Page 57 of Catch the Sun

“Sunny?” McKay questions, parroting the nickname like it’s something foul as he follows me out of Ella’s front yard. “She’s not into you, bro.”

My teeth clench. “Thanks for your insight.”

“Just telling you how I see it.”

“It’s not like that with Ella,” I clip in, breaking into a lazy jog. “We’re just friends.”

“Yeah. Because she’s not into you.”

I pick up my pace, hopeful my brother will find something better to do so I can run in peace. Normally, I enjoy the rare bonding moments we share, running and hiking, swimming or camping, but lately his presence has only served as a dull thorn in my side. Not sharp enough to draw blood but irritating, nonetheless.

“I just worry about you, man,” McKay carries on as we curve onto a busier street before heading toward the trails. “I don’t want to see you get bogged down with that girl’s drama.”

I don’t reply.

Ella isn’t an added weight—she’s a reprieve. Skipping stones with her at the lake felt just as soul-curing as drinking in the fresh Tennessee air. Her laughter was a remedy, not a hindrance. Her smile made me feel like I was flying high, just like how I feel when I’m running through lofty trees and bluebell shrubs, trying to get away from it all.

But I don’t know how to tell him that without more questions.

And I definitely don’t have answers to those questions.

“Oh, and don’t forget,” McKay adds, sprinting toward the opening of a running path. “Condoms are on your nightstand.”

Shaking my head, I ignore the comment and we spend the rest of the run in silence, only listening to the slap of our soles against earth and the winded rhythm of our breaths.

I toss the condoms in the trash the second I get home.

***

Crash.

I shoot out of bed, my heart in a tailspin. Throwing my legs over the mattress, I attempt to hop into a pair of yesterday’s jeans as Dad’s agitated slurs reverberate through the small house. Belt hanging loose, I race out of my bedroom and turn the corner, bare-chested and blurry-eyed.

My father is pacing around in aimless circles near his bed frame, swinging his head back and forth as he spouts off something unintelligible. This is nothing new. Dad often has night terrors and it’s the reason I don’t sleep very well. McKay goes to bed with earbuds in, blissfully ignorant.

I’ve read up on night terrors, so I know that I need to approach with quiet caution. I do my best not to wake him. My tone is always soft and gentle, my words reassuring. Most of the time, I’m able to guide him back to bed without incident and he falls asleep with no memory of it come sunrise.

I don’t smell liquor on his breath when I step forward, and that’s a silver lining. “Dad. It’s okay,” I say in a low voice.

My father doesn’t like the dark, so he sleeps with a table lamp on. Mom left him in the middle of the night when the sky was midnight blue and the moon was veiled by smog. He woke up alone, searching for her in the shadows to no avail. She was long gone, never to return.

Now the dark is a trigger, a reminder of what he’s lost.

“Let’s get you back to bed,” I tell him.

“You’re fucking my wife, Rick,” he blares at me, wild eyes settled just beyondmy shoulder. “I’ll gut you with my fishing hook.”

My skin prickles with foreboding. Part of me wonders if I should leave him be, but one time, he tried to bust through the window with a coffee mug, thinking the house was on fire. Sliced his hand open in three places.

He could get hurt. He could kill himself.

“Dad, it’s fine. You’re okay. It’s me. Max—”

I don’t expect what comes next.

It happens too fast.

As I take another step closer, my father snatches up the table lamp, leaps forward, and smashes the clay base against the side of my head. Before I can comprehend the strike, he’s on me, tackling me to the bedroom floor with both hands wrapped around my neck like a thick-fingered noose.

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