Chapter 14 Max

Chapter 14

Max

I don't know why I came here.

Ella is probably going to give me another head wound with her lava lamp when she spots me shirtless outside her window in the dead of night, looking like a lost, wounded animal.

A few beats pass before I finally hear the creak of her footsteps approaching. I brace myself for impact as the curtains crack and Ella appears.

She blinks.

Freezes in place.

Clad only in a white tank and faded gray sleep shorts, she stares at me, registering my presence. Processing the state I'm in. Her complexion goes ashen as she stands there, scanning me from head to toe through the dusty pane, her eyes glassed over like she sees a ghost.

Maybe I am a ghost. It's possible my father killed me on his bedroom floor.

Hell—if that's the case, she should feel honored I'm here. There aren't many people I would care enough about to haunt in the afterlife. Ella Sunbury made the cut.

I stare right back at her, lost for words. Unsure what to say or how to explain myself.

Can ghosts talk?

The window draws up and she leans out, fingers curled around the sill. "Holy shit. What happened to you?"

My throat works through a painful swallow. I shake my head a little, and the slight motion causes a surge of pressure to swell behind my eyes. Dizziness claims me. I sway in place, almost tipping to the right, when Ella's hand snakes out, catching me by the wrist and squeezing.

Worried green eyes flare and dark brows bend as her thumb dusts across my skin. "Whoa… Hey, come inside." She gives me the smallest tug forward. "Come on. I'll wake up my mom and we'll take you to the hospital."

"No."

"Max…you're bleeding."

"No hospitals." I lift my free hand and touch two fingertips to my temple. To the slash near my hairline carved into me by my father's table lamp. My fingers come back sticky and wet. "I'll be fine," I murmur. "Can I…stay the night?"

It's a dumb question. Wildly inappropriate. We're still getting to know each other and I'm asking if I can have a sleepover in her bedroom. My eyes close briefly as I attempt to backtrack. "Sorry. I can just—"

"Get inside, will you?"

There's no hesitation, no indecision lacing her tone. I don't have it in me to question anything, so I accept the invitation and step forward, her hand still curled around my wrist. Her bedroom window is at ground level, making it easy enough to climb through, even with a probable concussion. Ella helps me inside, her warm hands sliding up my bare arms, steadying my shoulders and maintaining my footing while I place the soles of my mismatched shoes on her bedroom floor.

We linger for a moment as my eyes adjust to the darkened room, her palms gliding down to my biceps and her concerned expression coming more into focus with every passing second. When she steps away, it's a careful, slow-motion pullback so I don't collapse at her feet.

I keep myself upright and lean back against her wall. "Thanks. Sorry…I know it's late."

Ella moves around me and fetches her desk chair, dragging it over. "Sit." She then rushes to the nightstand and flips on the lava lamp until the room is blanketed in a purple-pink hue. "What the hell happened to you? Did you get into a fight?"

Taking a seat, I drop my head and link my fingers behind my neck. The gesture sends more pain rippling through me, but I shove it aside, fighting the waves. "My dad. He had a night terror…thought I was somebody else and tried to knock me out with a lamp."

"Oh my God." Ella rushes back toward me and immediately drops between my knees, resting her hands on both of my thighs like it's nothing. Like it's completely natural. "You can stay here as long as you need. Mom will be fine. I'll explain everything."

"No, I–I just need a night. Don't say anything to her. I'll leave in the morning," I rush the words out, too aware of her small hands squeezing my upper thighs. My belt is still loose, but she doesn't seem to care. "He's not a violent person. Something's not right. It's like he completely blacks out and doesn't even recognize me sometimes."

"Has he been to the doctor?"

I huff out what sounds like a laugh, though it's anything but. "No. I can't ever get him to go. McKay wants me to drop him off at some assisted living facility and never look back, but…I can't do that. He's my family."

She nods like she understands, and I think she does. Falling back on her haunches, she studies me, weighing her words. "You should go to the hospital. Get checked out. You probably have a concussion."

"Likely. But what am I supposed to say?" I counter, lifting my head and steepling my fingers to my chin. "My father assaulted me with a fucking table lamp? He'll get arrested. Spend the night in a jail cell. I can't do that to him."

"Max, you need to—"

"Did you go to the cops after Sandwell tossed you in the lake?" I throw back at her. We both know that some battles aren't worth pursuing.

The parallel registers in her eyes as she shakes her head. "No," she whispers.

Through the magenta haze, I watch her focus slip to my mouth, settling on the still-healing cut on my lower lip. Jagged and scabbing. She stares at it, putting two and two together.

"You gave Andy those black eyes, didn't you?"

I swallow. "He deserved worse."

Ella looks away, marinating in the implication before she glances back at me.

Then her hand lifts to my face. Tentative. Trembling slightly. I stiffen with anticipation and hold my breath as her fingertips inch closer and graze along my bottom lip.

So light. Barely there.

