23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
AVA
I wake to soft light filtering through the curtains, the kind that tells me I’ve slept later than I meant to. I lay there, caught in that soft, blurry space where last night still lingers. Jackson’s game, the win, the noise of the arena still echoing in my bones.
But reality slides in quickly. I have a meeting with my team to address the fallout from Brad’s pullback and figure out how we’ll stay afloat without the funding.
Grabbing my laptop, I head downstairs to make coffee.
The clock reads just past eight. I must’ve slept through the morning rush.
Miss Taylor’s already taken the boys to school, and Jackson left for practice.
Thirty minutes later, my laptop camera blinks to life, and faces start popping up across the screen.
Jenna’s first, a huge mug in hand, hair pulled into a messy bun.
One by one, the rest of my team joins. Kim, our development director; Evelyn, who handles outreach; Drew from marketing.
I explain what happened with Brad. By the time I finish, everyone looks grim.
“So petty, right?” Jenna mutters.
Kim frowns. “We need to reassure the smaller donors fast. If they think we’re in trouble…”
“We won’t let this derail everything,” I say firmly.
“Damn right we’re not,” Jenna says.
I take a breath, scanning their faces. “Here’s the plan. We launch a public-facing campaign this week. We highlight impact stories: families served, kids reached, real outcomes. We want current donors and potential ones to see the value, loud and clear.”
Drew nods. “I can draft the messaging today.”
I nod, jotting a note. “Let’s keep our community events rolling: the bookmobile stops, the after-school workshops, all of it. We can’t afford to lose momentum on the ground.”
Evelyn nods. “I’ll handle it. We’ve got a strong volunteer crew lined up through next month. I’ll make sure everything stays on schedule.”
I’m scribbling notes when it hits me. We don’t just need to patch the gap.
We need to show we’re moving forward. Stronger. Louder.
“One more thing.”
My fingers hesitate on the keyboard. Then I look up.
“I want to put on a fundraising gala.”
Jenna’s brows lift. “You mean like black tie, auction, the works?”
“Yes.” My voice steadies. “Something big that says we’re not just surviving, we’re thriving . We’ll use it to attract new donors and make a statement.”
Kim nods slowly. “It’s exactly the kind of move that will send the right message.”
“I’ll start brainstorming venues,” Evelyn says. “And potential sponsors.”
“Now that’s the Ava I know.” Jenna grins. “Aim high. Swing big.”
The energy on the call shifts. It’s stronger now, charged with something close to excitement.
We’re not playing defense anymore.
We’re writing the next chapter ourselves.
After the call, I close the laptop and sit back.
I should feel rattled, but instead, I feel steady.
We’re moving forward. We have a plan.
The day creeps by faster than I expect.
I’ve spent the last few hours pulling together notes for the gala: vendor leads, draft guest lists, a tentative run of show. I’m halfway through reviewing venue options when my phone buzzes beside me.
It’s a text from Jackson.
Greg confirmed for dinner tonight. You still okay with that?
I stare at the screen for a beat too long.
Am I?
My fingers hover over the send button before I text him back.
Yes, all good.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, my breath catching in my throat. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in around me.
Greg knows we’re fake dating. But having dinner here with him, after everything that’s happened, after sleeping with Jackson, after watching him on the ice last night and feeling things I shouldn’t...
That’s a different story entirely.
By early evening, the kitchen smells amazing. Miss Taylor started the main course earlier, and Jackson and I toss salad, arrange bread, and wipe counters in the easy way we seem to fall into now.
I glance sideways as he slices bread with smooth, practiced motions. He’s in jeans and a dark button-down shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he works.
It shouldn’t do things to my pulse. But it does.
The sound of the knife against the cutting board, the faint clink of silverware in the background, the low hum of the oven. It’s all so domestic. Too easy to fall into this rhythm and forget what’s real and what isn’t.
Greg thinks it’s a performance to keep Brad away.
And it was. At first.
What if he looks across the table tonight and sees everything I’m trying so hard not to admit, even to myself?
We finish setting the table just as Miss Taylor brings in a casserole dish.
