Chapter 13
AVA
Georgie has all of Anderson’s vinyls scattered over his living room floor within minutes of her clearing her plate and putting it in the sink.
Usually, the mess would overwhelm me, leaving me focused only on getting it cleaned up, and nothing else.
But tonight, it seems to bother me a little less.
It’s like there’s a dullness to the feelings, enough for me to push it to the back of my mind for the time being.
I haven’t seen my little sister this happy in years.
Georgie’s dad loved collecting records—something I’d forgotten about until she asked Anderson about his.
I doubt Georgie remembers being moments away from walking for the first time as her dad frantically tried to find the perfect soundtrack to have playing during her first steps. All the while, my mom held Georgie’s little hands, and I held the video camera.
Or how she used to fall asleep in her crib to warm, soft music.
She would nap to the faint crackles and pops beneath whatever her dad had playing throughout the house, the gentle hiss that made everything feel so close—like the instruments and the voices were right there in the room with her.
I remember asking him why he collected them, especially when there were many different, cheaper, more convenient ways to listen to music.
He explained how each one was a moment in time, and that listening to the record was a way he could revisit the memory.
To make sure he never forgot it. It didn’t make much sense to me then—I was still in high school.
It wasn’t until after he passed, after the fire, after Jett, that I realized what it meant to hold on to memories worth keeping. That’s when I started collecting matchboxes. It’s only been a few months, and I barely have enough to fill that bowl in my apartment.
But there hasn’t been much I’ve done these last few months that I want to commit to memory—a lot of it has been going through the motions, not worth finding something to hold on to.
I wonder what happened to all of Steven’s records.
The back of my eyes prickle as I help Anderson clean up his kitchen from dinner, but I blink away the emotion, focusing on the task at hand. The two of us naturally fall into a rhythm of him scrubbing the pans and plates clean, while I dry them before putting them away in the open cabinets.
The impulse for order, the need for everything to be in its place, isn’t as strong as it was when we first got here—it’s always there, lingering in the back of my mind, but I just… ignore it. Something that’s much easier said than done, and something I haven’t been able to do in months.
Maybe it’s the record Georgie asked Anderson to put on, the soft hum of the music settling my anxieties about coming over here and planning out all the final details of mine and Anderson’s marriage—fake marriage.
Or maybe it’s the man next to me—who had dinner ready for us and made my sister’s smile reach her eyes for the first time in days, maybe even months, knowing how long she’s been suffering in silence.
“How are you doing?” Anderson asks, breaking our comfortable silence for the first time since our polite, surface-level conversation while the three of us ate.
We shared random details from our days while Georgie kept asking Anderson about which records were his favorite, when he started collecting them, and if he had listened to them all.
He answered every single one of her questions with that easy smile and a thoughtful answer. I stayed quiet most of dinner, watching the two of them get to know each other in their own way and enjoying my first full, warm meal in…I don’t know how many days.
The protein bars and energy drinks have kept me moving, but they don’t even come close to Anderson’s cooking.
I don’t want to let myself really think about how normal tonight has felt so far. The three of us sharing a meal, Anderson on one side of the counter, standing as he bent to eat over his plate; Georgie and I seated across from him.
While it is essential for the three of us to play our parts in this, it’s just an act.
Georgie needs to feel comfortable with Anderson—but not too comfortable.
I don’t want her feeling like she’s lost someone all over again once the adoption is finalized, and this all comes to an end.
“I’m good,” I answer noncommittally, my mind still wandering. I hold out my towel-covered hands for him to give me the pan he’s washing, but he just turns his head, raising a brow.
“If we’re going to be husband and wife, you’re gonna have to be honest with me.”
I snort. “Fake husband and wife,” I say, just above a whisper so Georgie doesn’t hear.
Anderson’s eyes flash with something before it disappears. He cocks his head, setting the pan back down in the sink, turning around to lean against the counter. He wipes off his wet hands on his jeans before running a hand through his hair.
“Speaking of which,” he starts, glancing over at Georgie, who is far too invested in the Journey record in one hand and the Celine Dion record in the other.
I have to roll my lips together to hide my smile—the wide range of the artists in Anderson’s collection is showing even from across the room.
“We should probably finish up our plan, huh?”
Our.
How does that one word have the tension in my shoulders lifting, the thoughts in my mind quieting, the lingering loneliness settled deep in my bones slightly lessening?
I set the damp dish towel down on the counter, mirroring Anderson’s stance as I lean back on the counter, crossing my arms over my chest as I turn my head to look at him.
“I guess we start with when we are getting married,” I offer with a sigh.
“It’ll be pretty easy once we have a date. But first, we’ll need to get a marriage license. It’s just a quick trip to the County Clerk’s office with some documents—”
“Wait, you already looked into it?” The words tumble out of my mouth, and I can’t hide my surprise.
Looking into the legal process of marriage was something I meant to do today, but between how busy my shift was at the coffee shop, and the traffic Georgie and I got stuck in when we were stopping at a few stores to get her some new clothes and other things she needed to stay with me more long-term, I didn’t have time.
Anderson nods, not at all affected by my surprise. If anything, he looks pleased with himself that he pulled that reaction from me. “Once we have the marriage license, we can choose what we want to do for a ceremony.”
I shake my head. “No ceremony. We can just make an appointment at the courthouse.”
“Are you sure?” Anderson asks.
“Yep,” I answer quickly, popping the “p”. “No muss, no fuss. Just quick and dirty.” I shrug my shoulders. “It’s not like it means anything more than just a legal union for my guardianship anyway.”
