Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 1

Ava

Ethan’s long fingers cup my sweaty palm as he tugs me like a toddler toward the security check. He’s nervous—maybe excited—I can tell by his pace. Anything beyond a strolling swagger is outside of Ethan Bennington’s wheelhouse, so this breakneck sprint we are clocking has my heart rattling and my upper lip sweating. It’s happening. I can feel it in my freshly painted but already chipped toes.

I would have chosen something a bit more romantic than the Philadelphia International Airport, with the smell of Cheez Whiz and the sound of unintelligible boarding calls, but I’ll take it. Maybe he has signs hidden somewhere. Or an organized flash mob! I glance around at the people I’m passing, knowing that any Tom, Dick, or Sally could break out into dance at any moment. My slick grip slips a bit in his hand and I return my attention to the back of Ethan’s beautiful head, focusing on the birthmark visible beneath his blonde hairline.

His free hand slides into his freshly ironed pocket for a second, and then reappears, tensing into a fist, finally stretching back out beside his lean, well-earned thigh muscle. I take a deep breath, looking for the outline of the midnight blue velvet box his mother had shown me last month while Ethan’s twin sister, Tammy, and I sat on the couch in her closet, surrounded by racks of impeccably tailored Armani suits and Carolina Herrera gowns. It was humbling enough that every garment around me cost more than half a year’s rent at my apartment. Then she’d opened the box in her hand.

The two-carat emerald cut diamond that lounged at the center like a lazy feline twinkled in time with the chandelier’s crystals above us. And just before that familiar in-over-my-head feeling crept up into my chest as I stared at the glacier-sized ring, Ethan’s mom spoke.

“Been in our family for five generations,” she’d explained in her imperious but soft voice, her crystal blue eyes that she’d genetically gifted to her twins misted just the right amount as she looked at me over the open ring box. “Tammy and I couldn’t think of anyone else we’d want to wear it.”

I couldn’t help preening a bit at the praise. Senator Olivia Bennington does not partake in unstaged Kodak moments often. My future mother-in-law is tough—Navy SEAL tough—but I can keep up. A stamp of approval from Olivia comes with more esteem than my impending summa cum whatever law degree from Villanova. And thus, job offers at the top firms in Philly are lighting up my inbox like a California wildfire on an August night.

All I have to do is get through this final coursework at the European Law Seminar in Urbino and fulfill my promise to Mom and then I can start my real life—the life I’ve been planning and working toward for the last five years. My checklist is rounding out nicely. Father-approved job? Check. Mother-requested experience abroad? Golden check. Everyone-approved fiancé? Rapidly approaching platinum check.

I step on the heel of Ethan’s loafer, but he barely hears my apology as we swerve through a large group of what appear to be college students. A couple of the girls we pass do a double take as Ethan politely says “Excuse me,” perhaps recognizing him from the recent cover of Philadelphia magazine standing behind his mother, one hand on her shoulder and the other locked with Tammy’s as his chiseled chin juts out like a granite cliff. Three golden heads emblazoned against the dark background of the glossy cover. The Bennington agenda: the power family takes on the lack of diversity curriculum in Philadelphia schools. Power family. About to add one more to the mix.

Ethan squeezes my hand.

I’m gonna be the best fourth wheel this city has ever seen. Though, at the moment, anyone watching me brush the beads of sweat from my unimpressive cleavage while rolling my oversized suitcase behind me would think I was the Bennington’s help. I can feel Tammy’s phantom pinch on my arm, the one she always gives me when self-deprecation teeters at the edge of shame. Tammy is the best fringe benny any relationship could have. She brought back the laughter in my life right when I needed it most. And though it was tough at first maneuvering their sometimes creepy twin-synchrony, the awkwardness and walking on eggshells has been worth it. Now I’d walk across hot coals for her.

The sound of TSA barking orders about shoe removal signals that we are nearing security, and Ethan finally slows down and checks over his shoulder as if he’s verifying that I’m still there.

“You didn’t lose me,” I tell him just loud enough for him to hear as he pulls me to the side of the corridor beside an expanse of glass that looks out over the planes tucked snugly up to their gates. I’d follow you through worse, Ethan Bennington.

He smiles down at me; a bright-neat line of orthodontia hypnotizes me for a moment until I remember what’s about to happen. Seeing Ethan down on one knee might topple me like a Jenga tower. I release the handle of my suitcase and rest my free hand against the warm glass window, hoping it’s thick enough to keep me from careening outward onto the tarmac.

“Ava,” he begins. I want to shut my eyes at the sound of my name on his lips, savor the sensation of his breathy voice, but I don’t want to miss a single detail of this. I want this moment engraved on my frontal lobe forever.

“… when I met you four years ago, I knew—I knew that you’d always be there for me. And that devotion, that loyalty …”

We’d been randomly partnered at his Fraternity Olympics, and had hit it off hard and fast when it became clear no one could beat us at anything. His focus. My determination. Undefeatable.

“… with Mom’s reelection campaign starting and you being in Italy, I think this is the perfect time to take that step …”

I register for a moment that I’m still staring up at him. Perhaps Benningtons do not kneel?

The queen doesn’t curtsy.

