Chapter 31 Ella

Chapter 31

Ella

Home sweet home.

My bedroom looks the same, not a thing out of place. Bookbinding items lay strewn across my desk and my bedsheets are rumpled from the last time I slept in them. Even my lava lamp burns bright, splashing a magenta glow across my cantaloupe walls.

I lean into the walker, my fingers curling around the grips.

"I'll give you some privacy," Mom says from behind me, her hand extending to squeeze my shoulder. "Take your time and relax. I'm going to make us a hot meal."

I stare blankly at a horse poster taped to my wall and imagine myself riding under a Michigan sky. "I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. You'll need your strength while you heal."

"I'm healing fine. Moving around, getting stronger every day." True enough. My muscle atrophy has dwindled, thanks to weeks of physical therapy. I even took a few steps without the walker this morning. "I'll eat when I'm hungry."

"Ella."

"What was it you were going to tell me at the hospital that first day when I woke up?" My teeth clench as I keep my gaze pinned across the room. I hear my mother's sharp intake of breath behind me before it ghosts along the back of my neck. "You haven't brought it up again. Sounded important."

A few quiet beats tick by. "Your grandmother is in hospice care. I didn't want to worry you."

"You already told me she was sick."

"Yes, but it's worse than I led you to believe. She doesn't have a lot of time left."

My heart twists. Grandma Shirley and I have never been all that close, but she's my family. And aside from me, she's all my mother has left. "I'm sorry. I wish I could visit her."

"I know, sweetheart," Mom says. "I'm going to make us some din—"

"But that's not it," I interrupt.

She pauses, sucking in that breath again. "What?"

My chest thrums with a tug of intuition. Mom is keeping something from me. I know it. She's upset about Grandma Shirley, sure, but that's not what she was going to tell me at the hospital that night. I turn around slowly, holding on to my walker for support. My mother stands there, one hand pressed to her collarbone as her eyes shimmer with unspoken words. "Tell me," I urge her.

Her eyes dip to the carpet.

"Mom…please."

"Fine," she relents, her throat bobbing through a swallow. "It's…about Kai's father. Ricardo."

I blink.

It takes a moment for the words to process because I wasn't expecting them. "What about him?"

"Well, we became closer over the past few months while you were in the hospital. We started dating," she confesses. "I didn't want to shake you up. I know it's strange. I haven't dated anyone since your father left and that was over a decade ago, so I hope you don't think any less of—"

"Mom," I cut her off. "I think it's awesome. Why would you be afraid to tell me that?"

Her lips thin as her head swings back and forth and her shoulders lift with a shrug. "I…don't really know. I'm sorry. I thought you'd be rattled and take it the wrong way."

Frowning, I shake my head back at her. "No way. I'm happy for you. Of course I am."

"Really?"

"Really." My eyes narrow as I simmer in the bombshell. "Brynn didn't tell me."

"I asked her not to. I thought it would be too much for you to process. You were so fragile, Ella. I wanted to be careful."

"Well, it's fine. It's more than fine," I say, feeling a prickle of joy for the first time in a while. Mom has been lonely. She deserves to settle down and enjoy romance again. "I'm happy for you."

Her smile tightens as she bobs her head quickly. "Thank you. I'll go whip up a casserole. You should eat something."

I go to protest, but she's already marching down the hallway toward the kitchen. Sighing, I close the door behind her and drink in the quiet. I stand in the center of the room, taking it all in, my eyes panning around the small space and its piles of organized clutter.

As my gaze catches with sullen green in the mirror across the way, I pause to look at my reflection. Truly look at her. She's an accurate representation of my insides, I decide. Sickly and sapped. Anemic. My pale skin is almost translucent with gray circles underlining my eyes. Once-shiny hair hangs in drab and stringy sections as it frames my face, thanks to the cheap toiletries provided by the hospital and rehabilitation center. Mom brought over my favorite conditioner, but it never left my backpack. Healthy hair didn't seem important at the time when every other part of me was running on empty. An ailing soul and bedridden heart.

