Page 6 of Catch the Sun

That’s all he says, but his hand feels like a hot laser on my skin. Hot enough to leave a future scar. My eyes flick up and meet a familiar shade of clear blue as I recoil, readjusting my bag strap over my shoulder. “No biggie,” I mutter. When his hand falls away from me, I take a step back and scratch at the itchy heat left behind.

He doesn’t linger; he just stares at me for a stuttered heartbeat, then rejoins his brother who must’ve bumped him into me.

The Manning brothers.

Max and McKay.

A decade ago, Max became my best friend during a memorable year here in Juniper Falls—the town where my parents first met as teenagers. That was until my father abruptly whisked me away without allowing me to say goodbye. Now, it feels like a lifetime has passed, and I realize that Max is no longer the same person he was back then.

Just like I’m not the same girl who told him I’d marry him one day as Isucked on a tangy orange Popsicle and stared up at the puffy clouds with sunbeams in my heart.

These days, he acts like I don’t exist. I’m sure he saw that news story of me, where I made a fool of myself on national television, and now he’s grateful we lost contact over the years.

Associating with me would make him a social pariah, too.

I inch my dark beanie down my forehead and glance over at the two brothers now conversing against a row of blue lockers across from me.

“You should come tomorrow,” McKay says, shoulder wedged up against a locker door, his back to me. “Bring that chick. Libby.”

“I’m good,” Max replies. He fiddles with a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out, then pushing it back into the box. “Doesn’t interest me.”

“You need to get laid, man. You’ve been a real asshole lately.”

My nose scrunches up. Neither of the Manning brothers have said much to me since I arrived back in Juniper Falls—a small community in Tellico Plains, Tennessee—four months ago. Truth be told, I wouldn’t be disappointed if they both dropped off the face of the earth. The only person who’s shown me an ounce of real kindness since my mom and I moved here is Brynn Fisher.

She just so happens to be dating McKay, which is probably why the brothers haven’t outright tormented me like everybody else in this school.

Ancient schoolyard magic be damned.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, my sandal squeaking along the linoleum when I shift my backpack onto my other shoulder.

When Max glances up at me, I realize I’m eavesdropping like a snoop. He doesn’t say anything and just furrows his espresso-brown eyebrows together, probably irritated by my existence, while McKay prattles on about beer and Libby’s tits.

Then Max blinks and looks down at the grubby tile, which is evidently more enticing than my face.

As fate would have it, the Manning brothers aren’t just my schoolmates—they’re also my neighbors. They live across the street from the little ranch home my grandmother purchased for us this past May, after Mom drained her bank accounts close to dry paying for my brother’s legal bills.

Sometimes I’ll see Max outside, mowing the front lawn.

Smoking near his pickup truck.

Careening out of the gravel driveway with shrieky tires as he inevitably takes off into the night to find trouble.

On occasion, he’ll glance across the street at me while I’m sitting on the wooden porch in a beat-up folding chair, reading a novel or bookbinding. The eye contact never lasts long, and it’s often followed by a pitying headshake or a squinty-eyed scowl.

He doesn’t like what I’ve become.

The feeling is mutual.

Mom used to tell me to go over there and reattempt to make friends with them, even though they are not at all approachable. I told her she should make friends with their father first and then I would consider it. That was the end of the conversation. She hasn’t brought it up since.

I swallow down the grit in my throat and move away from the wall lined with lockers. The choked-down emotions are making me thirsty, so I decide to grab a Dr Pepper from a nearby vending machine before heading to English class.

The hallways are mostly cleared out, save for a few stragglers jogging past me with their noses in their cell phones. Everyone is a blur of monochrome. Everything looks desaturated. It feels like I’m moving in slow motion while faceless bodies rush past me like an old VCR tape that’s being fast-forwarded to the good part.

But there is no good part in my movie.

There’s only this vending machine staring back at me, filled with overpriced snacks.

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