Chapter 14 #3
When one of the uncles offers to help them, Mandy waves them off with a “Don’t you dare touch that pecan pie.” She’s running a ship and a sitcom at the same time.
Ava’s engulfed by a mix of craziness and comfort, and she’s completely in her element.
One of her little cousins barrels from out of the living room and launches himself at her full speed.
She catches him midair on instinct and wraps him in her arms, kisses the top of his head, and keeps right on talking while he clings to her like a koala.
Everything inside me twists.
Ava’s beautiful. She’s rooted. She’s effortless, capable, full of fire and softness. She’s something I’ve never let myself want.
Until now.
The next hour is a blur of being passed around as though I’m the last deviled egg at a church potluck.
I’m answering questions about my books, my skincare routine, and whether I’m “the one who wore the poet blouse on ShelfSpace.”
Before I can even finish my sentence, Mandy starts corralling everyone for family pictures. I politely offer to take them, phone already in hand, but she waves me off.
“Nope. You’re in them too, sweetheart,” she says, already dragging me into the frame with a grin that promises she’ll be telling this story at our wedding someday.
I hope that comes true.
There’s the full family shot. One with the cousins. The siblings. And then—because Mandy is on a mission—she insists on a few of just Ava and me.
“Smile,” she chirps, snapping away before Ava can object. She shows us the pictures afterward, and a fist of feelings punches me right in the gut.
I grin. And it’s not forced.
I’m standing next to Ava, her shoulder brushing mine, her family buzzing around us, and I belong here.
I don’t have to fake much of anything. There’s something disarming about it all.
The warmth. The noise. The way her little cousin just slipped his hand into mine as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And then there’s her.
Smiling through clenched teeth. Barely holding it together. Still the most magnetic person in the room.
Fisher comes up behind Mandy. “Could you send those to me?”
“Of course,” Mandy replies.
Guilt worms its way through my veins. This photo isn’t for ShelfSpace, followers, or press tours. It’s a picture of us that no one’s staging. There’s zero branding. Zero spin. It’s Ava and me…Pretending to be something we aren’t.
Reality hits. Shit.
My shoulders fall. I want it to be real. God help me, I want this fiction to become fact.
“Can you send them to me, too?” I ask Mandy.
Ava’s head snaps in my direction. “Why?”
She’s squinting up at me like I asked for a lock of her hair to add to my voodoo shrine.
Shrugging, I keep it casual. “We look good together. It’s a nice picture.”
Her eyes narrow. “You planning to doodle devil horns on me and post it with a snarky caption?”
“Tempting. But no.”
Ava crosses her arms, clearly unconvinced. “Seriously. Why?”
There’s a pause. My gaze meets hers. “Because this—” I gesture around us, at her family laughing in the kitchen, pumpkin pie wafting in the air, the photo that captures us, together. “–feels nice. And I want to remember it.”
A mixture of confusion and uncertainty flies across her face. Ava opens her mouth, but doesn’t speak. Her arms drop slightly. She moves into my frame so nobody can hear her say, “You being sincere when you’re not on camera is messing with my head.”
“Get used to it.”
Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink. “I might draw horns on you.”
“I hope you do.”
I love this version of her. She lets me in—grudgingly, sarcastically. I’ll take it.
Afterward, someone hands me a staple gun, and suddenly I’m on a ladder helping string lights while Ava’s aunt tells me I have “good shoulder posture.”
I carry folding chairs, open a stubborn jar, fix a rogue cabinet hinge, and sneak not one—but eight—sips of The Gallows Gulp from Uncle Marty’s thermos, which tastes like cinnamon, jet fuel, and is sure to turn into a horrible decision later. Or possibly a good one. We’ll see.
Dinner is an explosion of colorful conversations. Not one soul can escape the turkey hats. Even Tom is wearing one—though he keeps muttering about losing a war for this.
Mandy passes the rolls. Tom drops a turkey leg in a toddler’s lap. G-Ma leads a toast that turns into a eulogy for her third husband—who’s very much still alive but ‘dead to her.’
“Didn’t she say she had four dead exes?” I ask Ava quietly.
“Honestly, we stopped counting years ago.”
Confused, I nod anyway and set my attention back on the craziness before me. Ava’s little cousin insists I’m a wizard. I might be. The Gallows Gulp is doing things.
“So,” Uncle Marty pipes up, eyes glassy from his own drink, “how long have you two lovebirds been together? This is all so sudden to me.”
