Page 18 of Catch the Sun

I don’t wave and neither does she.

We just stare at each other as the sun lights her up and causes her hair to shimmer like a vibrant flame. Memories burst to life. Golden, long-ago memories of watching her smile at me in the schoolyard on the first day of first gradewith a Winnie the Pooh storybook splayed in her lap, and thinking with my whole heart that she’d be mine one day.

Stupid.

Silly, stupid childhood fantasies.

I swallow, my throat tightening as smoke curls around me and drifts skyward. My breath stalls. I wonder why I’m staring at her and I wonder why I can’t seem to pull away.

But I don’t have to wonder for long.

She blinks, glancing back down at the water and breaking the palpable tether as dishwater-gray clouds roll in, blotting out the sunshine.

Another beat passes before she sends me a final, sharp glance across the ridge with an expression that screams, “Fuck you, Dr Pepper.”

And then she walks away.

I toss the still-smoking cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with the toe of my shoe as I watch her saunter away in a cloud of volatile orange.

I smile.

Chapter 5

Ella

September rolls by, and I’m grateful the heat wave has passed as I trudge through dry dirt and crisp leaves, making my way to a little clearing partially hidden from the walkable trails. A canopy of sun-kissed branches and greenery blocks out most of the sunlight, providing an added sense of seclusion to the small hideaway I remember discovering with Max years ago.

I toss my backpack into a pile of brushwood and take a seat on a rustic-looking bench. It appears to be hand-carved, which causes my heart to skip. I remember him telling me on that final day that he wanted to build us a bench.

No.

Highly doubtful. I was gone by sunset and he never saw me again.

With my luck, this is probably the meeting place for some weird cult, where they do rituals involving baby goats and virgin blood.

I sift through my book bag and pull out a spiral-bound notebook and a black pen. Mom went to work today. She scored a job as a receptionist at Delores’ Hair Salon and will be working five days a week until something better comes along. The owner’s name is actually Anne, so I’m still scratching my head at the business moniker. Regardless, Anne seems nice and I can appreciate a good mystery.

Lifting my ankles to a cross-legged position on the bench, I flip open mynotebook and land on a blank page. My ballpoint pen glides across the lined paper in little swoops as I begin to write.

Dear Jonah,

I hate you.

I draw a line through the first sentence and try again, lowering my pen right underneath those three words and starting over.

Sorry. That was a bleak opening, even though it’s true sometimes. There are days I hate you and there are days I love you. Then there are days when I feel both of those things at the same time. Those are the hardest days. Those are the days I scream into my pillow until my vocal cords are swollen and raw, and I lash out at Mom, and I refuse to eat because eating makes my stomach hurt even more than it normally does.

Anyway, this is depressing, so I’ll stop writing now.

I just wanted you to know that I really do love you. I love you so much.

And that’s what makes me hate you.

Ella

This is beyond emo.

I rip out the page and crumple it into a tight ball, stuffing it into my open book bag. Maybe I should try again. I can lie this time. I can tell him that life is going really well and we’re doing okay without him. People like liars. People enjoy fairy tales because they always end with a satisfying conclusion, tied up in a little pink bow with a happily-ever-after. I’m not sure why the bow is pink, but pink is a happy color. Seems fitting.

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