My eyelids flutter closed. I'm still holding my breath, my hands clenched to stones in my lap, when I feel her fingers travel upward and gently brush aside my blood-slick bangs. It feels intimate, in a way. There's a tenderness there, something unfamiliar yet strangely comforting and warm. Ella touches my temple, her careful fingers tracing the outline where my fresh wound pulses.

"I'll be right back."

The sound of her voice jars me back to reality. When I open my eyes, she's already on her feet, moving across the carpet to her bedroom door and slipping out silently. She returns moments later with an armful of bandages and a small white first-aid kit. The items clank against the quiet backdrop as she places them on the desk, revealing her haul of ointments, gauze, and a wet cloth.

My eyes track her through the dim light while she sifts through the pile and returns to her position in front of me, settling on her knees between my spread legs.

"I'm far from a nurse, but I used to tend to the horses on our farm," she tells me, reaching out to cleanse the wound with the moistened rag.

I wince at the contact but hold back a hiss.

"There was one horse, Phoenix, who loved getting into trouble. He was feisty, full of energy. He had this habit of scraping his flank against the barn wall and ended up with a nasty gash one day."

Ella is propped up on her knees, her porcelain face inches from mine. While her eyes are focused on the task, her mind is far away, lost in the memories of a Nashville horse ranch. My hands unclench as my body loosens, the warmth of her proximity melting my walls.

Or…maybe I have no walls.

Not with her.

She continues, her gaze flicking to me briefly, then returning to the cut. "I spent hours cleaning the wound. Dressing it. I put together this concoction of honey, fresh herbs, and bread to draw out any infection—a recipe Jonah gave me," she explains. "Phoenix hated it, at first. He didn't like people fussing over him. But eventually…he realized I was just trying to help. It's silly, but there was a time when that stubborn horse felt like my best friend." Soft melancholy infects her tone as she exchanges the burgundy rag for a tube of ointment. "The horses were more than animals to me. They were my family. When every god-awful human in that town shunned me, tormented me, ridiculed me, the horses were there. Phoenix never looked at me like I was a monster. I was just…Ella."

I'm silent and unmoving as I drink in her words, her past, her torn-away dreams. She dabs the ointment to my temple and the cream cools the sting of the wound, adding to the lift I feel at uncovering another piece of her. Swallowing, I keep my attention on her profile, memorizing the furrow of her brow as she concentrates, the bow of her lips as warm breaths beat against my skin.

Comfort.

That's what I'm feeling right now.

Sitting on this hard wooden chair without a shirt, bruised and battered, relying on this broken girl to fix me…

I feel remarkably at peace.

As she fiddles with a butterfly bandage, I inhale a breath and it's dangerously shaky on the way out. "You must really miss the horses."

She smiles. "I miss a lot of things."

"Do you think you'll ever ride again?"

"I hope so," she murmurs, applying the adhesive wings of the bandage to my skin with two steady hands. Moving in closer, she pauses to assess the series of tiny bridges across the cut. "I want to move to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan after graduation. Save up for an RV and hit the road. I don't need much. I'll find a quiet place to lay roots, and eventually I'll purchase a horse of my own. Maybe even my own horse farm. That would be my ultimate dream." When the butterfly bandage is secured, Ella covers it with a piece of gauze for protection. "And then I'll ride again."

"Why Michigan?" I wonder.

"I don't really know. I've just always wanted to live there," she says. "It feels like the home I've never had. There's this nostalgia about it, like I'm imagining memories that don't exist. Strange, huh?" Her eyes glimmer in the pink twinkle lights. "I want to kayak in the summer and build snowmen in the winter. Live off the land. Ride horses and catch rainbow trout. And on the night of my twenty-first birthday, I want to go to Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park and try to see the northern lights. It's a big dream of mine, and that park is supposed to be one of the best places to view them in the whole United States."

I wonder if she realizes she's smiling, a purely authentic tip to her lips as dreams and wishes unfurl behind her eyes. "When's your birthday?" I ask.

"November twentieth." Ella leans back, surveying her handiwork with an air of triumph. "There. All set."

My fingers rise to skim along the bandaged wound. I feel my own smile lifting as that pocket of peace swells and simmers, creating something almost palpable between us. A friendship in motion.

A dance.

Rhythm.

Our gazes tangle as I touch along the edges of the gauze. "Thanks."

"Of course." She clears her throat and stands, swiping her hands along her cotton shorts. "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"No way."

"Don't go all lionhearted on me. You have a hole in your head. Take the comfy mattress." As she moves toward her queen-sized bed and throws back the covers, she falters. Then she spins around to face me. "Wait. You shouldn't go to sleep if you have a concussion."

Damn.

Exhaustion bubbles to the surface as I stare at her fluffy blankets and collection of ten thousand pillows. "I'll be fine."

"No. I'll keep you awake." Her cheeks puff as she blows out a breath. "Let me find a shirt for you to wear. I still have a box of Jonah's clothes in my closet… I couldn't bear to part with some of his favorite T-shirts and hoodies." She turns to the closet. "They probably smell like a moldy attic, so that should keep you from getting too comfortable. Unless…" Faltering, she swivels back around. "Is it weird wearing his stuff?"