The doctor told me that depression and mood swings were likely. A therapist came in to talk to me a few times, but what could I say? Last December I was on the precipice of falling in love with a boy, and that boy shares an eerily similar face with the person who attacked me and left me for dead.

No.

There is no healing there. There is only a gaping wound bleeding with irony.

While Brynn has been a notable source of warmth and solace, I've noticed that, somewhere along the way…I stopped adding the exclamation point to the end of her name. I slowly make my way over to bed and wrench a quilt from the mattress, carrying it to my mirror and draping it over the glass. I don't want to see the physical evidence of my decline.

There is no healing there, either.

Before I shuffle back to bed, I falter near the window. I glance outside at the dusky sky that's painted with the final remnants of a setting sun. Blood orange and dark pink. The colors spill over the roof of the Manning residence, making it look like it's aflame with otherworldly fire. It's haunting and beautiful at the same time. I savor the view for a few minutes before I tug the window up a crack, grateful it isn't sticking, and crawl into bed.

Mom knocks on my door an hour later, telling me dinner is ready, but I ignore her and feign sleep. Her footsteps retreat and everything is quiet again. Dusk transitions to nightfall but sleep never comes. The hours tick by in slow motion as I toss and turn, kicking off my bedsheets then drawing them back up. I roll onto my back, my side, trying to get comfortable. But comfort can't find me.

I wonder all night if he'll climb through my window.

He never does.

***

Day two brings another round of detectives to my doorstep. They'd filtered in and out of the hospital with notepads and stoic faces in the days following my revival from the coma, asking questions and interrogating me about the fall.

Names were thrown around.

I denied everything.

With no evidence aside from the mysterious bruise on my cheek, their hands are tied. They saunter out of my house thirty minutes later, no closer to the truth. I make my way out to the front porch, my walker leading the way, and watch the patrol cars zoom out of the gravel driveway.

As tires shoot up a cloud of rocks and grit, I squint into the sunlight. A lawn mower throttles from across the street as the dust settles. Max stands in the center of his lawn, yanking the rope-start multiple times to no avail. Sunshine washes down on him from above, making his skin glisten against a dark-navy tank. His biceps bulge with every rough tug on the rope-start.

He gives up after five tries, blowing out a breath and taking a step back from the mower. I watch as sweat trickles down the side of his neck and dampens the roots of his hair.

He stalks toward me a moment later.

I straighten on the porch, my grip on the walker tightening, but less for physical support. I watch Max cross the street that separates our properties, his eyes on the ground.

"Hi," I call out when he marches through the spring-green lawn.

I can't believe it's already spring.

It still feels like winter, in more ways than one.

"Hey." He stops in front of me, still nearly a foot taller than me despite my elevation on the porch step. "How are you?"

"Doing better. I feel a lot stronger." I lift my arm and flex my bicep, infusing lightness into my tone. "But you'd definitely win at arm wrestling right now."

Finally, his chin rises and our eyes catch, causing electricity to crackle. Eye contact alone has neon heat fizzing between us. "That's great, Ella."

I bite my lip and drop my arm. "Lawn-mower complications?"

"Apparently," he says, hands sliding into the pockets of his running shorts. "What did the cops say?"

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "They're still investigating my fall. I'm not sure why."

"Some guys at school have been under the microscope. Word got out that you were tossed in the lake last year." Max's eyes thin, reading me for a reaction. "You'd tell me if someone hurt you, right?"

"Of course."

Of course I'd tell you if some bully pushed me off a cliff. Unfortunately for both of us, the truth is far more devastating.

Forcing a flat smile, I glance over his shoulder. "What's McKay up to these days? I haven't seen him around." My tone is remarkably even. I don't even blink.

"He's been staying with one of his basketball buddies for the last few days. Said he needed to hunker down on a project they're working on for biology."

Convenient. "Gotcha."

"He sends his regards."

My chest strains as I hold in the laugh of contempt. My eyes burn, a prickle of angry-hot tears threatening. "That's nice of him."

