17. Ava
AVA
Five days until OA Con
He left me on read.
With a dad joke.
Not good.
I sip the lukewarm coffee I’ve been nursing ever since I got home from school.
I made it as soon as I came in and have been posted up at the kitchen counter ever since, woefully gazing at my phone.
Willing it to buzz. It’s now well after four, and the only text I’ve received is from Stasia, informing me her cousin, a student at Evergreen Beauty College, has offered to do our hair and makeup for free on Saturday and am I okay with that?
I shot off a halfhearted sure, and went back to doom-staring.
Declan’s clearly irked about yesterday. From his point of view, it probably looks like I ducked out early to meet up with Tyler. Which, to be fair, would not be grounds for ignoring me, seeing as Declan and I aren’t dating any more than Tyler and I are. But if he thinks I lied about it…
Sure. I’d be a little miffed too.
I didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, I was trying to do something right. Declan will understand once I explain things. And if he doesn’t? That’s on him.
Which is all well and good in theory, but my bandwidth for emotional confrontations right now is nonexistent. All I want to do is make crafts with my friend, and even that bears an edge of stress after Mom’s chili-chopping rant. At least she didn’t have any more drinks after that. I don’t think…
I really wish Declan would text me back already.
You know what? No. I should just woman up and go down there. Face-to-face is always best when it comes to clearing the air, right? We’ll talk, we’ll laugh, we’ll get back to crafting. Then at least one thing would be right in my world.
Just as soon as I have one more mug of coffee. For good luck.
I dump the remaining dregs into the sink and whip up a fresh cup, savoring the warmth radiating through its ceramic sides.
There’s something about the way the heat seeps into my palms that grounds me, like a magical reset button.
A slow sip, and I’m already feeling better about my decision.
I even wonder if he might not be as upset as I fear.
It’s possible he couldn’t respond to my text the moment he saw it, then forgot. No big deal.
Another sip, another layer of worry stripped away.
My cell vibrates on top of the counter’s granite surface, interrupting the zen state I’m working toward, and I bite back a groan when I see “Dad Calling” emblazoned across the screen. Damn it, he did say was going to check back today, didn’t he? And I more or less implied I would answer.
He’ll just bug Mom about it if you don’t.
I wrinkle my nose, but reluctantly swipe the green accept tab before putting it on speaker—unwilling to let go of my coffee mug touchstone. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?” There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
“Hey, kiddo. I can’t believe I finally got a hold of you.”
My stomach drops, even as my traitorous pulse skips with an irrepressible excitement at hearing his voice.
But he’s still my dad, my hero for twelve formative years.
It’s his fault. The stress of keeping Mom above water, of being the perfect daughter, it all comes down to this man’s selfish decisions. Don’t you dare forget it.
“Yeah, well, I’m right where you left us, so…”
There’s a pause, a quick clearing of his throat. “I wanted to talk to you in person since I’ve got some pretty exciting news.”
I roll my eyes at his use of “in person.” I hardly think phone calls from three thousand miles away count, but whatever.
“Actually, it’s not just my news so much as Becky’s and mine.”
Five years later, and it still feels weird to hear him say her name instead of Mom’s.
“Get this, Ava.”
She’s so different from Mom too. And not in the stereotypical man leaves wife for younger, hotter model kind of way.
Nope. Becky is the same age as Mom. She’s just a run-of-the-mill librarian with curly brown hair and glasses.
While Mom is the proverbial blonde bombshell.
Stand the pair of them side-by-side and poll the internet for who’s hotter, and they’d choose Mom every single time.
Not Dad, though. The one person who mattered.
“You’re going to be a big sister!”
Wait, what did he just say? “I’m… what?”
“Becky’s pregnant.” Dad’s voice is brimming with pride and excitement, but I can barely process what he’s saying. “I’m going to be a dad.”
“But… you are a dad.” My dad.
Something shatters, loud and sharp. I look down at my mug, half expecting to see it in pieces, but it remains whole within the white-knuckled grasp of my hands.
Foreboding creeps up my spine, swiveling me around on my bar stool.
And there’s Mom, pale-faced and slack-jawed, surrounded by a sea of broken glass.
Dad prattles on, but I don’t even try to hear him over the pounding of my heart.
The expression on her face.
That empty, wide-eyed stare.
I’ve seen that look before, and it’s far more chilling than yesterday’s rage-fest.
I fumble for my phone, interrupting whatever Dad’s saying with a mumbled, “Gotta go,” and hanging up without ever taking my eyes off Mom.
