Chapter 7 Max

Chapter 7

Max

Every day over the next few weeks, Ella walks three miles into town after school, clad in a black beanie and her orange backpack, only to return hours later looking exhausted, defeated, and burned out. She's hardly spoken a word to me since the bonfire, but I heard from McKay—who heard from Brynn—that she's been picking up résumés and applying for jobs.

Today, I've attempted to make her trek into town somewhat more palatable.

Why?

Still undetermined.

Maybe I'm reminiscing about the little girl I used to know and wondering if she's still in there somewhere. Or maybe I've faced so many challenges in life that I've become prone to seeking them out. Ella is a puzzle. She's a jigsaw with missing pieces, and the more time I spend with her, the more I feel like I'm finding new fragments. Is she still that girl with the megawatt smile and infectious laugh who found joy in books and butterflies? Or have life's hardships snuffed out her light?

I've gotten glimmers.

And that leads me to believe the old Ella hasn't faded entirely.

I'm pulling weeds from the vegetable garden in the front yard when I catch her stepping out her screen door and onto the cedar porch. The porch takes up the whole length of the house, which is made up of plain taupe siding and dark shutters. It's a ranch-style home like mine, only it's in much better shape. Our house is half-built, partially finished, and full of angry ghosts.

Ella's sneakers clap along the wooden planks as she jogs down the four steps that lead to a patchy front lawn. I pretend to be absorbed in weed-pulling and dirt-sifting, but my chin lifts as my gaze trails her from underneath my Grizzlies ball cap. She doesn't notice anything at first, too focused on the clouds hovering in a meltwater-blue sky as both hands grip the straps of her book bag.

Then she falters, doing a double take. She comes to an abrupt stop, her head canting right, and she just stands there, still as a pillar, her back to me. The moment she swivels around, I duck my head and return my attention to the garden bed. My heartbeat kicks up when I hear gravel crunch beneath the soles of her shoes. Shoes that are now headed in my direction.

"Max."

I feign indifference, not bothering to glance up. "Hey, Ella."

"Do you know who put that bicycle on my property?"

I hide my smile, swiping the back of my forearm across my mouth to erase the beads of sweat as I fall back on my haunches. "No. Probably Chevy."

Ella turns to stare across the way at Chevy's property strewn with mechanical chaos. Old cars, in varying stages of disrepair, are scattered across the lot, the bodies faded and weather-beaten. Engines are disemboweled, with tires stacked in leaning towers, and tables are cluttered with tools and grease stains. She frowns thoughtfully before panning her gaze back to me. I stare up at her, wiping my hands down the front of my dirt-dappled cargo pants.

"Hmm," she murmurs. "That was really nice of him."

"He's a good guy," I say, nodding my agreement. "Not everyone in this town is out to make your life miserable."

We hold our stare and I hope she catches my hidden meaning.

I'll admit, her abrupt departure from the bonfire left me feeling a bit…stung. I thought I had high walls, but if I have walls, Ella has concrete fortresses, complete with a drawbridge and a moat teeming with metaphorical monsters to keep people at bay.

And that's oddly compelling.

She clears her throat, tugging her beanie farther down her forehead. Her fingernails are painted a sun-kissed orange, contrasting with her rain-cloud personality. "Yeah. I guess." Kicking at some loose stones, she begins to back away. "Well, tell him I said thank you…if you see him before I do."

"Sure. Will do."

She turns toward her yard, where the bicycle is leaning against the wood railing of her front porch. It's ruby red, freshly cleaned with air-filled tires, and perfectly functional. It's been buried in our one-car garage for years, so I figured someone could get some use out of it.

As she trudges back toward the house with a slew of book-bag key chains shimmying behind her, I draw to a stand and call out to her. "Ella."

She pauses, peering at me over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"We could, uh…" I scratch the back of my neck, unsure of what I even want to say. But I want to say something. "We could catch a movie tomorrow if you want."

Her stare is blank and unblinking, almost as if she has no idea what movies are.

"At the movie theater. You know, that establishment off Richter Avenue that has the giant projectors and smells like buttered popcorn and—"

"I know what movies are." She looks completely unamused. "I'm busy. Sorry."

"Maybe another time."

"I'm busy forever." Two jade-green eyes narrow at me, her head tilting with suspicion. "Wait. Are you flirting with me again?"

I sniff, folding my arms. "Definitely not."

"Okay." The word is drawn out and her eyes are squinty and searching. "But you still want to be friends?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Her eyebrows arc up. "I could make a list. Do you like lists? I love lists."

"Go for it. I'm intrigued." My arms flex and I don't miss the way her focus flicks to my muscles for a beat before she blinks back to my face. Smirking, I add, "While you're at it, add an evaluation of my biceps to that list. I'd love to know how they rate."

Color stains her pretty pale cheeks as her eyes flare. Then she whips around, hair flying with her from underneath the beanie, and storms away. "Goodbye, Max."

"See ya." I send a two-finger salute to her back before returning to my position beside the garden.

Ella flies by on her new bike moments later, just as the rickety screen door snaps shut behind me. When I turn, I spot my father leaning forward on his cane with two sunspotted hands as he stares at the cloud of dust Ella's tires left behind. "Hey, Dad."

