumps prickle my skin, even though I'm sure it's nothing but an active tree branch. I've always been that "It's just the wind" type of person, where Jonah was more prone to worry and alarm—especially when it came to me.

I slither from my bedcovers and climb off the mattress, reaching for my lava lamp as I yank the cord from the wall and stomp over to my window with bare feet and a bleary-eyed scowl. I'm tired and sweat-soaked, and I'm either about to concuss an intruder with a vintage lighting fixture, or I'm going to give an unsuspecting tree branch a very bad night. Either way, I'm swinging.

Storming forward with little regard for self-preservation, I whip open the curtain and lift my arm to strike.

Max peers back at me through the glass pane, arms crossed.

Stare amused.

Eyebrows arched, visible even through the black of night.

"What the hell?" I bark at him, though I don't lower my arm. I haven't decided if I'm smacking him or not.

He circles a finger in the air, signaling for me to open the window wider.

No.

I'm absolutely not doing that.

"Max," I whisper-hiss. "Go home."

The window is partway open because it's prone to sticking, so he crouches down so I can hear him better. "Can I come in?"

"Does it look like you can come in?" I wave the lava lamp around with menace, adorned in my avocado onesie complete with a hood that features a stem and a leaf on top, which admittedly kind of cancels out the menace. "I'm sick and probably dying. Please leave."

"Aren't you curious why I'm here?"

"No. Bye."

"Are you going to turn me into guacamole?"

My eyes narrow with disdain. "Do not mock my avocado pajamas or I'll cough on you."

"Pneumonia is not contagious," he counters.

I glare at him because it's my only defense. I knew that.

He doesn't look like he's preparing to leave, so I finally drop my arm, my shoulders slumping with defeat. Fine. I guess I'm a little curious why he's here. Setting down the night-light, I bend over and widen the screenless window enough for him to climb through.

He grins victoriously as one long leg slides in, followed by the other.

This is weird.

There's a boy crawling through my window in the middle of the night while I reek of fever sweat and pea soup.

However, he did save my life, so I school my face into something less scathing. "There are doors for knocking. There are phones for calling and texting."

With both black-booted feet firmly planted on my beige carpet, Max straightens in front of me, his lips still stretched into a smirk. "There are also windows for climbing through when it's too late to knock and when I don't have your phone number for calling or texting." He crosses his arms and tilts his head, expression softening. "How are you feeling?"

He's standing far too close. He's tall and smothering, and he smells clean and earthy, just like he did when he carried me home from the lake. Even my congested nostrils aren't immune to his appealing man-smells. Swallowing, I dart my gaze away. "I'm fine. Doing better."

"I brought you something," he says. Circling an arm behind his back, he pulls an object out from the waistline of his jeans and hands it to me. Moonlight glimmers from the open window, spotlighting what looks to be a small pot. "I figured you'd be getting a lot of flowers, so I tried to think outside the box. A get-well-soon gift."

I refrain from glancing around the bedroom that's filled with an abundance of invisible flowers. Then I look back toward the item he's holding in the palm of his hand. It comes more into focus when I lean over and squint.

Oh my God.

It's an orange crayon sticking out of a pot of dirt.

I blink a thousand times before my eyes lift to his. "What is this?"

"One day, maybe, it'll grow into a carrot. I'm hopeful."

My mouth snaps closed. My chest squeezes. I can't stop blinking repetitively in time with my erratic heartbeats. "Do you remember every word that comes out of my mouth?"

"Yes." He shrugs. "I'm a good listener."

My traitorous hands are trembling as I reach out to accept the tiny terra-cotta pot. It must be the fever, because emotion slams into me and inhabits my eyes. I'm forced to keep blinking so he doesn't spot the evidence. "Um, thanks. This is…nice." It's really nice. It's thoughtful. Absurdly ridiculous, but thoughtful. "So, you climbed through my window at ten o'clock at night to give me a potted crayon?"

Smiling, Max steps away from me and begins to look around my bedroom. "Sure," he replies.

I reach for the lava lamp and race over to my nightstand, plugging it back in and turning it on. A muted fuchsia glow fills the room as I set down the pot, then swivel around to face him. "What if I slept naked?"

"Unlikely. You're way too guarded." He paces the room, perusing the poster-lined walls and bookshelves stuffed with novels and trinkets. "However, I do sleep naked if you were curious. I'll keep my window unlocked."

"Gross."

Pivoting, he throws me a grin. "I also wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay."

"Yeah, I'm good. Thank you for the list, by the way."

"Of course." He nods, his blue eyes trailing me from toes to top. "I wanted to come by during the day, but my dad…he, uh, was having some issues."

I recall Brynn! mentioning that at the bonfire. My posture softens some more and I take a step toward him. "What's wrong with your dad?"

Clearing his throat, Max palms the back of his neck, looking like the subject makes him uncomfortable.

That's relatable, so I won't pry. "You don't have to answer—"

"He's an alcoholic," he says. "He suffered a debilitating injury years back and turned to booze to help him cope. Whiskey, mostly. He's a good person, but he needs a constant caregiver, especially when he gets his hands on liquor." Max sighs, looking as bone-weary as I feel. "Anyway…I like Stevie, too."

My brows furrow with confusion. "What?"

"Stevie Nicks." He waves a hand at my posters. "She's a legend."

"Oh. Yeah, she's awesome. I didn't peg you as a Fleetwood Mac fan," I admit. "I saw you as more of a death-metal, mosh-pit enthusiast. You're kind of dark and broody."