"No. It's fine."

This seems to appease her, and she steps into the closet.

While Ella rummages through boxes, I pull myself up from the chair and assess my equilibrium. I don't feel quite as woozy and I don't stagger sideways, so I take a few cautious steps over to the bed. Ella is bent over in the closet, her sleep shorts riding up her thighs.

It's then I stagger a little.

I tear my eyes away. "How do you plan on keeping me awake?" When I take a seat on the edge of her mattress, I wonder if that came across too suggestively. I'm sitting on her bed, half-naked, trying not to ogle her curves like a pervert.

Luckily, she's not privy to my intrusive thoughts, so she doesn't read into any innuendo as she lifts up and approaches me with a white T-shirt bunched in her hands. "You underestimate how annoying I can be."

A smile pulls. I take the shirt and glance down at the design across the front. "Winnie the Pooh?"

"Yeah," is all she says.

Ella looks away, pivoting to fiddle with her loose hair while I pull the shirt over my head. The shirt is a little tight around my biceps, but it'll do. The smell of musty cardboard box and a hint of sage fills my nose as I scoot across the mattress to the headboard, the box spring creaking.

Tentatively, Ella crawls in beside me.

My mind goes blank.

Cotton balls fill my mouth as I stretch out my legs and our hips bump together.

I'm eighteen, so it's not hard to fixate on the fact that I'm lying in a pretty girl's bed, even though it's not like that with Ella.

I feel like this is the part where awkward silence is about to fester between us. We're side by side, backs to the headboard, shoulders smashed together.

But I should know her better than that by now.

She immediately starts to sing. Off-key and extra terrible.

It's her own rendition of Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon," and I think she's really trying to be annoying. Voice cracking, lyrics jumbled, Ella leans over, crooning right into my ear, giving me the performance of a lifetime. Goose bumps pucker my skin as her breath tickles my earlobe with every bum note.

She snorts a laugh. "Is it working?"

My head tilts, our faces inches apart. I memorize her smile because it's such a rare, fleeting thing. All I say is, "I'm definitely awake."

"Good. I'm just getting started." When she forgets the rest of the lyrics, she moves on. "Did you know there's a species of fungus known as Ophiocordyceps unilateralis that infects ants, takes over their bodies, and turns them into zombie ants? You should Google it."

I shudder. "No, thanks."

"Google it, Max. The ant clamps onto plant foliage using its mandibles and then it dies. The fungus erupts from the back of its head, growing into a stalk that releases spores to infect the other ants below."

"Jesus. I'm never Googling that." She does it for me, tapping away at her cell phone and shoving horrifying pictures in my face. "What the hell, Ella?"

"I'm trying to keep you awake. You'll never want to go to sleep again."

"Correct. You've made sure of that," I grumble, swatting at the phone still waving in front of my eyes. "The irony is I'll be up every night with nothing to do, so I'll be forced to climb through your window. And, in turn, I'll be keeping you awake."

"You know what else is ironic?" she chirps."Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia means the fear of long words."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh, soaking up that revelation. Then a burst of laughter falls out of me and my head falls back to the headboard. I wince. "Where do you learn these things?"

She shrugs. "Never minimize the power of being a loner and a nerd."

"Well, no need to be a loner anymore. You have me."

"True. Oh, we could arm wrestle. I've been practicing with my left arm."

I chuckle. "Nah. I'm not bored."

"That's valid. You're far too annoyed to be bored right now." She does a little hand maneuver like a makeshift bow. "I'll be here all night."

My chest fills with gentle warmth as I inhale a deep breath, almost like I'm drinking in the air of a sun-kissed morning. I send her a sideways glance, my tone softening. "I'm really grateful for that."

I don't fall asleep that night but Ella does.

She drifts away, her head lolling onto my shoulder as the night presses on and the hours tick by. The only thing that moves is my heart. My muscles are stiff and tight, but my heartstrings are pliable, the beats skipping and alive. The sensation is as rare as her smile.

When the sun crests, I slip away from her, carefully inching myself off the mattress. She doesn't rouse. Doesn't wake. She looks like an angel as she sleeps, haloed by the rising sun. I climb back out the window the moment first blush spills into her bedroom, coloring her orange walls with splashes of gold.

Before I turn to leave, I peer through the glass, glancing at her dream-stolen face as she lies propped up against the headboard, her head tilted slightly to one side where my shoulder once was. The smallest smile paints her lips and I wonder where she is.

Fishing on the Great Lakes and cooking pink salmon over a firepit.

Watching a sunrise from the open fields of her very own horse farm.

Lying underneath the stars as the northern lights dance across the sky.

Riding her favorite horse.

She's galloping free with the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin, that smile beaming, burdenless, and bright.

One day, maybe…we can ride together.

Warmed by the thought, I traipse back home and sneak in through the patio door, feeling utterly restored.