Page 74 of Catch the Sun

“Yeah. I said you were a regular girl…but you’re not.” His tongue pokes out to wet his lips and he turns to meet my eyes. “You’re more.”

He doesn’t elaborate. And within everything unsaid, that heavy feeling in my chest ruptures and those tears begin to leak from my eyes. I don’t apologize this time. I don’t tell him I’m sorry for letting my emotions spill out, for allowing this moment to make me feel something other than the comfortable wash of nothingness. I’m not sorry.

I’m grateful.

When teardrops gather at the corner of my lips, I lick away the salt and inhale a wobbly breath. “We’re hand-holding,” I say. “What comes next on your list?”

It can’t be kissing. He said there would be no kissing.

I don’t want to know how soft his lips are, or how rough his stubble wouldfeel against the skin of my jaw. I have no desire to feel his tongue against mine. I don’t wish for any of that.

I don’t.

Max’s gaze slips to my mouth and holds. “Nothing,” he answers, a slow smile stretching before his eyes pan back up. “This is where the list ends.”

When the words register, my own smile spreads and I give his palm a gentle squeeze. The quote from “Little Gidding” flashes through my mind as I stare at Max, his hand filled with mine and his eyes filled with stars.

“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”

I like this ending.

“How to Catch the Sun” Step Two:

Embrace the Golden Hour

Seize the warmth before it fades.

Chapter 18

Ella

My eighteenth birthday arrives two weeks later, and I wake up to a bouquet of orange roses on my front porch. The late-November sun sets them ablaze like the embers of an autumn campfire, and I glance around the yard as if a secret admirer might be lurking in my hydrangea bushes. Mom already left for work, leaving my favorite breakfast spread out on the kitchen table with a bundle of balloons, their ribbons tied to chairbacks.

I gulped down orange juice, then feasted on the meal of citrus cakes and scrambled eggs with candied bacon. A few months ago, I was dreading my birthday. I had no plans, no friends, nothing to celebrate but another year lost to sadness. But I woke up today feeling oddly renewed. My belly is full, it’s a bright and shimmery Saturday morning, and there are orange roses on my doorstep.

Bending over, I pluck them up by the stems and read over the attached note.

My heart skips.

Ella,

Happy birthday. I Googled the meaning of orange roses and I guess they symbolize energy, new beginnings, and good fortune. I also found this: “Orange flowers are a symbol of the sun and all things positive.” I thought they were perfect because the sun suits you. Flowers do, too.

—Max

PS: Get your dancing shoes on—we’re going to Knoxville.

I smile.

Guess I’m going to Knoxville.

Following an overly ecstatic text message from Brynn! an hour later, I’m now standing in the middle of her kitschy living room after snagging a ride over from Max and McKay. The walls are plum purple. The carpet is bright green. Neon-red furniture is littered throughout the space, eclectic art pieces stare back at me from all angles, and Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” serenades us from a record player in the corner of the room.

“Ella!” A man in a Halloween sweater crocheted with black bats and jack-o’-lanterns appears from the kitchen, his hair a shock of white-blond.

Oh, my God. It’s another Brynn!.

A second man appears, his hair darker, his sweater brighter, and he pretends to sing into a spatula as he leans back and lets loose. Then he turns to me and grins wide. “Ella!”

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