"Yeah." He nods. "I wanted to give you space while you settled in," he continues, ruffling his slick hair. "I didn't want to smother you. I'm sure it feels like I have been."

"You don't smother me, Max. You…"

My words trail off.

I want to say that he grounds me, heals me, makes me feel like surviving that fall wasn't just a lucky blip. But I can't, because those feelings are at war with the paralyzing image of his twin brother's face. Every time I look at Max, I see the haunting resemblance, and it taints the warmth he once provided. My silence hangs there, heavy, pregnant with the unspoken truth. The conflict in me rages on, torn between the solace he offers and the echoes of the past.

"You mean a lot to me," I mutter, looking away. "I appreciate you visiting me every day. And for giving me all those flowers."

I notice his hands are void of orange roses today. I understand. He can only afford so many flowers. He can only afford so many heartbreaks when those flowers wither away on my bedside table and we're no closer to what we were.

"Ella…" he murmurs, stepping closer until the toes of his shoes are flush with the wooden porch step. One hand reaches out to cover mine as it curls tightly around the walker. "If I did something wrong…if I upset you somehow…you'd let me know?"

I watch his throat bob with turmoil as I unclench my fist. I twine my fingers with his, my balance teetering from his touch. Our hands lock together.

A perfect fit.

"You haven't done anything wrong," I whisper. "Not a single thing. Not ever."

Pain skates across his face, burrowing in every crease. His grip tightens on my hand as he nods, blinks, and lets go. "Text me any time, Sunny. I'll be here." He doesn't wait for me to respond before spinning around and walking away.

I stare at his retreating back and then watch as he fights with the lawnmower again. He yanks, jerks, snaps at the rope-start. Once, twice, twelve times, pulling harder with each attempt. He curses and growls as sweat pours down his face.

Then it starts.

A guttural purr slams into my ears.

Max glances over at me as the tension drains from him and he pushes it forward along the grass.

A tear slips out and I head back inside.

By nightfall I'm restless and antsy, the anxiety I've been harboring spilling into my dreamworld as I doze in and out of sleep. I dream about Phoenix, my childhood horse. My beloved, long-lost friend. We're riding through pastures of gold and green, the sun beating down on us as we gallop for miles. The air is warm. The clouds are marshmallow white. Everything is perfect as birds sing and a balmy wind has my hair taking flight.

And then McKay appears out of nowhere, blocking our path.

It all happens so fast.

With a flick of his wrist, he slashes my horse's throat with a knife, grinning evilly as blood splatters across his face. He kills Phoenix right in front of me. I scream, tipping over as the stallion bleeds out with a terrified neigh and topples sideways.

McKay's voice haunts me as I rocket toward the ground. "Stop running, Ella."

I shoot up in bed, drenched in cold sweat.

My heart is in my throat.

My pulse jackknifes.

Text me any time. I'll be here, Sunny.

My face crumples in a mess of tears as I scramble for my cell phone, nearly knocking it off my nightstand. I don't think as I pull up his name and type out a quick, frantic text message.

Me: Come over. Please.

There's no way he's awake. It's after 2:00 a.m.

I drag my fingers through my hair and slump forward, trying to steady my breathing. And to my surprise, my phone dings a few seconds later.

Max: Two minutes

I left my window open again, which isn't smart. McKay still lives across the street from me, despite the fact I haven't laid eyes on him since I've been back. I'm making it so easy for him to slip inside my bedroom and take care of his unfinished business. To bury his secret for good.

All I have is a baseball bat hiding underneath the bed, even though it won't do much if I'm ambushed in my sleep.

But it's not McKay who widens the window two minutes later. It's Max. He's wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted white tee as one leg slides into the room, followed by the other.

My back is to the bed frame, my knees drawn to my chest. I'm still shaky and out of sorts, the dream fresh in my mind. "Max," I say, voice torn.

He stands there for a few beats, staring at me through the wall of darkness, his arms hanging at his sides. His fingers clench and splay like he doesn't know if he should reach for me or not.

I make it easy for him. I lift my hand and hold it out, a silent plea for comfort.

