Chapter 13 Max

Chapter 13

Max

The sound of spoons clanking against ceramic bowls fills the tiny kitchen as McKay and I slurp down soup with week-old bread and tumblers filled with sink water. Dad is passed out on the couch behind us, one arm hanging over the edge while his hair sticks up in all directions and makes him look like a mad scientist who had an explosive day at the lab.

McKay glances up from his bowl every now and then, unsaid words dangling between each spoonful. When our eyes finally meet, he clears his throat, swiping at a drop of broth dribbling down his chin. "I invited Libby to the Fall Fling with us."

My spoon freezes midair and an undercooked carrot lodges in my throat. I frown at him. "Why?"

He shrugs. "She's a babe and you don't have a date."

"If I wanted to go with Libby, I would have asked her."

"Are you going with Ella?"

The carrot slogs down my throat like a piece of driftwood in a syrupy sea. "No." I sniff. "She turned me down."

Nodding, McKay continues to sip his soup. "We're swinging by Libby's after we pick up Brynn. I left some condoms on your nightstand."

"What the fuck, McKay?"

"Fine. Slide in bare, then. Brynn and I stopped using condoms last month. She's on the pill. It's a game-changer."

I push myself away from the table, the screeching chair legs enough to stir Dad awake long enough to mumble something about mustard. "I'm going for a run." The lone, bare light bulb swings overhead from the force of my escape while pink insulation pokes out from the unfinished wooden walls, taunting me as I move to the front of the house. It's not exactly the color pop one might find suggested on an interior design blog, and it only serves to make me move faster.

"I'll go with you." McKay stands and curves around the table to follow me.

"No."

"Yes."

"I'd rather go alone." He huffs behind me as I stalk to the foyer where I left my shoes. I glance over at Dad who is now sprawled out on his stomach, face smashed into a couch cushion. "Fuck you, by the way."

"What?" McKay scoffs, offended. "I think you mean, you're welcome ."

"No. I mean, fuck you . I'm not going to the dance with Libby and I'm not having sex with Libby. Stay out of my business."

"She wants you, man, and she's cute as hell. Maybe if you got yourself a little action, you wouldn't be so edgy lately." McKay slips into his own sneakers and trails me out the front door.

I run ahead of him, my gaze skating briefly to Ella's ranch house across the street. She's sitting cross-legged on her front porch with a giant book in her lap and a spool of thread between her teeth. The image has me slowing my pace and hesitating at the edge of the driveway. Our eyes meet across the dirt road and I lift my hand with a wave.

She one-ups my wave, spits out the spindle woven with white, and cups both hands around her mouth. "Hey, Max!"

I'm grinning like a doofus when McKay comes up behind me and bumps my shoulder with his.

"Are we running?" he asks, sounding impatient.

I don't reply and instead jog across the street to Ella's front yard. "Hey," I say back to her. "Bookbinding?"

"Yup. I bought a copy of that book we're reading in English class. I'm enjoying it." Her eyes pan to my left.

McKay is standing beside me, toeing a mound of dirt. "Hey, Sunbury."

"Hi."

"Max and I were just discussing Fall Fling next week. I invited Libby. If you need a ride, we'd be happy to take you. There's space in the truck if you don't mind squishing in with the girls."

My blood boils. Every muscle locks as I roll my jaw and close my eyes. When I open them slowly, releasing a calming breath, the glimmer of that smile Ella was wearing has vanished.

Her eyes dim but she recovers well. "I'm not going, but thanks for offering. Have fun." She returns to her bookbinding process like we're not even there.

I'm not sure what to say. I've always hated going to the dumb dances, but McKay drags me along every year. Last Fall Fling was a total bust. I went with Libby, who was sweet but clingy, and she smelled like pickles. I had no intention of going this year until the idea of going with Ella actually sparked an interest.

The sound of her laughter at the lake the other day hasn't left my mind since it spilled out of her, all bare-boned joy and raw feeling. The echo of it lingers, inciting a yearning to be the one who makes her laugh like that again.

In a friendly way, of course.

Because I'm pretty sure we're friends now— real friends. And it's been a damn long time since I've had one of those.

I scrub a hand through my hair and watch as she tinkers with the thread and hums something under her breath. "Are you sure you don't want to go? McKay invited Libby. I'm not going with her." Something nags at me to clarify that. "Could be fun."

"Could be," she answers dismissively. When her head pops up, the smile is back. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it's there. "If one were to enjoy exaggerated balloon arches, a gymnasium that reeks of pit stains, and the dubious honor of sharing the dance floor with sweaty teenagers gyrating to overplayed eighties music while parent chaperones eyeball us like they're undercover agents waiting to make their move, it could certainly be fun."

So damn dramatic.

The corner of my mouth quirks up and I cross my arms. "We'll make it fun."

She hesitates.

She knows we will.

Still, Ella wrinkles her nose and lowers her eyes. "I'm good. I have a crap ton of homework to catch up on from my brush with death. Let me know how it goes."

Disappointment filters through me.

I'd do some pretty shady shit to see this girl dancing, head-thrown-back laughing, and all dolled up in a pretty dress, having the time of her life. Alas, I'll only sound like I'm begging at this point, so I retreat with dignity. "All right, Sunny. See you tomorrow."

"See ya." She doesn't glance up.

"Sunny?" McKay questions, parroting the nickname like it's something foul as he follows me out of Ella's front yard. "She's not into you, bro."

My teeth clench. "Thanks for your insight."

"Just telling you how I see it."

"It's not like that with Ella," I clip in, breaking into a lazy jog. "We're just friends."

"Yeah. Because she's not into you."