It isn’t until the words are out that I realize how cold—how bitter—I sound, and the way Anderson looks away for a moment before giving me a nod and a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes has me wishing I kept the words to myself.
My voice softens involuntarily. “No need to make it something it isn’t, you know?”
Anderson clears his throat. “Right.” And then, to my shock, says, “You don’t need to keep reminding me that I don’t mean anything to you.”
He turns back toward the sink, handing me the forgotten pot to dry, picking up where we left off. The silence is more than just awkward this time around, a twinge of hurt lingering in the air with Anderson’s words. Not even the music Georgie is playing helps fill it.
“When do you guys want to move in here?” he asks, handing me a soaked plate, the edge in his voice gone.
The question surprises me almost as much as the urge that builds to understand why his words bother me, or why he sounded so hurt—until I remember everything we talked about last night and snap back to reality.
I look around his space as I decide how I want to answer his question. Seeing how big this house really is—even more so in the low light of the evening rather than the darkness of the late night—it’s obvious that there’s more than enough room for a couple of guests.
Anderson lives in a single-story home with high ceilings and big windows.
A polished hardwood floor stretches throughout the space, and everywhere you look, there’s a little bit of Anderson—picture frames hanging on the walls with photos of his family and friends with him at all different ages.
A fridge adorned with magnets holding up a handwritten grocery list and a reminder of when his next dentist appointment is.
Living room shelves filled with worn and weathered books and knick-knacks.
There’s clutter and basically no sensible organization, but it’s the kind that proves someone actually lives here—shoes by the door, a pile of mail on the counter, a backpack slumped in the corner like it’s always just dropped there.
Ordinary traces of a life being lived.
It reminds me of those few years we all lived in the house Steven bought for my mom and my sisters, one big enough for all of us.
The only home I feel like I've ever known.
Everywhere else has just been a place to live.
My chest aches with a quiet heaviness, each beat of my heart threaded with the same longing.
Longing to find even just a sliver of comfort in a place where my mind can finally go still.
One I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to.
“Soon, if that’s okay with you,” I answer.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk about it with Georgie, but once I do, I think we should make the transition.
Plus, the first of many home visits will happen either this week or next, all while CPS continues its investigation before we can officially begin the adoption process.
Moving in with Anderson is part of the deal—something I’m surprised he’s so okay with—and I’ve replayed it in my head since he agreed to marry me last night.
I couldn’t sleep last night after he left, turning over every scenario until the answer felt obvious: it would look more believable if we actually lived here instead of just showing up for the home study.
The marriage might sweeten the deal for CPS, but it won’t speed anything up.
With the adoption taking months—filled with home visits, court hearings, and check-ins with Patricia—we need this marriage to look real.
And that includes the three of us showing the makings for one big happy family.
As if there was even such a thing.
“That works for me,” Anderson says as if we’re just talking about weekend plans—not moving in together.
I never thought I’d ever live with another one of my relationships again.
Granted, after Jett, I never thought I’d find myself in a relationship again, period—even a fake one.
“I have two extra bedrooms, so the two of you can have your pick. Only one has its own bathroom, though.” He hands me a fork and knife to dry, keeping his gaze on his hands in the sink, but I still notice the slight flush of his cheeks. “The other shares mine.”
Of course it fucking does.
I think we both know the whole point of this arrangement is for Georgie to feel comfortable in her own space and just be a fucking kid.
It’s what she deserves.
She’ll get the room with her own bathroom.
I’ll get the one that shares one.
With Anderson.
The man I’ve been seeing—for sex and sex only—who I’ll be sharing a roof with.
For months.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, like it’s nothing, like the thought of brushing past him in that too-small bathroom doesn’t already have my pulse acting up. “I’ve shared worse with less charming company.”
He looks at me, raising a brow. “You think I’m charming?”
“I think that blush in your cheeks is.”
As if on cue, the color in his face deepens, but he doesn’t look away as he hands me the last fork and knife before shutting the faucet off and wiping his hands on his pants again.
“And why is that, love?” His voice goes low, that easy-going confidence coming out to play, like he knows exactly how charming he can be.
“Oh, you know,” I drawl, drying off the utensils and putting them away in the drawer opened next to me, closing it with a bump of my hip. “It just reminds me of… something.”
He raises a brow. “Something?”
I nod. Keeping my voice low, I whisper, “It’s the same flush you have in your cheeks with you c—”
“Ava?”
Anderson jumps at the sound of Georgie calling my name, and I swear I can see all the blood in his body move to his face, that charming confidence replaced with something I find much more attractive in a man.
Who doesn’t love making a man blush?
“Yeah, kiddo?” I yell back into the living room, unbothered.
“Do you think maybe, um, someone can help me change the record?” The nerves in her voice tell me she’s not interested in me helping her, and I don’t fight the smile threatening my lips at the thought of Anderson and these damn records winning over my sister in just one night.
I watch Anderson’s face soften, the embarrassment from a moment ago fading as he grins.
“I got this,” he says to me before heading into the living room, immediately falling into easy conversation with Georgie as he teaches her how to properly take the record off, put it away, and place a new one on.
It was never Anderson’s confidence that kept pulling me in.
It was always the softer thing underneath it—something boyish, unguarded—the way he flushes like he doesn’t know how to hide what he feels, like his heart insists on showing itself.
And watching him with my sister, the two of them bent close over the music they love, smiling like they’ve known each other forever, I realize it isn’t his charm I need to worry about.
It’s that softness.
Because that’s the part that will break me.