Chapter 14 #4
He gives me a knowing look, climbs down off the chair, and adjusts his shirt. “Tree house, friend. Goes there when she needs some peace.” Fisher grabs two glasses from a nearby table and hands them to me. “Wine is on the rack on your way out. Good luck.”
Snatching a bottle of red, along with a corkscrew from a basket holding several of them, I step outside and let the screen door close behind me.
The crisp air nips at my skin, scented with pine needles and the faint sweetness of fallen leaves. It’s quieter out here. The laughter and music from inside are now muffled, becoming a memory I’m already starting to miss.
My eyes scan the backyard. Tucked beneath the arms of two old oaks, half-shrouded by shadows and strung with soft fairy lights, is Ava’s treehouse. Elevated above eye level, it’s more than a childhood hideout. It’s her sacred spot.
And she’s up there. And I’m suddenly very nervous.
I hesitate for a moment, debating on giving Ava the distance she so obviously needs, but my selfish nature takes over, driving me straight toward the treehouse.
Shoving the corkscrew in my pocket, I climb the ladder, strategically carrying the wine and glasses with me. Each step creaks under my weight, an echoing heartbeat in the quiet.
Ava’s silhouette is my guiding light under the golden glow inside. Once I’m at the top, I see her. Knees tucked to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her, eyes on the stars beyond the little open window. She’s surrounded by this space that’s so precious to her. The secrets it must keep.
I want to be someone who belongs here, in this perfect, quiet corner of the world. With her.
She doesn’t say anything as I ease onto the floor beside her, setting the wine down first. It’s cramped in here, and my knees bump hers.
The air is warm and fragrant with cedar and the fading scent of chimney smoke.
It’s intimate. As though the whole world forgot to press record on this moment—and I’m grateful for it.
I pour two glasses. Ava’s fingers brush mine when she accepts hers. We sip in silence for a beat.
“This place is…” I pause, searching for a word that’s worthy.
“Magic.” Ava finishes for me. She smiles, leaning her head back against the wood-paneled wall. “My dad built it when I was six. Told me every girl needed a castle. I said I wanted a hideout instead. So he gave me both.”
“You spent a lot of time up here, then?”
“Every weekend. After school. I used to bring my notebook and write for hours. Or read. Sometimes I’d lie here and listen to the wind.”
“I didn’t have anything this cool growing up.” My eyes scan the space. “Not even close.”
Her voice softens. “Where did you grow up?”
“L.A. But not the shiny parts.” I take a drink, letting the tannins roll over my tongue. “Tiny apartment. Paper-thin walls. My dad was a mechanic, always working. Mom left when I was eight. Never came back. I have no idea if she’s living or dead.”
Ava winces. “Oh, Soren, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” It isn’t.
“How did you cope?”
I think back. “My middle school English teacher saw potential in me. Taught me how to read for escape—and write for it too.”
Ava is cradling her wine glass between her palms, listening. “Is that when your writing career began?” She smiles.
“Yeah. Stories were my way of running away. I’d stay up late making up lives for other people. Better ones.”
There’s a pause, and then she gently asks, “You ever write about them? Your parents?”
My throat nearly closes up. I stare down at the wine in my glass. “I used to. But sometimes it got too real, and I needed distance.”
She nods. Questions are swimming in her eyes—waiting to be asked.
With a sigh, I shift to lean against the opposite wall, stretching out my legs. “Truth is… my dad and I haven’t spoken in years.”
Ava stills. “What happened?”
I run a hand through my hair, every word a weight.
“Shit,” she says. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I can’t believe I asked that.”
“Please, I don’t mind. My father didn’t understand why I didn’t want to work at the shop.
Or why I quit that job at the ripe age of eighteen to write full-time.
Said it was irresponsible. Said I was throwing everything away.
We fought. I told him he never supported me anyway, so what did it matter? ”
Her face crumples with sympathy.
“I published my first book a year later. I sent him a copy. He mailed it back—shredded.”
“Oh my God, Soren—”
“It’s okay, Bells. I haven’t heard from him since.
I certainly haven’t reached out. I don’t intend to.
I think in the end, it was an easy out for him.
He wasn’t the most loving parent.” My lids bat against the sting in my eyes.
“Sometimes I tell myself I don’t care. That he doesn’t matter.
But I do care. And he does matter. It all mattered. ”
“You matter,” she says immediately, yanking my attention straight to her. The silence between us grows with each breath. Ava scoots closer. Her voice is barely audible when she adds, “That’s not fair. You deserved better.”