He smirks at me, eyes glittering almost violet in the dim fuchsia lighting. "But not mopey, right?"

"No." I shake my head and chew on my lip. "Not mopey."

"What's your favorite song by them?" he wonders, inching closer to me as I fidget near the edge of my bed.

"‘Thrown Down.'"

"I don't know that one."

"It's on a later album called Say You Will . 2003," I explain.

"Hmm. I'll check it out."

My cheeks feel warmer, the closer he gets. I wonder if my fever is creeping in again. Max stops a few feet away from my bed, his gaze is fixed on my face. Something familiar flickers in his stare. For a moment, we're in the water again, an earnestness passing through the murky space between us. A bind. A common thread. I swallow again, my throat tight. "I don't think I ever thanked you properly…for saving my life," I tell him. "And for going back for my book bag and bike."

I'm not prone to being vulnerable and Max knows that. I don't think he's expecting the sincerity that bleeds into my words. There is no bite this time, no clipped tone or chewed-off edges.

I mean it. I'm so thankful.

He inhales a tapered breath. "You're welcome, Sunny."

My chest feels achy. I've come to loathe nicknames, aside from the ones Jonah used to call me. Piglet, mostly. And I'd call him Pooh Bear—or Pooh Stain when he was acting like a dweeb.

But lately, the nicknames that have been bestowed upon me have all been cruel and hurtful.

Princess.

Accomplice.

Scum, Waste, Garbage.

Even my last name sounds like an insult these days.

But…Sunny isn't so bad. In fact, nothing feels all that bad when Max is around. And I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a cause for concern.

Before I can reply, Max's gaze pans right and settles on what appears to be my nightstand. I watch his eyes narrow as he focuses on something. He blinks a few times before a small smile pulls and then he glances back at me.

I turn to face my nightstand, trying to find his source of interest. Wads of used tissues take up most of the space, along with fever reducer, water bottles, and the nasty bowl of half-eaten soup. It's dark green and crusty. Embarrassing. "Sorry about the mess." I wince. "You can judge all you want."

His smile only blooms. "You kept that stone I tossed at you. From the clearing."

When his words register, my eyes pop and my cheeks flame. "Oh, um…no. I didn't. I infected you with fever and now you're hallucinating." I race toward the nightstand and snatch up the stone left in plain sight, trying to hide what he's already discovered.

But it slips from my fingers and bounces off the table.

And in my frantic attempt to fetch it, my shoulder bumps the lava lamp and that, too, tips over, clattering against the wooden bedstand. "Crap."

Footsteps approach from the adjacent room.

My mother.

Shit.

Boy in my bedroom.

Shit!

Panic rips through me and I rush at Max with my eyes bugged out and arms flailing. " Hide ," I hiss through my teeth.

He's still smiling.

I grab him by the upper arms, spin him around, and walk him backward toward my closet. Then I whip the door open and shove him inside as his eyes twinkle with amusement. For a moment, I'm keenly aware of my hands curled around his bare arms. Warm skin, hard muscle. Broad chest inches from mine. Dark closet.

Mom knocks. "Ella? Everything okay in there?"

I jump back and slam the closet shut before jogging over to deal with my mother. I'm so flustered I forget how doors work, so I push instead of pull, twice, before successfully yanking it open. "Hi, Mom. Whoa, it's late." I yawn with exaggeration. "Good night."

She catches the door before I close it in her face. "Are you okay? I thought I heard a crashing sound."

"I was exercising."

"Ella…it's ten thirty at night."

"There's never a bad time to make your cardiovascular health a priority."

Doubt glints in her gaze. She crosses her arms over a periwinkle nightgown "You must be feeling better?"

"I feel great." I stretch out my arms, then twist one behind my back like I'm preparing for a midnight run. "I slept all day, so now I'm awake. Sorry… I knocked over my lava lamp…while doing jumping jacks."

She glances at my chaotic nightstand and scrubs both hands over her face. "All right. Well, try to get some rest. I have melatonin if you need it."

I smile and nod. "Yep. Great. 'Night." When she backs away, I close the door and lock it, pressing my forehead to the wood and blowing out a breath. Rustling noises have me trudging over to the closet and swinging it back open.

Max arcs an eyebrow. "You hid me in here like I'm your dirty little secret."

"Yeah, well, the last thing I want right now is my mother's the-birds-and-the-bees spiel after she discovers a boy in my bedroom."

He plucks one of my old stuffed animals, which happens to be Tweety Bird, from an open box. "Fair enough. I wouldn't want to summon a parental lecture on avian and apian relationships."

Max tosses Tweety at me and I catch it with ease. "You should probably go now," I tell him, holding back a smile.

"Can I come by tomorrow?" He steps out of the closet and shuffles past me to the window.

"Why?"

"To see you."

"I look like death that has been put through a blender, microwaved, and then left out in the sun to rot."

Before he slips through the open window, he turns to face me. His eyes soften in the magenta haze. "You don't look like death, Sunny," he says. "You look like the opposite."

Glancing at my nightstand that houses the potted crayon and a little white stone, Max sends me a farewell nod, then draws a leg up and climbs out the window, leaving me alone in my quiet room.

I swallow, staring at the way the drapes flutter and sway in the night breeze as his figure disappears into the dark.

His presence lingers.

I can still feel his arms around me as he carried me home from the lake.

Shivering, I drink in a shaky breath and rub at my arms before stalking back to my bed. I pluck the stone from my bedside table and curl up under the blankets.

When the sun rises the next morning, it's still there, tucked inside my palm.