“… to really see who we are. Push our own limits. Figure out exactly what we need …”

He reaches into his pocket. I try to exhale the fluttering in my stomach, the way my nerves are suddenly blurring my vision. I swallow the emotion, shape it into my will. No ugly tears when the photos start. Tammy had perfectly applied my liner just before she pushed me out of the limo. I must stay in control.

“… so I want you to take this to Urbino with you.”

His hand slides out and I blink hard at what he’s offering me. This is not a midnight blue velvet box. This is a—what the hell is this? A piece of plastic? His words are starting to skip around my brain—bouncing frantically like children on a blacktop at recess. Push our own limits? Figure out what we need? I know what I need. And a plastic card is not it. But it somehow finds its way into my clammy palm anyway.

“What’s this?” My voice seems to be coming from far away. I look around and notice there are a few people clustered to my left at a not-so-polite distance.

“It’s a calling card.” He gives me a patronizing smile. “I know it is old-fashioned, but I wanted you and me to have this time. We deserve this time, Ava. We’ve been so good to one another. So focused on each other. The card has five minutes on it. Enough for one call. That way we really have to stay true to the plan.”

The plan? What plan? Certainly not my plan. Had I missed the changes while we’d eaten my farewell brunch with his mother this morning? I couldn’t have. I avoided Tammy’s thrice-proffered mimosas so I could stay hydrated for the flight. And when Olivia spoke, I listened. I’m tempted to pull up the picture of my “focus list” on my phone to show him that “relationship hiatus” is not one of the bullet points. What the actual f—

“One call. No texts. No emails. And whatever happens while you are over there, Ava, that’s entirely up to you. I want you to experience everything Italy has to offer.” Ethan’s forehead dips toward me and his brows lift suggestively.

Experience everything.

There’s the sound effect of a picture being taken from an iPhone camera and the noise makes everything click at once.

“Ethan, are you breaking up with me?” I ask with what I intended to be a light laugh. But the desperation in the sound makes me cringe.

“It’s a break. Not a break-up. We just need some time to be—independent. To get the lay of the land—”

“The lay of what? You want to spend these four weeks getting laid?” My calm has slipped. I need to lower my voice. Breathe. The last thing I want is some random footage of me losing my mind as Ethan Bennington basically hands me a going-away box of condoms.

He takes my elbow and pulls me closer so I can smell the orange juice and mint on his breath.

“Of course not, Ava. I’m not looking for that—but if you have oats to sow—I want them sown before we”—he gestures between us—“move forward. I want us both to be sure. And this seems like the perfect time to do that.”

He’s barely even breathing hard as he rips my heart out of my chest.

I have no oats. I hate oats.

“I am sure,” I whisper.

He tilts his forehead against mine.

“Then these four weeks will just make that certainty even deeper.”

“So you’re testing me?”

He shakes his head as he straightens.

“We. We are taking this time to remind ourselves of what we want,” he says with such solid assuredness that I almost find myself nodding. That’s his superpower. Conviction.

“Alright, Ethan. I hate this—”

“So do I,” he interrupts.

“But I’ll go along with it. For you.”

“For us,” he corrects.

I almost roll my eyes and say whatever. But this is Ethan, not my dad. He’s my partner. My equal.

“One call,” he reminds me, closing my fingers around the stupid card in my hand. The plastic feels heavier than the diamond I thought I’d be carrying across the Atlantic—the diamond that was meant to be a symbol of our future. Wrong symbol, universe. I was manifesting the shiny rock, not an obsolete piece of PVC. If I put a little pressure on it, maybe it’ll turn into a diam—

Ethan reaches out and stops me just before I snap the card like a toddler.

“Right,” I say, straightening myself and staring up at him. So much for the exorbitant daily fee I’m paying for international cell service. I’ll have to use it all on phone calls to Tammy. He presses his lips together and suppresses a smile when he meets my narrowed gaze—sees the tight set of my molars at the corner of my jaw. He calls it my ball-kicking look.

“I’ll miss that look,” he chuckles, but doesn’t cover his crotch like he normally does. I let out a measured breath, then lift onto my toes and kiss him. I put everything I have into the kiss.

It’s a reminder.

A promise.

A fuck you.

And when he pulls away and sucks in a breath, his blue eyes three shades darker than they were before my lips hit his, I nod once and turn my back on him—equal parts punishment and assurance that he doesn’t see my careful composure slipping like a scoop of ice cream from a melting cone. I turn and walk away, shoulders back and chin as high as it can reach without pinching a nerve.

A break? A four-week, oat-sowing, transatlantic break. This is Ross and Rachel on steroids.

I reach into my purse and find the tiny pill bottle Tammy gave me “just for emergencies.” I believe the calling card/hall pass cutting into my palm constitutes an emergency. I’m tempted to call Tammy and check—no, to call Olivia and ask for her help—but I remind myself she’s not my mother. She’s his. The realization sends a pang of sharp, cutting grief beneath my sternum and I toss back the pill, dry-swallowing even though my throat has already closed up with the oncoming tears.

Four short weeks.

Twenty-eight Italian sunsets.

Less than half a summer.

The blink of an eye.

Why the hell is it taking so long for this pill to kick in?