Chapter 5 Ella

Chapter 5

Ella

September rolls by, and I'm grateful the heat wave has passed as I trudge through dry dirt and crisp leaves, making my way to a little clearing partially hidden from the walkable trails. A canopy of sun-kissed branches and greenery blocks out most of the sunlight, providing an added sense of seclusion to the small hideaway I remember discovering with Max years ago.

I toss my backpack into a pile of brushwood and take a seat on a rustic-looking bench. It appears to be hand-carved, which causes my heart to skip. I remember him telling me on that final day that he wanted to build us a bench.

No.

Highly doubtful. I was gone by sunset and he never saw me again.

With my luck, this is probably the meeting place for some weird cult, where they do rituals involving baby goats and virgin blood.

I sift through my book bag and pull out a spiral-bound notebook and a black pen. Mom went to work today. She scored a job as a receptionist at Delores' Hair Salon and will be working five days a week until something better comes along. The owner's name is actually Anne, so I'm still scratching my head at the business moniker. Regardless, Anne seems nice and I can appreciate a good mystery.

Lifting my ankles to a cross-legged position on the bench, I flip open my notebook and land on a blank page. My ballpoint pen glides across the lined paper in little swoops as I begin to write.

Dear Jonah,

I hate you.

I draw a line through the first sentence and try again, lowering my pen right underneath those three words and starting over.

Sorry. That was a bleak opening, even though it's true sometimes. There are days I hate you and there are days I love you. Then there are days when I feel both of those things at the same time. Those are the hardest days. Those are the days I scream into my pillow until my vocal cords are swollen and raw, and I lash out at Mom, and I refuse to eat because eating makes my stomach hurt even more than it normally does.

Anyway, this is depressing, so I'll stop writing now.

I just wanted you to know that I really do love you. I love you so much.

And that's what makes me hate you.

Ella

This is beyond emo.

I rip out the page and crumple it into a tight ball, stuffing it into my open book bag. Maybe I should try again. I can lie this time. I can tell him that life is going really well and we're doing okay without him. People like liars. People enjoy fairy tales because they always end with a satisfying conclusion, tied up in a little pink bow with a happily-ever-after. I'm not sure why the bow is pink, but pink is a happy color. Seems fitting.

I forgo my black pen and exchange it for a hot-pink pen.

This is better. I will lie to him with pink ink and fairy-tale words.

I'm about to start another letter when I hear footsteps approaching from the bordering trail. Branches crunch under swiftly moving feet. Sticks and loose leaves rustle as the footfalls inch closer. I hold my breath. A vision of a cloaked figure with a dagger glinting in the sunlight flashes across my mind. The dagger has the word virgin etched into the blade, and a helpless goat bleats in the far-off distance.

This is it; I'm a goner.

The sunshade of green foliage is pulled back, revealing the intruder.

I freeze.

I blink up at the familiar face as he blinks down at me. We stare at each other. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

Max.

Max Manning towers before me in faded blue jeans and a damp T-shirt stuck to his chest. His hair is a slow-drying mess of dark waves over his eyes, and his white sneakers are worn and smudged with dirt.

More importantly, he looks furious. My existence has provoked him.

Sighing, I glance back down at my barren note page and pretend he's not there. If I avoid things long enough, they tend to go away. This worked against me that one time Mom bought me a betta fish, but generally, the results are favorable.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, stepping farther into the clearing.

It doesn't seem to be working this time. "Taking a bath." I start doodling at the top of the page, drawing a dubious picture of a sun.

Silence infects the space between us, but his presence is loud and commanding. I can almost see the flare of his nostrils and the twitch of his eye, even though my gaze is fixed on the sun design that has somehow morphed into a flower. I turn the sunrays into petals and add a long stem.

Finally, he says, "This is my spot."

"I don't see your name written anywhere."

"You're sitting on it."

Frowning, I inch my butt off the bench and peer down at the mahogany wood, narrowing my eyes at the jagged little letters carved on the top.

