Page 25 of Catch the Sun

I’m not sure why I brought it.

I’m not sure why I kept it in the first place.

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Flames crackle and glow as I sit by myself on one of the wooden benches with my hands folded in my lap. Brynn! and McKay are snuggled up near the water, kissing and giggling by the light of the moon. Well, she is giggling. McKay is scrolling through his phone.

Music blasts from someone’s Spotify playlist, serenading us with The Arctic Monkeys’ best song, “Do I Wanna Know.” I like the band but prefer classics like Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles, because they remind me of blissful family road trips before Dad cheated on Mom with my first-grade teacher and Jonah committed two counts of murder in the first degree.

I knock my knees together and fold in my lips, feeling antsy. Out of place.

Max wandered over to the bonfire a few minutes ago and is seated on the bench across from me, his face going in and out of focus as fire spits and smoke billows. I’ve caught him staring at me a few times and I wonder what he seesright now. What he feels when he looks at me. Disenchantment would be my guess, with pity taking second place.

Andy is seated beside him, chugging down his fifth beer and acting loud and moronic. He’s living up to the football player stereotype just as effortlessly as I’ve been embracing my title of tragic outcast, so I can’t really judge him.

I watch as Max reaches into the cooler beside him before I pull my eyes away and redirect my attention to my hands fisted tightly in my lap. I circle my thumbs, zeroing in on my still-chipped nail polish. One of these days, I’ll feel motivated enough to repaint them.

I’m so immersed in my fingernails that I fail to notice Max has left Andy’s side and is now taking a seat to my left. It’s a small bench, so our shoulders brush. Warmth seeps through the thick sleeve of my hoodie as his scent wafts around me, something like burnt wood and peppermint gum.

I glance up just as a dewy can of Dr Pepper is tossed at me.

I catch it one-handed.

And then my heart does a weird loop-di-loop thing.

Partly because I’m not expecting it, but mostly because I’m shocked that he remembers the kind of soda I like and that I wield superhuman reflexes. People have a knack for being oblivious to trivial details. They often miss the essence of what others are saying or doing because they’re too preoccupied with their own bullshit. Your favorite things only matter to them if they genuinely care enough to listen and see you for who you are.

Max was paying attention to my bullshit.

I curl my fingers around the ice-cold beverage. “Thanks,” I say, blinking over at him. He’s clasping a red plastic cup that’s likely filled with flat beer. “That was nice of you.”

“We’re friends again, aren’t we?” He takes a sip from his cup, eyes pinned on me over the rim. “Friends do nice things.”

I watch his throat bob as he swallows a gulp, then swing my gaze back up. “You rejected my attempt to rekindle our long-lost friendship. You seemed repulsed by the very prospect.”

“That was before you won me over with promises of an arm-wrestling competition.”

A laugh falls out of me, unexpectedly. Untethered and unplanned. It’s like he poked a tiny pinhole in my balloon of sorrow and some of the sadness leaked out. “That was what sold you, huh?”

“Yes. Your arms look small and breakable, so my curiosity was piqued. Still is.”

I glance at one of my arms. Once upon a time, I was more filled out. Athletic and defined. I was even sporting a little tummy from laughter-lit nights of pigging out on pizza bagels with Jonah, or shoveling popcorn and sweet snacks in my mouth with friends during giggle-infused sleepovers. I miss my tummy. It meant I was living. It meant I was enjoying life and all of the highly caloric wonders that came with it.

Now I’m feeble and petite. Withered. My breasts are full and my hips are wide—child-bearing hips, according to Grandma Shirley—but my arms are gangly, my belly sunken-in. To be honest, I’m not sure how I’d perform in an arm-wrestling match these days. Max may be supremely let down.

Not wanting to disappoint him prematurely, I lift my arm and pump my fist, flexing with conviction. “We can give it a go if you’d like.”

He shakes his head at the offer. “You mentioned it’s for when boredom strikes.” Twirling the red cup between both hands, he chews on his bottom lip for a beat before glancing up at me, his blue eyes reflecting the orange flames. “I’m not bored.”

The look he sends me has me squirming for unknown reasons. He’s not bored because he’s at a bonfire with his friends. It has nothing to do with me.

Obviously.

I scratch at the back of my hand as my legs start to bob up and down, toes digging into the sandpit. My undiagnosed case of restless leg syndrome is acting up again. “That’s fine.” I shrug and sip my soda. “I didn’t want to hold your hand, anyway.”

“Why? I have nice hands.”

I peer over at them. He’s right; they’re really nice hands. Just as nice as his arms, which do not affect me. “They’re okay,” I lie. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

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