Page 30 of Catch the Sun

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 ahome.

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 theinside 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 thewarmth 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.

Chapter 8

Ella

I wake up extra early on Monday morning and plop down at my desk for a bookbinding session before school. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve enjoyed my favorite hobby, thanks to stress, job hunting, homework, and period cramps. I’ve always loved reading, so I took up bookbinding when I was a preteen after taking a lesson on it in a junior high art class. It was a way to immerse myself deeper in the world of literature. The feel of the paper, the rhythm of the stitch, the intricacy of the folds…it’s meditative.

My workstation is a little universe of its own: a trove of tools, threads, crafts, and papers. Sometimes I create my own books, using cream-colored sheets that stack together neatly, their edges aligned, and then fold them in half to create what will become the book’s signatures. And then I start stitching, which is my favorite part. It’s like therapy, in addition to myrealtherapy in the form of monthly in-person sessions with the school counselor.

When I’m not creating a whole new book for scrapbooking or journaling purposes, I’m designing covers for my favorite novels. It’s my personal take on the world the author brought to life. I always purchase two copies of my favorite books—one to honor the original cover design, and the second to piece together my own cover concept using leather, cardstock, and textured cloths. My favorite work to date is my rendition of the Winnie the Pooh collection that Jonah helped me create a few years ago. It’s always been our favorite story. I’m his Piglet and he’s my Pooh Bear.

Well…was.

As I reach for my awl, my cell phone vibrates from atop the desk and a familiar name pops up.

Brynn!:Good morning! McKay and I are ditching school today to go tubing at Big Bear! Want to come? ??

I consider it.

The sun is extra bright today, the sky clear and cloudless. It’s going to be a perfect seventy-degree day and I’m confident my classes will be bleak and stormy. On the other hand, my mother doesn’t need the added anxiety of her daughter ditching school. She’s barely holding it together. Another casserole meltdown sounds as enticing as a root canal performed by a blindfolded dentist using a rusty spoon.

I text her back.

Me:Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Maybe next weekend.

Brynn!:No worries! See you tomorrow!

The message is followed up by eleven emojis of happy suns, pink hearts, and a bento box filled with sushi. A finger slip, I’m assuming. After I spend another half hour on a little scrapbook, I take a quick shower, blow-dry my hair, and apply a coat of mascara before slipping into a pair of jeans and a faded sweatshirt.

When I hear the guttural roar of a truck revving to life outside my window, I traipse across the bedroom and push back my peach drapes. Max is smoking beside his truck. He’s leaning against the bed with a ball cap concealing his eyes and his feet are crossed at the ankles, his muscly arms bronzed with a post-summer glow.

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