Page 91 of Catch the Sun

“Call me Chuck,” Dad reminds her. “Hey, do you play Scrabble?”

“Oh, um, not really. I played a few times with my brother years back,” Ella responds.

“Yeah? I haven’t seen him around.”

“He…relocated. He’s four years older than me.”

“Off seeing the world, I bet. That’s great. Smart.” He nods. “Is he a romantic like you?”

Groaning, I pace over to the table and set down three plates, then unwrap the brisket from the tinfoil. “Dad,” I warn. His weird subject changes and personal questions are almost as off-putting as this day-old spaghetti I’m reheating.

Ella shakes her head, sending me a tiny smile. “It’s fine. And I’m not really a romantic, if I’m being honest. I’m kind of the opposite.”

“Nonsense.” Dad swipes a hand through the air like he’s slicing her words to smithereens. “You’ve got a lot of love in your eyes. A lot of it, indeed. You just need to pull it out of you and share it with the world. It’s trapped right now. Romanticize your own life.”

I’m about to interject again, but Ella holds her hand up, sensing my interference. She stares at my father with a glassy look in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said, honey. Romanticize your life. Don’t live every day like it’s your last. Live every day like it’s your first. Lasts are tragic. Firsts are exciting and full of celebration. Look at every sunrise like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen colors like that before. Listen to your favorite song like you’ve never heard such a precious melody. If you make every day a celebration, you’ll never get bored in your own story.”

I pause on my trek back to the stove. My father’s words sweep through me like a tidal wave of warmth. I haven’t heard him make so much goddamn sense in years, and the notion nearly brings me to my knees. When I glance at Ella, she’s gazing at him with an expression that reflects my own. Her irises glitterwith tears; her lips tip up with soft wonder.

What’s gotten into him?

Ella inhales a breath. “That’s…very wise. Thank you.”

“I have my moments.” Dad reaches for a serving fork and digs into the brisket. “Let’s eat.”

We eat.

We laugh.

We play Scrabble until the sun sets and Ella’s chair scoots closer to mine, her bare leg flush against my pant leg. When I reach down to grasp her hand, she interlocks our fingers and we stay like that until the fire from the stove flickers to embers and starlight seeps through the window. It’s not the first time we’ve held hands, but I pretend that it is.

It feels like it is.

As the night presses on, I reach over to a dusty shelf and snag the book lying there, the one I planned to give to Ella at dinner. “Hey. I have something for you,” I say, tossing it to her. She catches it. “Have you read this one?”

To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Of course,” she replies.

Grinning, I watch her glance down at her lap and flip through the old copy of the book, searching for something she knows is hidden inside. When she finds it, she pauses with her head bowed, her orange-tipped fingers curlingaround the edges.

Ella looks up at me, her smile turning radiant as it catches the light.

“You rarely win, but sometimes you do.”

We play one more game of Scrabble.

We’re all seated together, having a normal conversation, making jokes and playing board games after devouring the best brisket ever made, as the book sits beside us like a quiet reminder.

And somehow, even with the broken-down walls, plastic tarps, and unpainted plaster…

Ella makes this house finally feel like a home.

Chapter 22

Ella

---