He looks better today. Sober. Moving around.

Relief sweeps through me as I take in his too-big corduroy pants and half-tucked flannel. My father is no less gaunt and frail, but his eyes hold a semblance of a spark as he glances my way.

It's a good day. I live for these good days.

"She seems like a nice girl," he notes, tipping his head toward the gravel road, his thin hair fluttering when a breeze rolls through.

"‘Nice' isn't the word I'd use. More like…moody. Unapproachable."

Obnoxiously intriguing.

"Huh." Dad takes a wobbly step forward, then peers up at the sky of blue and patchy white. "Your mother…she was a slippery one, too. Hard to catch. Harder to hold."

I stiffen at the reference to my mother. "I'm not interested in Ella like that."

I'm not.

Sure, maybe I was trying to get a rise out of her at the bonfire last weekend—and yeah, of course I think she's pretty. She is. She's that piece of fine china perched on the top shelf, out of reach, for display only. Dusty and shadowed. Breakable. People stare at it, curious and admiring, but they don't dare touch it.

But I'm not interested in her.

Not like that.

Romance is out of the question for me, and considering her reaction to my harmless flirting, she's very much on the same page.

Works out.

"I never see you with any girls, Maxwell," Dad says to me, expression clouding. "Your brother has a girlfriend. You're just as good-looking and likeable. I want that for you."

"I'm fine. I stay busy." Readjusting my baseball cap, I wave a hand through the air, showcasing the fruits of my labor.

My father takes another slow step forward and glances at the vegetable garden thriving with snap beans, turnips, and kale. The tiny spark in his eyes evaporates. Glancing around, he blinks a few times as he fully takes in the glowing green grass, well-manicured chrysanthemums, and de-weeded flower beds, like he's seeing it all for the first time. "Max…" Emotion has his throat bobbing, his balance teetering. "This is too much, Son. I feel…" He almost chokes. "I feel like I've failed you."

I frown, pulling off my cap and swiping the disheveled hair off my forehead. "You haven't. I enjoy doing this."

"You should be enjoying your youth. Nights out with friends, boat rides on the lake, camping, girls."

"That's McKay's scene. I'm good."

His head swings back and forth as he zones out and stares dazedly at the front of the house with a weary sigh. "We never finished," he says softly. "It's one of my greatest regrets."

My teeth clench, my molars grinding together as I follow his gaze.

Years ago, shortly before the accident and Mom's subsequent abandonment without a backward glance, me, Dad, and McKay started building this house from the ground up. It was supposed to be our family project, a labor of love. We'd spend weekends working on it—sawing, hammering, and laughing under the warm sun. The foundation was laid with bricks and mortar but also with hopes, dreams, and visions of a picturesque future. The idea was to create not just a house but a home .

Now, the half-built structure is nothing more than a shell of what it was meant to be, much like our family. Each beam, each unfinished room, holds a fractured dream. A sad memory. While the house stands unfinished, it isn't entirely unlivable. We managed to get the roof up before everything fell apart, and the walls, although unpainted and raw, provide a solid barrier against the elements. A layer of sturdy plastic sheeting tacked up on the inside of the frames doubles as both insulation and a way to keep out wind and rain.

The house's bones are solid. The floorboards may creak underfoot, and the plumbing might groan in protest, but the lights come on and the water runs hot and cold. Chevy and I rigged up a wood-burning stove that not only suffices for cooking but also throws out enough heat to keep the chill at bay during the colder months. The unglazed windows were temporarily patched up with clear, durable plastic that let in light and kept out the weather. We've made it habitable with quick fixes—a Band-Aid on a wound that runs deep.

I cast a sideways glance at Dad, his face etched with lines of burden and regret. I feel his sorrow. Feel his pain. Physically, he'll never be able to finish this house, and McKay has no interest. That leaves me. And without the financial means or an extra pair of hands to help me, the house will likely remain a lost cause. I've accepted that, so I do what I can by keeping the landscaping maintained and making sure the vegetables stay ripe and healthy.

McKay says I'm polishing shit.

I say I'm tending to hope.

Dad glances skyward, squinting at the sun, still shaking his head like the burning beacon has personally affronted him somehow. Seemingly zoned out, he mutters, "I guess I'll get the boat ready. Find me the fishing nets, will you?"

I must have misheard him. "What?"

"The nets. I…" Lifting a hand to his hairline to blot out the sunrays, he frowns, confused. Then he blinks repeatedly before turning to look at me. "A nap sounds good. I'll leave you to it."

He hobbles back inside and the screen door claps shut once again.

My brows pinch together. Seeing Dad out of sorts and not making sense isn't anything new, but he seemed coherent enough. Sober. I suppose when you've grappled with alcoholism for close to a decade, a few screws are bound to come loose.

Drawing in a long breath, I look up toward the yellow sun and let the warmth wash over me. It's a beautiful October afternoon, yard work is done, Dad is detoxing, and Ella doesn't have to walk six miles. I'm not sure what McKay is up to, but he's probably getting laid. All is well.

For now.

I rinse off with the watering hose, tighten the laces on my shoes, and head toward the lake for my daily run.