MANNING, 2013

Well then.

Resituating on the bench, I fill my cheeks with air and let out a breath. "Sorry, I didn't think to check for ownership. Do you have the official deed?"

"I'm serious. I come here when I want to be alone."

"You can still be alone."

I spare him a glance, noting the way he folds his arms across his chest as a strand of brown hair curls over his left eyebrow like a corkscrew. His cheeks are flushed from the Saturday sun, adding more color to his already bronzed skin, and his arms are well defined, the muscles twitching with suppressed wrath. They're nice arms. If I had a thing for arms, I'd consider his top tier.

And I understand why girls fall all over themselves when he sweeps through the hallways, leaving them in a cloud of mint, pine, and shunned infatuation. I have twenty-twenty vision. Max Manning is good-looking, a ten across the board. If I ran purely on hormones, I could become bewitched. Thankfully, I run on trauma, black coffee, and sarcasm, so his compelling man-body and enigmatic blue eyes are wasted on me.

Max's gaze flits around the scenic space before settling back on me. "I can't be alone if you're here. I'm sure there are plenty of other places you can mope."

Feigning outrage, I let out a huff and hold up three fingers. "First of all, you can absolutely be alone. We can be alone together. Loneliness is nothing but a state of mind." I lower my index finger. "Secondly, I wasn't moping. I was brooding." I lower my ring finger, leaving only my middle finger pointed toward the cloudless sky.

I don't verbalize the third point because I'm already making it.

Slanting his eyes at me, Max rolls his jaw, scratches the back of his neck, then proceeds to plop down against a thickly trunked tree. "Fine."

This surprises me. I definitely expected him to scram.

He draws his knees up to his chest and drops the crown of his head to the deep-brown bark. Our eyes snag for a split second before I clear my throat and avert my attention back to the blank pages of my notebook.

I chew on the end of the pen, brainstorming my letter. My letter of lies.

Perhaps I should tell Jonah I found a boyfriend here in Juniper Falls—a boy who lives in the forest and swings from vines, who eats fresh berries from fertile bushes and drinks water from streams. My brother was always eager for me to fall in love and to experience that soul-aching tug that happens when heartstrings tangle and knot. If he wanted anything for me, it would be that.

It would be love.

Removing the pen from between my teeth, I begin to scribble down my fiction story.

Dear Jonah,

Today I fell in love with a boy who

"Question for you."

Max's voice tears through my myth-in-the-making before I can fully develop the plot. Releasing a sigh, I flick my pen against the notepad. "Sure."

"What's the difference between moping and brooding?"

Our eyes meet again. "Brooding is dark and mysterious, where moping makes me think of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh," I explain, as if this is a tried-and-true fact. "Nobody wants to be Eeyore."

I watch his expression shift from curiosity to perplexity. In my experience, aversion usually follows, but if that's what he's feeling, he hides it well. All he does is nod like he finds the answer acceptable. This is the part where I should go back to conjuring up silly daydreams for Jonah, but, for some reason, the silence is feeling heavier than normal. It's making me itchy, so I keep the conversation going. "You know, my mother has encouraged me to make friends," I announce, observing the way his head tilts and his foot taps at the tall grass. "Want to be friends again?"

"No."

I am unfazed by his rejection.

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that." I return my attention to the notebook. "I'll tell her I tried." He doesn't say anything, but I sense his eyes on me for a solid minute, so I eventually glance back up as I smear a glob of ink into the pad of my thumb. "What?"

"You didn't try very hard."

He's not smiling, per se, but his tone of voice has my own lips twitching as if they want to. I don't, though— nope . Slapping the notebook shut, I purse my lips together to keep them from doing something unreasonable. "Did you want me to try harder?"

He shrugs as he drags the sole of his sneaker along a patch of loose dirt. "I'll admit, I'm curious."

A challenge.

I can't back down now.