I pick up my pace, hopeful my brother will find something better to do so I can run in peace. Normally, I enjoy the rare bonding moments we share, running and hiking, swimming or camping, but lately his presence has only served as a dull thorn in my side. Not sharp enough to draw blood but irritating, nonetheless.

"I just worry about you, man," McKay carries on as we curve onto a busier street before heading toward the trails. "I don't want to see you get bogged down with that girl's drama."

I don't reply.

Ella isn't an added weight—she's a reprieve. Skipping stones with her at the lake felt just as soul-curing as drinking in the fresh Tennessee air. Her laughter was a remedy, not a hindrance. Her smile made me feel like I was flying high, just like how I feel when I'm running through lofty trees and bluebell shrubs, trying to get away from it all.

But I don't know how to tell him that without more questions.

And I definitely don't have answers to those questions.

"Oh, and don't forget," McKay adds, sprinting toward the opening of a running path. "Condoms are on your nightstand."

Shaking my head, I ignore the comment and we spend the rest of the run in silence, only listening to the slap of our soles against earth and the winded rhythm of our breaths.

I toss the condoms in the trash the second I get home.

***

Crash.

I shoot out of bed, my heart in a tailspin. Throwing my legs over the mattress, I attempt to hop into a pair of yesterday's jeans as Dad's agitated slurs reverberate through the small house. Belt hanging loose, I race out of my bedroom and turn the corner, bare-chested and blurry-eyed.

My father is pacing around in aimless circles near his bed frame, swinging his head back and forth as he spouts off something unintelligible. This is nothing new. Dad often has night terrors and it's the reason I don't sleep very well. McKay goes to bed with earbuds in, blissfully ignorant.

I've read up on night terrors, so I know that I need to approach with quiet caution. I do my best not to wake him. My tone is always soft and gentle, my words reassuring. Most of the time, I'm able to guide him back to bed without incident and he falls asleep with no memory of it come sunrise.

I don't smell liquor on his breath when I step forward, and that's a silver lining. "Dad. It's okay," I say in a low voice.

My father doesn't like the dark, so he sleeps with a table lamp on. Mom left him in the middle of the night when the sky was midnight blue and the moon was veiled by smog. He woke up alone, searching for her in the shadows to no avail. She was long gone, never to return.

Now the dark is a trigger, a reminder of what he's lost.

"Let's get you back to bed," I tell him.

"You're fucking my wife, Rick," he blares at me, wild eyes settled just beyond my shoulder. "I'll gut you with my fishing hook."

My skin prickles with foreboding. Part of me wonders if I should leave him be, but one time, he tried to bust through the window with a coffee mug, thinking the house was on fire. Sliced his hand open in three places.

He could get hurt. He could kill himself.

"Dad, it's fine. You're okay. It's me. Max—"

I don't expect what comes next.

It happens too fast.

As I take another step closer, my father snatches up the table lamp, leaps forward, and smashes the clay base against the side of my head. Before I can comprehend the strike, he's on me, tackling me to the bedroom floor with both hands wrapped around my neck like a thick-fingered noose.

Pain explodes behind my left temple.

Blood dribbles into my eye.

The back of my head slams against raw planks of wood as my own father tries to choke the life out of me.

I'm blindsided.

My father is feeble. I could easily overpower him. But my mind is a blur, my instincts caught between survival and love. Unconsciousness teases me, threatening to swallow me whole.

The room is dark now and I can hardly see the glazed eyes above me as he snarls and spits. "You monster," Dad growls, squeezing harder. "You ruined my goddamn life."

A light flickers on from the hallway. Footsteps pound against wood.

In my periphery, I see my brother appear in the doorway.

"Max! What the fuck…?" McKay charges forward, dropping to his knees beside us and reaching for Dad, yanking him up by the hair. "Get off him!"

The hands release me.

Hands belonging to my fucking father.

He's not thinking clearly. He's dreaming. He doesn't know who I am.

I collapse with strained breaths, drawing one knee up and massaging my throat. I'm vaguely aware of McKay dragging our father across the floor as a trace of light from the hallway illuminates my own personal hell. I pull myself up on my elbows as my head throbs, temple pulsing with agony.

Dad jolts with awareness and starts scrambling to the far wall the moment McKay lets him go. "What…what's happening…?"

McKay is livid, a menacing shadow looming over a tormented man. "You almost murdered your own son. That's what happened."

"No, I–I would never…" Dad's eyes widen through the dimly lit shadows as he shakes his head, scrubbing both hands over his haggard, whiskered face. "Maxwell."

I'm shell-shocked. I can hardly catch my breath as blood continues to ooze down the side of my face. I swallow, my throat too bruised to form words.

I can't be here.

A piercing panic stabs me and I need to get out. Run, flee. Never look back. Maybe McKay has been right all along. Maybe our father is truly beyond hope. I should start looking into programs and resources—not that we can afford anything, surviving solely on Dad's disability checks and Supplemental Security Income. We have just enough to get by each month.

I haven't gotten a job because I'm basically his full-time caregiver. With school and looking after him, I hardly have time for anything other than the small pockets of freedom I get while running or swimming—necessities that keep me sane and clearheaded, allowing my responsibilities to remain manageable.

Fuck.

I force myself up off the floor, rising to shaky legs. McKay is still vibrating with tension as he watches me stumble from the room.

"Max!" he calls after me. "Where the hell are you going?"

I don't answer him. He can deal with Dad for once.

I can't be here.

My balance is unsteady as I head to the foyer and look for my sneakers, my equilibrium teetering like a leaf clinging to a branch during a windstorm. I find a pair of shoes. Someone's shoes. Untied and one size too small, they manage to carry me out the door and into the cool night.

I stagger across the front lawn with a bloody gash on my head.

Confused and heartbroken.

Shivering with no shirt.

And two minutes later, I'm knocking on Ella's window.