She blinks, a flicker of life returning to her deadpan face, and glances down at the glittering wreckage as if only just noticing it.
Words usually reserved for traffic jams and door-to-door solicitors slip from her tongue in a muttered jumble.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it. Just don’t move.
” I make a mad dash for the utility closet and grab the broom.
When I get back, Mom is crouched down, picking shards of glass up off the floor with her bare hands.
“Let me get that.” I hold out the dustpan for the few she’s already lifted, grateful not to see any blood coloring her fingers.
She sets them dutifully into the dirt-stained tray.
“Honestly, I don’t know what came over me.
Talk about klutzy.” She laughs, but it’s a shaky laugh.
An “I’m on the verge of either screaming or sobbing” kind of laugh.
I swallow a growing lump of fear and sweep up the remaining shards in double time.
“It’s just a little glass, no big deal,” I assure her, miraculously managing to keep my tone light and casual despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I’m halfway to the garbage bin when she says, “So your dad and Becky are having a baby. How exciting.”
I stomp on the bin’s pedal and thrust the broken bits inside with far more force than necessary. “Um, yeah. I guess.”
“A baby,” Mom repeats, softer this time. Wistful. Her hands brush her own stomach, lashes fluttering briskly. “That’s…” She trails off. Turns, giving me her back. The inward curve of her shoulders is like a knife to my heart. “Excuse me,” she whispers, wandering out of the kitchen as if in a daze.
Going to her office?
Her bedroom?
Her keys are still hanging on their hook by the espresso machine, so at least I know she isn’t planning to leave. Not yet anyway.
It’ll be fine. Everything is going to be just fine.
I put the broom away and use a wet paper towel to wipe the floor, checking for stray bits of glass with an almost robotic efficiency.
There’s a dull hum buzzing in my ears, punctuated by the memory of Mom’s soft voice.
“A baby.” It whispers through my mind, repeatedly, until I think I might scream.
The humming fades, leaving a weighted silence in its wake.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message, and I check it from sheer habit. Declan, answering my earlier text.
Declan: I don’t know, what?
Tears prick my eyes, and I walk out of the kitchen, leaving the message unanswered on the counter. My chest squeezes impossibly tight as I move up the stairs, one lumbering step at a time. A baby, a baby, a baby. I pause when I reach the top, catching my breath. “I’m going to be a dad.”
My knees hit the lush, ivory carpet, and I double over, arms hugging my waist.
You are a dad.
You’re my dad.
The dam breaks, tears streaming down my cheeks and soaking my jean-clad thighs. A shudder ripples through my entire body, and I choke back a sob, not daring to draw Mom’s attention. She can’t see me like this. I’m the strong one, her rock. I can’t just…
Another sob.
I slap a hand over my mouth, eyes squeezing shut.
No. I can’t go back there. Can’t watch her unravel like that again. I swipe a hand over my eyes with a bruising roughness and plant both fists in the carpet. Get up, damn it. Get up and fix this.
My legs are little more than wobbling gelatin, but somehow, somehow I find myself standing once again.
I draw my shoulders back, breathe. I have what I need to get through this.
One step forward, chin lifting. All I can do is my best. Another step, another breath.
I can handle these feelings. I pause with my ear to the door of Mom’s office, and listen.
Silence.
I move on, repeating my mantras until I’m in front of her bedroom door.
My fingers flex, rising to rest on the knob without turning it.
A deep breath in, and I listen. The opening strains to “My Girl” by the Temptations waft through the door, muffled laughter and grainy voices woven throughout, and a fresh wave of pain threatens to knock me back to my knees.
She’s watching my baby videos.
Reliving a time when Dad was still my dad.
When he was her husband, not Becky’s. She always used to talk about her pregnancy like it was some kind of fairy tale dream—minus the swelling and backbreaking labor.
She’d go on and on about Dad treating her like a queen and anticipating her every need.
The way he’d stepped up after I was born and changed every diaper he could.
The way he’d rock me to sleep with a bottle, or pace the nursery for hours on end, patiently patting my back and whispering stories about space cowboys and aliens in long red coats.
And now he’s going to do it all again with Becky?
With this new baby?
He’s already replaced his wife. A fresh wave of silent tears, bitter and burning. Why not replace his daughter? He’s been needing a new convention mascot.
I leave Mom to her videos and schlep into my room, falling onto the bed and curling into as tight a ball as my body will allow. The afternoon sun shines bright through the window, too bright for these wretched feelings clawing at my chest.
I drag a pillow over my face, and finally release the scream that’s been burning in my lungs.