Chapter 21 Max

Chapter 21

Max

I towel off my shower-damp hair as I make my way out of the dingy bathroom off the hallway. Tools are scattered at my feet. Tarps are laid out, as if the dirty subfloor needs protection. The house smells like the meshing of sawdust and despair, but there's a flickering of renewed optimism hovering between these barren walls that feels like a subtle but striking parallel to my relationship with Ella. Chevy helped me work late into the night and I have no clue how I'll ever manage to repay him. On the flip side, the only trace of McKay I've witnessed over the past few days has been around school, which is no surprise. I had a feeling he'd make himself unavailable to help with the reno despite his half-hearted agreement over leftovers last week.

After throwing on a clean button-down and my only pair of dress pants, which I wore to the Fall Fling, I tousle my hair in the mirror with some gel and dab a bit of hand-me-down cologne on my neck and wrists.

There's a fresh box of condoms sitting on my nightstand.

It's not like I'm jumping to conclusions or anything, but based on my conversation with Ella yesterday and the electricity that swam between us at school earlier, it's better to be prepared.

Just in case.

At five thirty, I snatch up my wallet and prepare to head over to Ella's house to pick her up for our dinner date. I made a reservation at an Italian restaurant downtown. One of my aunts who lives a few towns over gave me a gift card to Roma for my birthday this past September, so it's the perfect time to use it.

I call out to my father before traipsing down the hall. "I'm going out, Dad. I might be home late."

Rustling sounds ensue. "Wait, wait…hold up, Maxwell."

Sighing, I pause in front of his bedroom door. A few seconds pass and the door swings open, revealing a sight I never expected to see.

My heart flounders. My eyes flare with surprise.

My father stands before me in a dark-gray suit with freshly styled hair.

He clears his throat and straightens out his emerald tie, a timid smile tipping his mouth. "Well?" he prompts, holding his arms out at his sides. "How do I look?"

I scratch my head then rub a hand down my face. "Um…you look great, Dad. Why are you dressed up?"

"For dinner tonight, of course. Your girlfriend is coming over for brisket."

"I…" I don't even know what to say. Not only had I assumed he instantly forgot about the dinner invitation, but I also figured he'd be passed out on sleeping pills or booze. And never in a million years did I expect to see him in a dress suit. My father hasn't worn anything other than ill-fitted jeans and grimy T-shirts in years. "Dad, I–I canceled the dinner. We don't have any brisket."

"Hmm." His eyes narrow. "I was wondering where you were running off to. Well, no matter. We can make something else. The pantry is stocked with pasta and jarred sauces. I'll whip it up."

"We don't have a pantry. We have a shelf of expired canned food and I haven't restocked the fridge yet. There's nothing." My shock is trumped by terror because he's serious. But he can't be serious. I'll die of embarrassment if Ella comes over here and eats our "limited edition" cans of mystery meat. "We can reschedule. I'll pick up some fresh groceries tomorrow."

"Nonsense." He swoops past me, smelling like McKay's cologne. "We'll figure it out. She'll be here at six o'clock, yes?"

"No, I—"

There's a knock at the front door.

Kill me now.

I blanch, my skin starting to sweat.

"Oh, she's early. That's a shining characteristic, Max. Everyone is late these days with no consideration for others." Smiling, he hobbles to the front of the house, his aluminum cane clapping along the subfloor.

I hop over power tools and buzz saws, racing ahead of him to get rid of Ella. It must be Ella. Clearly, she misheard me and thought we were meeting here.

When I reach the small foyer, I yank open the door and come face-to-face with pure beauty.

Words jumble in my throat, catching on my stalled breaths. "Hey."

Ella is a stunner in a little black dress, her hair styled in ribbons of dark-red curls that flow over both shoulders. And in her hands is a foil-wrapped dish. She holds it up high. "I brought the brisket."

She brought the brisket.

She brought the brisket.

I'm not sure whether to yell at her or vomit out a love confession. I settle for a few slow blinks, my eyes panning from the dish in her hands to her face. She's wearing a touch of makeup, her lips ruby red and her eyelids painted with silvery shadow. Long, inky lashes flutter back at me as her smile lifts, looking brighter. "You…brought brisket," I repeat dazedly.

She nods. "I did. You said you didn't have an oven."

"We hardly have a suitable table to eat at. It's a folding table with garage-sale chairs."

"I'm adaptable."

You're perfect.

That's what I want to say, but my father makes his way over to the open door and pokes his head around me.

"Aren't you lovely?" he says with an air of magic in his tone. "Max, look at her. She's beautiful."

Dad latches onto my shoulder with a proud squeeze. I finally make a coughing sound and take a step back, knowing I have no choice but to let her inside. "Yeah, she is."

Ella spears me with a smile and passes through the threshold, her gaze dancing around the messy living area. Normally, I try my best to keep things clean and uncluttered in my limited free time, but we just started this reno, so the space is worse than it's ever been. There's dust and Sheetrock everywhere. There's a blue tarp over the couch because it's the one piece of decent furniture we own and I didn't want it to get ruined by paint and falling debris.