Ava stiffens beside me. “Oh, um—”
“Did you meet on one of those apps?” Aunt Lo asks, shoving a casserole at me.
Before Ava can answer, her mother chimes in with a knowing smile, “No, he’s the online nemesis, remember? He made fun of her books on all those videos. Went viral.”
“Actually,” I start, trying to help, “we—”
“Is he the one you called ‘that cocky writer boy with a face for sinful things and a womb broom to boot’?” Another aunt—I forget her name—adds from down the table.
Ava chokes on her wine. “I never said that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” G-Ma clicks her tongue. “We’ve got the group texts, Sugar.”
As the table erupts with laughter, I reach under the table and gently place my hand on Ava’s bouncing thigh, hoping to reassure her, or ground her, but she jumps like she’s been shocked. I retract my hand, the heat of her thigh still lingering on my palm.
Ava blurts, “Excuse me,” before pushing back from the table.
Around me, the noise continues. I want to follow Ava, explain why I touched her, ask her–no beg her–to let me in, only a little, or at the very least, talk to me about what’s bothering her. “Friend” to “friend.”
But I don’t. It’s not the right time. Ava needs space.
Eventually, the crazy winds down. Bellies full and plates scraped clean, the group separates into little pods—some toward the back porch for cigars, others toward the living room to claim space in front of the football game.
Lingering at the edge of the kitchen, I offer to help clean. Mandy shakes her head no, then reconsiders when I insist a few more times.
“Alright, handsome, you’re on drying duty.”
“My favorite.” I grin, clapping my hands and rubbing them together.
We fall into an easy rhythm, her washing and me drying. It’s quieter now, the family buzz melting into a post-feast lethargy.
My gaze lands on a photo above the sink—a much younger Ava, gap-toothed and muddy-kneed, proudly holding up a pumpkin twice her size.
I nod toward the picture. “She looks fierce.”
“She was,” Mandy replies with a soft smile. “Still is. That was her in second grade. Refused to let anyone help her carry that thing to the truck. Said if she picked it, she’d handle it.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Ava’s been that way since birth. Headstrong. Big-hearted. She’s had it broken into a million tiny pieces, so be careful with her, Soren. If Ava gives you the chance to be the one she lets in, don’t waste it.”
I nod, throat tight. “I won’t. Any other advice?”
“Guard your heart, though.” Mandy’s voice dips, a little heavier now.
“My girl retreats when things get to be too overwhelming. It’s her defense mechanism.
There might come a time when you’ll need her and she won’t be there, not because she doesn’t care, but because she’s terrified.
You’ll think she’s selfish, but she’s not.
She’s just scared. Ava doesn’t understand love the way she writes it…
not yet. She can pen happily-ever-afters for everyone else, but when it comes to her own?
” Mandy shakes her head slowly. “She’s still learning what that looks like. ”
“I’ll wait as long as it takes for her to learn.”
Mandy stops washing, looks over at me. “I believe you. I can’t wait for Ava to experience that.
She’s got these walls. Gorgeous things, built from pain and brilliance and stubbornness.
If anyone’s gonna tear them down, it’ll be someone who sees the masterpiece underneath.
” She grips the edge of the sink, exhales.
“She needs a man who’s serious and won’t walk away when it gets messy, Soren.
I’m not asking you to promise that. I’m just asking for you to understand it. ”
My voice is hoarse when I answer, “I promise, Mandy.”
She offers a gentle, approving smile and slides another dish into the drying rack. The scent of rosemary and lavender soap blends with the wood smoke drifting through the open window.
How badly I want this hits worse than ever before. Not just Ava. But this messy, complicated, nosy, wonderful family. I’ve been folded into something bigger than myself, and I want it permanently.
But the guilt creeps in like rot. We’re lying to them. Every laugh, every toast, every photo snapped tonight with me beside Ava is built on a stunt. A PR move. An illusion.
These people deserve more than what we’re giving them. Ava deserves more, too.
I close my eyes for a breath. Re-centering. I need to remember that I didn’t come here to keep up appearances.
She’s what I want.
She’s what I’m staying for.
I’ll prove that to her.
After Mandy and I finish drying the last dish, I go searching for Ava.
I pass through the den, where a handful of her relatives are engaged in a loud debate about the Red Sox bullpen. I avoid that one.
In the front room, Fisher is standing on a chair wearing a fishnet shirt, dramatically reading everyone’s fortunes from a tea-stained napkin. There are feathers in his hair. Why? I don’t ask.
“Fisher,” I call out, trying to snag his attention. “You seen Ava?”