Max crawls in my bed, those strong, safe arms wrapping around me and pulling me close.

Relief. Reprieve. Completion.

A ragged sigh spills out of both of us when I bury my face against his chest and breathe him in. Clean, earthy familiarity. A trace of smoke. Woods and pine. Max nuzzles his nose in my hair, his hand curling behind my head, gentle against my incision scar—a purplish zigzag across the back of my skull. A few inches of new hair growth sprout around it that he lightly skims with his fingers. He goes to speak, but I don't want to talk. There's nothing to say.

I lean up and find his mouth instead, severing his words.

Max goes still, freezing against me as our lips fuse together. I'm not hesitant or soft. My tongue thrusts into his open mouth and his breath hitches at the contact, startled. Uncertain.

Pulling back on a sharp exhale, he cradles my face between his hands and frowns. "Ella…"

No talking.

No words.

My eyes are wild as they skim over his beautiful, staggered face.

I kiss him again.

I lift my leg and curl it around his waist, yanking him fully against me as my tongue plunders his mouth and we both groan. His tongue slides against mine, hesitation dissolving, the kiss turning feral and all-consuming. His hands glide to my neck, thumbs pressed to my jaw as he tugs it down and opens me wider. Our tongues become a desperate tangle. A hungry, wet dance. Moans bleed together as our faces slant, searching for more places we can reach and taste. It's been too long. Months without his kisses have left me starved.

I reach down and tug my shorts off my hips, my underwear following. Without breaking the kiss, I snatch one of his hands and drag it lower until his palm is pressed between my thighs. His tongue stops moving as he shudders on a groan, paralyzed.

I'm soaking wet.

His fingers disappear inside me, plunging deep and fast, the sound of my need a slippery echo in the quiet room.

But it's not enough. I need more.

"Condom," I whisper breathlessly, pulling away from his thoroughly kissed lips.

Max drags his fingers out of me, rubbing me until I jerk forward. "I didn't bring any," he says.

My eyes close and my mouth hangs open on a silent moan as I thrust against his hand. "Doesn't matter. I just need you."

So reckless. So heedlessly reckless.

"Ella." His fingers keep moving, working me into a frenzy as his forehead dips to mine. "Are you sure?"

"I…" My body is sure. It's so damn sure. But my falter hangs heavily between us and his fingers stop moving.

"Ella," he repeats, going still, cupping me gently down below. "I need you to be sure."

"Don't stop," I mutter, my hands sinking in his hair.

"Look at me."

My eyes remain closed. I can't. I can't seem to open them.

His hand disappears from between my legs and I hear him sigh as he pulls back. Blindly, I reach for him, tugging him back to me and burying my face against his collar. "You won't hurt me."

"That's not the only thing I'm worried about," he replies, pressing a kiss to my temple.

Tears bloom behind my closed eyelids as I hold on to him as tightly as my weakened muscles will allow. "Please," I whisper. "I need you."

His heart pounds against mine. His hands snake around me, cupping my bare bottom, then trailing underneath the hem of my tank top.

Warm, steady breaths beat against my hair.

"Fuck." And then he's sliding down my body, gently moving me onto my back as he settles between my legs and parts my knees. Heartbeats leap up my throat. My hands grip handfuls of his hair as he slings his arms underneath my thighs to hold me steady before he lowers his head.

I cry out when his tongue thrusts inside me.

"Oh God… Max ." My whole body trembles, my back arching off the mattress on instinct. Any pain or resistance I might feel peters out, overridden by his mouth devouring me. His fingertips gouge my thighs. My hands fist his hair with a violent squeeze. If I'm hurting him, he doesn't notice. Doesn't care.

I'm already close. Achy, needy, full of pent-up feelings.

My thighs clamp the sides of his face, tremors rippling through me, overtaking me one tongue flick at a time. His mouth latches onto me and he sucks hard as two fingers slide inside me.

He pumps in and out. Over and over.

Rhythm.

The perfect rhythm, a recipe for detonation.

