Page 66 of Catch the Sun

I glance at the front of the building, picking at my thumbnail. A blur of colorful dresses and swinging hair moves in time to overproduced music while seizure-inducing lights filter through the double-glass doors.

With a deep breath, I step forward in my worn-out high heels and enter the building. The DJ blasts me with a poppy rendition of “Take Me Home Tonight” by Eddie Money as I clutch the strap of my hobo bag and try not to trip and face-plant into a sea of glitter-filled balloons. Mercifully, a punch stand is set up in the corner of the gymnasium, so I beeline toward it as a source of distraction.

I’m gulping down my second helping when someone from my art class slides up beside me. I think his name is Brandon.

“Ella, right?” he says, reaching for a plastic cup of punch. “I’m Landon. We have art together.”

“Cool.” I don’t think it’s very cool.

He nods, his gaze assessing me in a lazy pull, from my apricot scuffed heels to the hint of cleavage peeking out from my neckline. “You look terrific,” he says.

I blink.

Terrific.

“Terrific” is one of those words that becomes less of a word the more you say it. I don’t know why. It makes my nose scrunch up and my eyebrows crinkle every time I hear it, and then I proceed to repeat it over and over inside my head until it becomes an un-word.

I realize my face is doing the opposite of what it should be doing in the wake of a compliment, so I overcompensate with crazed eyes, a full-toothed grin, and a sluggish nod, making me look like that GIF of Jack Nicholson nodding creepily fromAnger Management.

Landon backs away slowly.

One down.

I steal another cup of punch in hopes that my bladder will save me from this nightmare and I can hide out in the bathroom for a while. Shuffling over to the far wall that looks to be void of human contact, I lean back and twirl the cup between my fingers. The gym is alive with strobes and noise as my gaze floats from one gyrating body to the next in search of someone familiar I can latch onto.

Brynn!.

Kai.

Even McKay.

Mostly, I’m searching for…

Max.

I straighten against the wall, my grip on the cup tightening when I spot him by one of the round tables. Brynn! is a vision in flamingo pink as she whispers something in McKay’s ear and they both grin, while Libby stands beside Max in a silver-sequin dress and a short blond bob that’s been partially pulled up with glitz-studded pins.

Her manicured hand is clamped around his bicep. She’s leaning in toward him while he looks around the room, notably fidgety. Possibly bored. Dressed in a modest white button-down tucked into dark slacks, he still manages to look striking. Hair lightly tossed with gel and sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Max scrubs a hand over his face and scratches at the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

He keeps looking around.

Scanning. Searching, just like I was.

My instincts scream at me to bolt, to run, to flee the scene before he sees me. I shouldn’t have come. Libby is clearly his date and I’m the weird chick ogling him from across the room after turning down his multiple invitations. It’s kind of pathetic if I’m being honest with myself, and I don’t want to add that to my laundry list of glaring flaws.

But my feet remain firmly planted on the linoleum floor.

My body doesn’t move.

Pathetic wins.

I freeze further when I notice Max falter, then blink. He pivots toward me, almost like he felt me somehow. His attention is on the floor first, gaze aimedat my heels, before it travels up my legs in a languid slide until, finally, he lands on my face.

Our eyes snag.

We hold tight across the strobe-lit dance floor as my pulse revs and my heart skips.

I watch a look cross over his face. Something I can’t describe. It’s almost like a time-stopped beat of pure awe.

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