I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice.
Ava reaches out and touches my arm briefly, causing a spike in my heart rate.
Staring down at where she’s touching me, I let out a quiet breath.
She smiles, sad and beautiful. Her fingers curl tighter around my arm, and then my eyes skim over the tiny wooden room, the bottle between us, the girl beside me, and everything in me aches with how much I want her.
Us. But I do nothing to ease that ache. I sit in quiet with her, sipping and watching the stars twinkle into existence.
Ava speaks first. “I’m glad you came.”
“You told me.” I shift slightly so our shoulders touch.
“And, me too.” I’m not glad in a casual, polite sort of way.
I’m glad in the bone-deep, don’t-ever-fucking-let-go kind of way.
But her calling me a friend earlier today was a punch to the chest wrapped in a bright, shiny, Christmas bow. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Another small smile is her response.
I need to tell her I want more. That I need more. As always, I chicken out, and instead I say, “I’m sorry for grabbing your leg at dinner. I was only trying to be a safe space.”
The words hang there, pathetic and limp. Safe space? Jesus Christ. Of all the phrases in the English language—hell, of all the ones I’ve written—that’s what I go with?
For being a New York Times Bestselling Author, I sure as fuck am having issues finding the right words to say to this girl.
Glancing over, her eyes are shadowed with warmth. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have left you there. I don’t know what came over me.”
I study her face—defensive Ava is gone. What’s left is more vulnerable. Still lit from within by the flame of whatever that moment between us was, when my palm met her thigh.
“My touch…it did something to you.”
She doesn’t deny it.
“Was it bad?”
“No.” She exhales slowly. “I… I just wasn’t prepared for it.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. “Has it been a while since someone has touched you, Bells?”
After a long few seconds, she finally answers, “Yeah,” her voice a whisper.
I swallow, fighting the instinct to apologize for something I didn’t do.
I don’t care about who she’s dated previously—or how many there were.
Lord knows, I don’t want to discuss my numbers.
What gets me is the thought that no one before me made her feel like she mattered.
So I reach for the only thing that might make her smile.
“Well,” I say, aiming for lightness, “your grandma keeps telling me I hung the damn moon, so I’d say I’m officially in your family’s top five.”
A laugh. “To her, you’re an upgrade. The last guy–whom I dated for a whole five minutes before deciding it would be a good idea to bring him home and meet the family–serenaded the turkey with Wonderwall.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. He made aggressive eye contact with my dad during the chorus.”
Laughter bursts out of me. “Jesus. Wonderwall?”
“He was a huge mistake.”
“Clearly.” My head tilts. “No wonder I’m in the top five?”
She bites her bottom lip, eyes dancing. “I brought home a male cat once. He’s number one.”
“And why’s that?”
“He hissed at everyone and puked in my cousin’s shoe. It went over about as well as Wonderwall, but I thought it was hilarious.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Well, he was probably cute and cuddly, so that’s hardly fair.”
“He was definitely cute and cuddly.” Her smile falters slightly. “And also… cats don’t lie to you or—” She stops. The tension returns.
My smile fades. “Or, what?” The question comes out defensive.
“Not important.” She lifts her glass in a toast, deflecting. “To emotional fortresses and extremely low expectations.”
I clink mine against hers gently. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Ava’s eyes meet mine, defiant yet wounded. “Believe what? That it isn’t important? Or that I don’t let people in?”
“That you don’t want to.”
Her lips press together, she looks away, jaw tight. “Wanting’s the easy part.”
Her voice is soft. Almost like she’s admitting it to herself more than to me. I don’t push. I sit with it. And her. The silence between us isn’t awkward; heavy rather, in the way truth always is.
Ava’s fingers trace the rim of her glass, giving her something to focus on in this tense and now uncomfortable moment for her. I’m sure she’s about to shut this conversation down and run. But then she surprises me.
“I used to think love was this beautiful thing. That it was supposed to fix things, overcome hardship, or conquer all,” she says, opening up a little, but laughing it off at the same time. “I thought if someone loved me enough, it’d glue all the broken pieces back together.”
“Do you not think that now?”
She wraps her arms around her legs, glass still in hand. “Now, I think love is a hammer. You let someone in, and they’ll swing that hammer, making all your racks worse.”
My heart sinks. “Not everyone swings to hurt.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she confesses.