Only one word can sum up how I'm feeling right now as this gorgeous girl I'm quickly falling for assesses my current living conditions.

Mortified.

But her smile doesn't waver as she glances around and then peers back over at me. "Thanks for having me over."

I sigh through a weak glare. "Totally."

Dad nods at the adjoining kitchen. "Let's get the table set up. I'm starved. I can't remember the last time I had a nice hot helping of brisket. Did you make this yourself?" he asks Ella.

"Yes," she says. "Let's just say my mother won't be auditioning for MasterChef anytime soon."

"Impressive."

It is impressive. I'm not sure what's more impressive—Ella cooking us brisket, or the fact that my father is coherent, sober, and wearing a full-on suit. My emotions are all over the place. Embarrassment warms my skin, but seeing my father like this warms my heart. And seeing Ella in a pretty dress with curls in her hair and a smile on her face warms my whole damn soul.

She trots over to the folding table in clunky heels and sets down the foiled dish. "Do we need plates or silverware? I'm happy to run back home for anything."

"We're good." I make my way to a hall closet to grab an old tablecloth before pulling Mom's vintage dishware out of a cupboard. There's leftover spaghetti we can warm up for a side. We also have one of those premade salad kits and a jar of French dressing. And a half-full jug of orange juice.

It'll have to do.

Chair legs squeak against the raw underfloor when my father pulls a chair out for Ella. I monitor them carefully as I move from counter to fridge to cupboard.

"You and my son are high school sweethearts, yes?" Dad probes, making a slow descent down to his own chair across the table from her. He leans his cane against the plastic, floral-patterned tablecloth. "Met my wife back in sophomore year of high school. Got her roses every single day until graduation. I know you'll make my son very happy."

Ella flusters, toying with a long curl. "Oh, I don't…" She seems to catch herself, clear her throat, and flicks her eyes to me. "Thank you. You've raised a great son, Mr. Manning."

I've raised myself for the last six years, but I don't say that. Plopping a lump of spaghetti into a cast-iron pan, I crank on the wood-burning stove.

"Call me Chuck," Dad reminds her. "Hey, do you play Scrabble?"

"Oh, um, not really. I played a few times with my brother years back," Ella responds.

"Yeah? I haven't seen him around."

"He…relocated. He's four years older than me."

"Off seeing the world, I bet. That's great. Smart." He nods. "Is he a romantic like you?"

Groaning, I pace over to the table and set down three plates, then unwrap the brisket from the tinfoil. "Dad," I warn. His weird subject changes and personal questions are almost as off-putting as this day-old spaghetti I'm reheating.

Ella shakes her head, sending me a tiny smile. "It's fine. And I'm not really a romantic, if I'm being honest. I'm kind of the opposite."

"Nonsense." Dad swipes a hand through the air like he's slicing her words to smithereens. "You've got a lot of love in your eyes. A lot of it, indeed. You just need to pull it out of you and share it with the world. It's trapped right now. Romanticize your own life."

I'm about to interject again, but Ella holds her hand up, sensing my interference. She stares at my father with a glassy look in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said, honey. Romanticize your life. Don't live every day like it's your last. Live every day like it's your first. Lasts are tragic. Firsts are exciting and full of celebration. Look at every sunrise like it's the first time you've ever seen colors like that before. Listen to your favorite song like you've never heard such a precious melody. If you make every day a celebration, you'll never get bored in your own story."

I pause on my trek back to the stove. My father's words sweep through me like a tidal wave of warmth. I haven't heard him make so much goddamn sense in years, and the notion nearly brings me to my knees. When I glance at Ella, she's gazing at him with an expression that reflects my own. Her irises glitter with tears; her lips tip up with soft wonder.

What's gotten into him?

Ella inhales a breath. "That's…very wise. Thank you."

"I have my moments." Dad reaches for a serving fork and digs into the brisket. "Let's eat."

We eat.

We laugh.

We play Scrabble until the sun sets and Ella's chair scoots closer to mine, her bare leg flush against my pant leg. When I reach down to grasp her hand, she interlocks our fingers and we stay like that until the fire from the stove flickers to embers and starlight seeps through the window. It's not the first time we've held hands, but I pretend that it is.

It feels like it is.

As the night presses on, I reach over to a dusty shelf and snag the book lying there, the one I planned to give to Ella at dinner. "Hey. I have something for you," I say, tossing it to her. She catches it. "Have you read this one?"

To Kill a Mockingbird .

"Of course," she replies.

Grinning, I watch her glance down at her lap and flip through the old copy of the book, searching for something she knows is hidden inside. When she finds it, she pauses with her head bowed, her orange-tipped fingers curling around the edges.

Ella looks up at me, her smile turning radiant as it catches the light.

"You rarely win, but sometimes you do."

We play one more game of Scrabble.

We're all seated together, having a normal conversation, making jokes and playing board games after devouring the best brisket ever made, as the book sits beside us like a quiet reminder.

And somehow, even with the broken-down walls, plastic tarps, and unpainted plaster…

Ella makes this house finally feel like a home.