Blinking slowly, I study him sitting propped up against the mature basswood tree across from me. He breaks eye contact to stare out at the lake while the sun glimmers down on the water and lights it up like diamonds. "I guess I could fill you in on all of my good qualities," I tell him. "There aren't many, but there might be enough to lure you into some kind of makeshift friendship."

"Oh yeah?" He's still focused on the glittery water.

"Maybe." With a dramatic clear of my throat, I attempt to enchant him. "I have very few hobbies, so I'm readily available for friendship dates. I'm also excellent at arm wrestling, for whenever boredom strikes. When I was six, I planted my orange crayons in the garden, thinking they'd grow into carrots. That's not a quality, by the way…just a random fact you didn't ask for." I slide my tongue along my bottom lip as his attention falls back to me, his brows pinched together with what looks like concern. "Oh, and I'm shockingly good at catching things. All things. Especially when their trajectory is abrupt and terrifying. It comes in handy if you're ever about to drop your casserole dish or if you're in need of a goalkeeper."

He blinks at me with a deadpan expression as a symphony of crickets serenades us from the shrubs.

Then it happens so fast.

His hand flies up and hurls a small stone in my direction before another meaningless word can pass through my lips.

Just as quickly, my own hand raises with the suddenness of a trap-door spider lunging for its prey. I catch the stone with a thwack , my palm encompassing the rock.

It's pure instinct.

Max isn't slow-clapping, but he might as well be. "Nice reflexes," he says, his eyes appearing two shades darker when the sun sneaks behind the clouds. "I'm impressed."

"Shit." I sigh. "I took it too far. Now you're in love."

A beat.

A breath.

And then his lips curl up, revealing a pair of deep-set dimples I haven't seen in ten years.

Oh my God —he's actually smiling and it feels contagious.

I really did take it too far.

I promptly look away and start rummaging through my backpack to find the orange I brought along. It's better if I keep my mouth distracted before any smiling lines are crossed. After discarding the smooth white stone, I peel back the skin of my fruit and pluck off a pulpy piece, tossing it into my mouth. "What?" I inquire as I chew, still feeling his stare.

"You're wearing orange, your backpack is orange, and you're eating an orange," he notes.

"Congratulations! You have eyes."

"I just mean…it's a happy color. Sunny and warm, like you used to be." Thoughtful consideration twinkles in his gaze as he gives me an additional once-over. "I feel like black fits your personality better these days."

Juice dribbles down my chin and I swipe it away with the back of my hand. "That's fair."

"That doesn't offend you?"

"Nope. Being offended by something somebody says implies you care about what that person thinks of you. Which I don't." Clearing my throat, I add, "No offense."

"Mmm."

We blink at each other.

Max Manning still watches me, even after another long silence stretches and my face reverts back to its typical state of scowling. I reopen the notebook. The words on the page muddle together and my legs feel like I've come down with a spontaneous case of restless leg syndrome. I uncross them, letting them dangle over the side of the bench, and then cross them again. My pen taps repetitively against the paper. I sigh a few times for no reason. I think it's because I'm aware of him. On a regular day, I take shutting out other people to a professional level. It's a blissful skill to possess. In fact, I should have mentioned it to him.

I guess I'm realizing that I don't feel lonely right now and I don't know why.

This makes me scowl harder.

"Are you going to that bonfire tonight?" Max pulls to a stand, swiping dirt and grass blades off his blue jeans as he towers over me.

"No," I reply, lifting only my eyes. Lifting my entire head makes it seem like I care more than I do. "Are you?"

Now it definitely seems like I care. Dammit.

"No," he says.

"Cool."

We stare at each other.

No one moves. No one speaks.

Eventually, he sends me a quick nod and retreats from the little hideaway without another word, leaving a lingering cloud of pine needles and mint behind.

My heart is beating faster than usual. It's not a gallop, more like a traipse. But it's a noticeable quickening.

I rub at my chest.

And for some preposterous reason, the echo of our unspoken words reaches my ears as I watch him disappear into the woods.

See you there.