The doorbell rings just as the boys are finishing their races up and down the hallway, socked feet sliding across the hardwood.
“I’ll get it!” Noah shouts, already sprinting.
I press my palms against the countertop for one long breath, then follow.
When the door swings open, Greg steps inside in his usual unhurried way: dark jeans, a button-down rolled at the sleeves, hair slightly tousled from work.
“Uncle Greg!” Noah and Liam launch themselves at him before he’s fully through the door.
He crouches to catch them both, laughing. “Hey, little men! Did you guys help with dinner?”
Liam grins. “We set the napkins!”
Noah adds proudly, “And Ava helped too.”
Greg glances up, his eyes meeting mine.
He rises. “Hey, sis.” His voice softens as he pulls me into a hug.
Then he moves past me toward Jackson, who’s already coming down the hall.
“Hey, man,” Greg says, and the two clasp shoulders in that easy way they’ve had forever.
Jackson grins. “Glad you could make it.”
Greg grins. “Hell of a game last night.”
We move into the dining room. Jackson and Greg trade banter about the playoffs, while the kids weave between us. Miss Taylor pours drinks and plates food before tactfully retreating to let us have the evening.
Dinner starts casual with baked pasta, salad, and bread. The boys chatter nonstop about school and dinosaurs and whether Uncle Greg can beat Jackson in a race. Greg claims he could if given a head start and the right bribe.
“Uncle Greg,” Noah says suddenly, eyes wide. “Do you get to use those X-ray machines?”
Greg grins. “All the time. They make pictures so I can see where the breaks are.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. "You know, Ava used to fake sprained ankles just to get out of PE."
I roll my eyes. "I did not!"
Jackson laughs, leaning back in his chair. "You definitely did. I carried you home at least three times. You clung to my back like a possum."
Greg snorts. "You mean she conned you into free piggyback rides. Classic."
I throw a napkin at both of them, but I’m laughing too.
I let the sound of Jackson and Greg’s old friendship steady me. Watching them together feels grounding. It’s been years since I’ve seen them like this, and even now, something about it makes me feel safe.
Greg’s eyes flick between Jackson and me, and for just a second, I catch the hint of something in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe even a touch of realization. My stomach flips, and I quickly look away, pretending not to notice. But the weight of his glance lingers, making my pulse pick up.
Halfway through dinner, Greg gestures with his fork. "Remember those neighborhood snowball fights? Ava always insisted on being on Jackson’s team so she wouldn’t get pelted."
Jackson smirks. "Smart choice. You had terrible aim."
Greg scoffs. "I had excellent aim. You just always blocked her like some kind of human shield."
I’m smiling, but underneath it, something pulls in my chest.
Because Jackson is still shielding me, even now.
The boys drift to their rooms after dessert: sleepy, full, voices trailing softer now. Miss Taylor follows with a gentle hand on Noah’s back, promising a quick story before lights out.
Jackson and Greg head into the living room. I linger in the kitchen, collecting plates, my mind distracted by their conversation. I can’t quite make out the words, just Greg’s serious cadence, and Jackson’s calm replies. My pulse picks up anyway, my mind filling in the blanks.
By the time I step into the living room, Greg is rising from the couch, phone in hand. “Early surgery tomorrow,” he says, sliding the phone into his pocket. “I should get going.”
That’s when I hear the familiar sound of a soft voice calling out from the hallway.
"Dad, can you help me with something?"
Jackson's smile fades slightly, his focus immediately shifting. "I’ll be right there," he calls back, then looks at Greg. "Sorry, it's Noah."
Greg waves it off with a chuckle. "Go ahead. I'll head out."
As I walk Greg to the door, he turns to me. “I’m just a call away, okay? Let me know if you need anything,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
I nod, words caught somewhere beneath my ribs. He gives my arm one last squeeze, then steps out into the night. The door closes softly behind him.
And I’m left standing in the quiet, the weight of it all pressing in.
A sudden realization hits me then.
I can’t keep pretending this is fake anymore.
I draw a shaky breath because ready or not, I have to talk to Jackson.
And soon.