Page 117 of Catch the Sun

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, a sheen of sweat dotting my hairline. He was intoxicated when he stormed out, and the thought only heightens my nerves.

He’s fine.

Ella is fine.

It’s ridiculous to be worrying this much. It’s only a quarter past midnightand it’s a sprawling lake house. Ella could have fallen asleep in a spare room for all I know, and McKay is probably at a friend’s house.

But…

But.

That’s the issue. There’s a nagging “but” hovering over me like a storm cloud, howling in my chest and pinwheeling in my stomach. I can’t explain it. I could never begin to explain the strange, instinctual feeling zipping through me, telling me that something is wrong.

My Sunny Girl needs me.

I wait fifteen more minutes before checking on Dad and tugging on my shoes. He’s sound asleep, his face buried in the pillow, arms at his sides. Snores echo through the bedroom, giving me a shred of relief. Ten seconds later, I’m marching through the front lawn, across the street, and landing on the Sunburys’ doorstep. I knock three times and wait for the footsteps to approach.

Candice cracks open the front door and peers out at me. When recognition fills her eyes, she widens the door, a cell phone pressed to one ear and her hair in curlers.

“Max,” she says, a frown of confusion competing with a hesitant smile. Holding up her index finger, she tells the person on the other line that she’ll have to call them back. Then she clicks off the call, lowers the phone, and gives me her full attention. “I thought you were with Ella?”

I’m fidgety, restless, my feet shuffling back and forth as I shove my hands in both pockets. I don’t want to worry her, because my fears are unfounded, so I force myself to remain neutral. Still and calm. “Something came up, so I couldn’t go to the party,” I explain, glancing over her shoulder. A slew of open folders and papers is strewn across her work desk in the corner of the living room. The laptop is on, surrounded by multicolored coffee mugs. “I, uh, wanted to ask you a favor. My brother took the truck and I’m trying to meet up with Ella. Her phone must have died.”

Concern flickers in her eyes. She fiddles with a pink curler that matches the sweatsuit she’s wearing. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure.” I clear my throat. “Of course. It’s not an emergency or anything, so I feel weird asking…but can I borrow your car?”

Her chestnut eyebrows arch with surprise. “Do you need a ride?”

I quickly shake my head. “No, no, it’s not that serious. You look busy,” I note, my eyes panning to her workstation. “The party is only a few miles from here. I can walk if you’re not comfortable.”

“You’re sure everything is okay? Is Ella in trouble?”

“She’s fine. I just talked to Brynn.” I’m hopeful the vagueness of my statement gives her a semblance of solace. “I wanted to meet up with her. I’ll drive her back home in a bit.”

She chews on her thumbnail, weighing my words and taking note of my movements, my expressions. I must fake it well because she nods slowly, moves away from the door, and fetches a ring of keys from her purse. When she returns, she holds them out to me. “You haven’t been drinking?”

“Not at all. I’ve never touched alcohol in my life.” It’s the truth, thanks to my firsthand experience with watching both my father and my brother succumb to the destructive allure of the bottle.

Candice nods again and folds in her lips. Then she plops the keys in my hand. “All right. Please have Ella call me as soon as you get there. I’ll wait up.”

“I will. Thank you.” I force a smile, fist the key ring, then spin around on the front stoop. My gait is laced with panic as I fumble for the right key, launch myself into the front seat, and jam it in the ignition. The red Nissan Sentra revs to life and I waste no time in careening out of the driveway, uncaring that Ella’s mother is watching from the front porch with a hand fisting the collar of her pale-pink sweatsuit.

She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine.

I drive on autopilot down familiar back roads with the window down to keep me from suffocating on my own fear. When I swerve into Morrison’s packed driveway, I park sideways, blocking in multiple vehicles, and kill the engine. I don’t care. All I care about is finding Ella. Instinct has my eyes assessing the dimly lit street for our truck, wondering if McKay made it to the party. I don’t see it, so I keep moving.

The door is unlocked. I barge through in my baseball cap, ratty jeans, and white tee, shoving my way through dancing and sweaty bodies, and ignoring the cherry punch that splashes on my shoes when I collide with an aggravated brunette.

Someone calls out for me. I ignore them.

My gaze scans the crowded living room and adjoining kitchen, taking quick note of every face that doesn’t belong to my girl. Two blonds are perched on the white quartz island top, their arms swaying to “Something in the Orange” by Zach Bryan. The melody haunts me as I barrel down hallways, burst through closed doors, and disregard the blow job taking place in one of the bedrooms.

“Don’t you knock?” someone blares.

I slam the door and keep moving. Five minutes pass and I can’t find Ella. My heart is beating like a snare drum as I march out onto the patio, glancing at the hot tub to my left, then panning right to survey the veranda strung with bulb lights and tiki torches. Nothing. Only a bunch of teenagers partying and laughing without a care in the world.

As I glance out toward the lake, I spot a silhouette just before a familiar voice reaches my ears.

---