Chapter 38 Ella

Chapter 38

Ella

A month rolls by and spring melts into hot summer.

I stay with Brynn most days, sleeping in her spare bedroom. Sometimes I find my way to her room at night and crawl in bed with her, loneliness clawing at me, nightmares soiling my dreams.

She never makes me leave. She just holds my hand and we cry together.

Ricardo moved in with my mother last week, so I don't feel too guilty for needing space. Living across the street from Max was too painful. Living a few yards away from a murder scene was too much for my heart to take when it hadn't fully healed in the first place.

I'm sitting at the Fishers' black eclectic dining room table on a balmy June evening, stabbing my fork into a heap of shepherd's pie. It resembles brown mush, but the few bites I've managed to swallow down taste great. Way better than Mom's casseroles.

Pete eyes me across the table. "We added extra carrots just for you," he says.

My stomach clenches.

My potted crayon is sitting on the nightstand in the guest room, a constant reminder of everything I've lost. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"You should talk to him, Ella-Bella," Matty chimes in.

I inhale sharply, my fork clattering to my plate.

My jaw rolls, my hands shaking as they wring together in my lap.

"Daddio," Brynn interrupts, tenderly bumping her knee to mine. "It's complicated."

"True. It's more complicated than a Rubik's Cube in the dark." Matty pops a green bean in his mouth. "But it's not impossible. I've done it. Not this, of course—heavens above, not this. I meant the Rubik's Cube. The evidence is proudly displayed above our bed in a glass case."

A smile hints, despite myself. "I tried…but he said he needed space," I murmur. "And time."

Brynn rubs my back with affection. "I think we all need time," she says, voice cracking on the words. "I still can't believe he's gone. I can't believe he was here and now he's gone, and not only is he gone, but we're left with the horrible truth of what he did before he left." Her hand falls away from me. "I feel like I'm grieving the loss of him in multiple ways. McKay had his faults, but I never thought he'd… God, I never—"

"I know," I say.

"And Max…I can't even imagine how he's processing all this." Tears track down her cheeks as she stabs her mashed potatoes with a fork.

I saw Max at the funeral.

Well, it was more of a memorial, per se. McKay's body hasn't been released from evidence yet, so the actual funeral is to be determined. The thought alone has my insides curling and shriveling.

Max was emotionless.

Numb.

His father was a wreck, sobbing through the entire ceremony.

The sun felt extra warm and bright that day, which made everything so much worse. I ran over to Max before he left, winding my fingers around his elbow and stopping his retreat. Pain skated across his face when our eyes met. I wondered if he saw Jonah when he looked at me, just like I saw McKay when I looked at him. I couldn't fault him for that.

I still can't.

"Max…please," I pleaded in a raspy whisper, unable to let go of his elbow. "I'm so sorry. So unbelievably sorry."

He glanced at the contact, swallowed, then looked back at me. "Not your fault," he said, tone even. It was like the pain had rendered him passionless. "I'm sorry, too."

"Maybe we can spend some time together," I tried. "To talk."

"Yeah…one day," he replied. "Not today."

I nodded through the tears. "I understand."

Max didn't move away as we held eye contact, my grip on his arm tightening. He looked down at the grass for a beat before lifting only his eyes to me. "Ella…I know you're a victim, too. Brynn told me what happened at the bluffs. What my brother did to you." His eyes finally shimmered with crystalline sadness as his voice broke. "I'm trying…to process everything. I'm struggling…"

"I know," I choked out. "I know."

"I just need some space. Time. I want to talk to you, I do, but I don't even have the words…"

I let go of his elbow, inched up, and threw my arms around his neck. "I know, Max. I'm sorry for everything. I should have told you the truth."

"I get why you didn't," he breathed into my hair.

"Please don't hate me."

"I could never hate you."

We held each other until people trickled from the outdoor ceremony in black dresses, black suits, with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses.

Max pulled back first, unraveling my arms from around his neck, a choking sound escaping his throat. "I should go," he whispered. "But…I have something for you."

