Page 47 of Catch the Sun

“I brought you something,” he says. Circling an arm behind his back, he pulls an object out from the waistline of his jeans and hands it to me. Moonlight glimmersfrom the open window, spotlighting what looks to be a small pot. “I figured you’d be getting a lot of flowers, so I tried to think outside the box. A get-well-soon gift.”

I refrain from glancing around the bedroom that’s filled with an abundance of invisible flowers. Then I look back toward the item he’s holding in the palm of his hand. It comes more into focus when I lean over and squint.

Oh my God.

It’s an orange crayon sticking out of a pot of dirt.

I blink a thousand times before my eyes lift to his. “What is this?”

“One day, maybe, it’ll grow into a carrot. I’m hopeful.”

My mouth snaps closed. My chest squeezes. I can’t stop blinking repetitively in time with my erratic heartbeats. “Do you remember every word that comes out of my mouth?”

“Yes.” He shrugs. “I’m a good listener.”

My traitorous hands are trembling as I reach out to accept the tiny terra-cotta pot. It must be the fever, because emotion slams into me and inhabits my eyes. I’m forced to keep blinking so he doesn’t spot the evidence. “Um, thanks. This is…nice.” It’s really nice. It’s thoughtful. Absurdly ridiculous, but thoughtful. “So, you climbed through my window at ten o’clock at night to give me a potted crayon?”

Smiling, Max steps away from me and begins to look around my bedroom. “Sure,” he replies.

I reach for the lava lamp and race over to my nightstand, plugging it back in and turning it on. A muted fuchsia glow fills the room as I set down the pot, then swivel around to face him. “What if I slept naked?”

“Unlikely. You’re way too guarded.” He paces the room, perusing the poster-lined walls and bookshelves stuffed with novels and trinkets. “However, I do sleep naked if you were curious. I’ll keep my window unlocked.”

“Gross.”

Pivoting, he throws me a grin. “I also wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah, I’m good. Thank you for the list, by the way.”

“Of course.” He nods, his blue eyes trailing me from toes to top. “I wanted to come by during the day, but my dad…he, uh, was having some issues.”

I recall Brynn! mentioning that at the bonfire. My posture softens some more and I take a step toward him. “What’s wrong with your dad?”

Clearing his throat, Max palms the back of his neck, looking like the subject makes him uncomfortable.

That’s relatable, so I won’t pry. “You don’t have to answer—”

“He’s an alcoholic,” he says. “He suffered a debilitating injury years back and turned to booze to help him cope. Whiskey, mostly. He’s a good person, but he needs a constant caregiver, especially when he gets his hands on liquor.” Max sighs, looking as bone-weary as I feel. “Anyway…I like Stevie, too.”

My brows furrow with confusion. “What?”

“Stevie Nicks.” He waves a hand at my posters. “She’s a legend.”

“Oh. Yeah, she’s awesome. I didn’t peg you as a Fleetwood Mac fan,” I admit. “I saw you as more of a death-metal, mosh-pit enthusiast. You’re kind of dark and broody.”

He smirks at me, eyes glittering almost violet in the dim fuchsia lighting. “But not mopey, right?”

“No.” I shake my head and chew on my lip. “Not mopey.”

“What’s your favorite song by them?” he wonders, inching closer to me as I fidget near the edge of my bed.

“‘Thrown Down.’”

“I don’t know that one.”

“It’s on a later album calledSay You Will. 2003,” I explain.

“Hmm. I’ll check it out.”

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