His mouth was made for me. It knows what I need. He knows what I crave and he's relentless in bringing me over the edge.

It's heartbreaking how this boy is everything I could ever want and more, and yet…I can hardly look at him.

I glance down, my shorts and underwear dangling off one ankle. I wrap my legs around his upper back and burrow my nails in his scalp, hanging on for dear life. Hanging on to the moment, the feeling, the stopped measure of time when nothing else matters. Everything falls away but him. It's just us…only Max and me.

I buck up against his face as tingles bloom and climb. A raspy cry tears through me. He quickly lifts his hand to cover my mouth, to silence my scream that could wake the dead, and I bite down when two fingers slip inside my mouth.

The orgasm slams into me, a lightning bolt shooting across a black sky. I want to wail, shriek, sob, and laugh. The feeling is electrifying, freeing, soul-shattering. I'm flying…

I'm falling.

Tree branches tear at my skin. Cold wind snaps into my lungs. Fireworks burst from above as McKay stares down at me, watching, waiting, begging for me to die.

The bliss ebbs and terror sneaks in. I deflate on the mattress, becoming a sagging, wretched heap of defeat.

Max doesn't notice at first as he slowly works his way up my body, pausing to graze his fingertips along the scar on my lower abdomen, left behind from my pelvis fracture surgery. It's long, curved, and pink as it dips toward my bikini line.

Bending, he presses a soft kiss to the marred skin, only pausing when he feels me shaking. His lips fall away from me as he lifts his head and stares up at the expanse of my shivering body while my silent sobs mangle the intimate moment.

The pleasure is gone, replaced by grief-soaked memories.

"Sunny Girl," he murmurs on a tortured breath, army crawling the rest of the way up until we're face-to-face. "Ella…God. Please don't cry. You're safe. I'm here."

I wrap my arms around his neck and haul him to me, shoving his face to the curve of my neck and twining my legs around his waist. Minutes tick by in silence and my tears dry out, my pain retreating into its dark, bleak hole, having sapped me of strength like a parasite draining its host.

The moment is over. Time presses on and a single word hovers on the tip of my tongue.

Stay.

I want to say it, scream it, brand it on his heart.

Stay, stay, stay.

But all I muster is the gravest lie. "Go."

Max freezes on top of me, a breath catching in his throat. It whispers like a ghostly chill along my neck when he lets it back out.

He pulls up, stares down at me.

My lip wobbles as I tell him, "You should go." I can see a baffled frown twist, illuminated by the soft moonlight seeping into the room.

He swallows. "You don't want me to stay?"

"Mom will be checking on me. It's not smart."

"Ella, I don't care—"

"Thank you," I blurt out. The words sound awful and grating. Selfish. Like he provided me with a service and now I'm sending him on his way. "I'm sorry. I just…I think I should try to sleep now. I'll text you tomorrow."

Head falling, chin lowering to his chest, he blows out another hard breath, stewing in my dismissal. Then he nods and pulls away from me. "Yeah," he mutters. "Sure."

Nothing else is said as he moves off the mattress and pads across the floor to my window. He hesitates briefly, just for a second, swiping a hand through his hair before he climbs out the window and fades into the darkness.

The routine continues on for the next two nights.

Max slips into my bedroom through the open window after midnight and takes me apart with his tongue and his fingers. Then I vibrate with tears in the breadth of his arms as he strokes my hair, shushes my demons, and tells me it will be okay. I let him hold me for a few minutes, savoring his touch. His warmth. His love. Reveling in the few precious seconds I allow us.

But the seconds pass and I send him away under the guise that my mother will discover him in my bed come sunrise. He knows that's not the reason. He doesn't know what the real reason is, but he knows it's not that.

Max can't stay because I'm afraid of the words that will tumble from my lips.

I'm terrified of the truth that will escape my mouth when I fall into grisly nightmares. I fear that when I startle awake in the night, I'll think he's someone else.

And I'll be scared of him.

I never want to be scared of him.

So I don't let him stay.

I make him leave. I push him away, even though it breaks us both.

And I count down the painful minutes until he returns.