I blinked, sniffled, and swiped at my tears.

Then I watched as he stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note.

"I wrote this for you the morning of…" His voice trailed off, his tearstains glinting in the sun. "I wrote this for you."

I reached for the note, nodding as my heart pounded and my chest squeezed. "Thank you."

With one last tortured look, he glanced down at his feet, then stalked off, meeting his father in the parking lot.

I stared at their truck as it pulled away and disappeared down the street, the note shaking in my fist. Heaving in a breath, I opened it and skimmed over the familiar handwriting.

How to Catch the Sun

1. Strategy? Still formulating, but persistence is key. I'll get back to you on that.

2. Once I figure it out, I'm never going to let it go. I'll bask in that glow, let it warm me, fill me up, and hell, I'll even let it burn me. A small price to pay for eternal sunshine.

3. You're my perpetual horizon, Sunny. I'll never stop chasing your light.

This wasn't the structured list you anticipated. My muse feels distant. But then, so do you.

Come back to me.

—Max

I collapsed in the grass with the note pressed to my chest, my tears spilling out and dampening the paper.

Now it's folded up, resting underneath the white stone, right beside the potted crayon. It's all I have left of him right now: his beautiful words, a precious stone, and a little terra-cotta pot.

I glance up at the two Fisher men, the mood heavy and tense. The nice thing about the Fisher family is that tense moments never last long, always severed by a joke, a silly dance move, music, or words of love.

"Can I give you a bit of advice?" Matty asks, setting down his fork and folding his arms as he presses forward on the table.

"It'll be bog-standard at best," Pete adds with a smirk.

"You're a hog," Matty snaps.

" Bog , dear husband. I said bog ."

"Nobody knows what that means. What does that even mean?" His eyes pan around the table, but we all shrug.

Screw the advice. I'm already smiling.

" Anyway ," Matty continues, glaring kindly at his husband before swiveling back to me. "My bog-riddled advice is this: love comes first."

I blink at him, the words settling in my heart.

"Whenever this bonehead pisses me off, I repeat that, over and over."

"Thanks," Pete grumbles.

He grins. "But in all seriousness, Ella-Bella—remember that. Love comes first . You're grieving because love happened. You're bleeding because love sank its nasty, beautiful claws in you. You're crying because love filled you up and now it has nowhere to go." A solemn quiet washes over the table as he looks me in the eyes and his smile softens. "Love always hurts, honey. That's the price we pay to experience it. Sometimes that hurt is on a smaller scale, and sometimes it's big enough to move mountains. Either way, it hurts. You have to think of it as a cruel gift. Nothing good in life is ever free. There are always sacrifices and tough blows. And even if we never fully recover from those blows, we can appreciate the love while it was still sweet and untainted. After all, it was there first. It's the conduit for every raw, passionate, ugly heartache we experience in this life."

I don't even notice that Brynn's hand is linked with mine under the table, our fingers entwined, our palms gripping hard. I glance at her and see that she's crying. Silent tears stream down her face.

And I realize…I am, too.

I nod as I force a broken smile, sniffling, my lips trembling.

I think back to a summer afternoon on a swing set. The clouds looked like spools of cotton candy. A funny-looking caterpillar awaited transformation into a glorious butterfly. Sunshine beat down like a warm hug.

And at the center of it all, there was a boy.

A boy with dimples, with affection in his cloudless blue eyes and an orange flower tucked inside his hand.

"It's bright like the sun. And the sun is bright like you."

Yes.

Love came first.

Young, sweet, beautiful love.

Life goes on, life throws frost in your face, but it doesn't ever dull the warmth of that first spark.

Pete's eyes gleam with tears as he slings an arm around Matty's shoulders and tugs him close. "You can't go back, darling," he tells me. "You can't change anything. There's no changing the past. If you believe you can, you'll never move forward."

"So," Matty adds, "there's only one thing left to do."

"What's that?" I croak, swiping at my cheeks.

He reaches over the table, takes my hand in his, and squeezes. "Heal."