Page 54 of Catch the Sun

Inhaling a breath of earthy air tinged with the distant smoke of bonfires, I crouch down beside Max and collect a few stones in my palm. “Jonah was my best friend,” I confess. “He loved me. So much. There was a time when I was convinced he’d do anything for me, but it turns out…that wasn’t the case.” I peer over at Max, my voice softening. “All I ever wanted was to keep him by my side forever. And now, I’m not even allowed to touch him.”

Max studies me, passing his stones from hand to hand as he listens.

I continue. “He was four years older than me, but that never put a damperon our bond. I think it made it stronger. He was wiser than me. He taught me things. He loved playing the guitar and reading really tedious literature that he’d try to explain to me. He enjoyed camping in the Smoky Mountains…oh, and he liked cooking the most complicated recipes in existence just to say he did it.” I chuckle a little, the memories bursting to life like fireflies at dusk. “Jonah said that love conquered all and to always remember that he loved me when life got hard. Nothing else should matter when you have love like that. It was a stupid thing to say and all it made me do was resent love. It turns hearts into stone, men into monsters, and dreams into ash. It’s not a fairy tale—it’s a tall tale, shoved down our throats to keep us whimsical and yearning. But when the love goes rotten, so do we. People never stop to think about that. They don’t consider who they might become in the wake of bad love, or how that poison will affect the ones who lovethem.”

The words spill out of me and I’m forced to stop to catch my breath. Emotion seizes my chest, holding tight. I gaze out at the lake as my dreary words hover around us like sad little rain clouds.

When I brave a glance at Max, he’s staring at me with a wrinkle between his brows. His expression is pinched and thoughtful. Worried, maybe—worried that my sanity is hanging by a cobwebby thread.

It is.

“Anyway,” I mutter, exhaling a breath and drawing to a stand. I swipe the dirt and grit from my blue jeans, feeling silly for the depressing word vomit. “Sorry I got carried away. That’s not what you asked.”

“It’s what I wanted to know.” Max slowly rises to his feet, both fists filled with round, multicolored stones for skipping. “Come on. The water is perfect.”

I shuffle behind him, my throat still stinging with leftover bitterness. Swallowing it down, I move in next to him as he looks out at the unburdened lake.

“Your brother was right about treating it like a dance,” Max tells me, setting the collection of stones near his feet, save for one. The surface of the stone is grayish-white, weathered smooth by rain and time. “It’s all in the rhythm.”

“I have two left feet,” I grumble. “And, apparently, two left hands.”

Max weighs the small stone in his palm, popping it up and down a few timesbefore situating it between his thumb and forefinger. “Watch this.” His arm draws back, elbow bent, hand held just above shoulder level. Effortlessly, he steps forward and swings his arm in a low arc, releasing the stone with a flick of his wrist.

The stone leaves his hand and races over the water. It touches the surface, skips once, twice, three times and beyond, each hop leaving a succession of tiny ripples before it sinks with the inevitable pull of gravity.

I glance up at Max, my eyes wide and impressed. There’s a big smile on my face. I can feel it. It blossomed as fluidly as Max’s stone skipped.

He turns toward me, his gaze dipping to my mouth. To my smile. To the authentic joy painting my lips—a rare, rare thing. When his attention returns to my eyes, his own smile draws up to match mine. We stare at each other, smiling at the simple, basic concept of a stone dancing across water on a crisp autumn day.

There’s a tightness between my ribs, so I press the heel of my palm to my rust-colored hoodie, rub at my chest, and look away. “Can I try?”

“Of course.” Max sifts through more pebbles and plucks one from the pile. “I’ll help you.”

I refuse to look at him as he comes up behind me. I don’t move, don’t breathe, when the front of his chest presses to my spine and he wraps both arms around me like a gentle backward hug. My heart is doing more than leaping now. It’s vaulting. Somersaults and cartwheels.

Gymnast shit.

“Like this,” he says, his chin hovering above my shoulder, warm breath ghosting over my ear. His hand slides down my arm with a featherlight touch as he tucks a small stone in the center of my palm. His fingertips are calloused yet soft. Delicate as they graze against mine. The scent of pine needles, clean soap, and a trace of cigarette smoke curls around me. A compelling elixir.

With our arms overlapped, he guides them both upward to mimic the throw, his wrist flicking out at the end. “Feel the rhythm, Sunny.”

We practice the motion a few times.

I try to focus.

I try to concentrate on my breaths and the instructions he gave me, all whilehe’s pressed against my back, his body heat seeping through my hoodie.

Eventually, Max pulls away and gives me space to toss the stone. I feel his eyes on me, watching, waiting. I heave in a shaky breath, square my shoulders, and haul my arm back like he showed me. I let go of the stone and watch with anticipation as it glides through the air—

And immediately plops into the water like a boulder.

Epic fail.

I shake out my arms, groaning with self-deprecation. “I’m a natural.”

Max chuckles and finds me another stone. “Not bad. You’ll get it.”

“Your unwavering belief in me will be your downfall.”

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