19. Ava
AVA
Four days until OA Con
Declan held me in the grass at the playground until the chill seeping up from the earth became too cold to ignore.
Then we combined our strength to retrieve Persnickety from his cherry-blossom perch, with me standing precariously on Declan’s shoulders, one hand on the trunk for balance as I scooped Snicky up with the other.
The reward for our heroics? Matching scratches.
The saying “no good deed goes unpunished” was clearly referring to stubborn felines.
I crept into the house by nine and checked on Mom. Her lights were out, and judging by the soft snoring sounds coming from the mom-shaped lump in her bed, she was already sound asleep. I hoped that was a good sign.
I, on the other hand, did not have such luck. I spent most of the night tossing and turning until my sheets were tangled around my legs, the pillows strewn about the floor. By the time I fell asleep, the sun was already starting to make itself known. My alarm chirped shortly thereafter.
I drag myself out of bed, grumbling mindlessly as I shuck off last night’s running clothes and schlep into the shower.
I consider making it a cold one, hoping to jolt myself awake, but that plan lasts all of two seconds after the icy water hits.
I crank up the heat and decide a double shot of espresso will work just as well without the added torture.
Mom is already in the kitchen by the time I make it downstairs, dressed for work and stirring a pot of something that smells like heaven. I float over to the stove like Pepé Le Pew, drawn by the mouthwatering notes of cinnamon apple.
“Homemade oatmeal?” I wrap her in a hug while leaning over her shoulder and sniffing appreciatively. “Have I mentioned lately that you’re the best mom ever? ’Cause you are.”
“I’m aware.” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “Now make yourself useful and pour us some orange juices, will you? I’m just about ready to dish up.”
“How about I pour you an OJ, and we rig up some kind of coffee IV for me. Send it straight into the bloodstream.”
Mom shoots me a sympathetic grimace while scooping oatmeal into rustic ceramic bowls. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.” I pour her juice and shuffle over to the espresso maker.
She’s quiet as she sets our bowls on the table, and I kick myself when I glance over my shoulder and see the worry etched across her face.
The last thing I want is to add to her stress.
That glass of wine scratches at my brain, ensuring I never fully relax.
“I just stayed up too late watching old Gilmore Girls episodes. You know how addicting it gets.”
Her expression eases, and she smiles while she blows on a spoonful of oatmeal. “That I do.”
I finish making my coffee and join her at the table, letting out an exaggerated moan as I breathe in the brown sugar and comfort of the oatmeal.
“This smells amazing.” I scoop up a heaping spoonful and pretend to melt in my chair when it passes my lips.
“Absolute perfection. I swear, you’re like a breakfast savant or something. ”
Mom brushes my compliment off with a laugh. “I don’t know about that, but I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” I say around another mouthful. “Thanks for getting up early to make it.”
She leans across the table and tweaks the end of my braid. “Anything for my sweet baby.”
It’s an endearment she’s used a million times or more, but the moment the words tumble from her mouth, it’s like the temperature instantly drops twenty degrees, the word baby echoing silently through the room.
The smile on Mom’s face flickers and dies.
Oatmeal sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Mom picks up her juice. Sets it down. Stares into her oatmeal.
My own stomach tightens at the reminder of Dad’s impending spawn, his second chance at a favored child. My replacement.
I choke out the first thing I can think of, desperate to cast a little light on this looming shadow.
“Stasia said Ben made dinner reservations at Tony’s for the four of us before prom, so if you want to do photos at Pine Lake Park, we should probably plan to be there by five.
Stasia’s cousin, Tracy, is a cosmetology student, and offered to do our hair and makeup for free, so we’ll start getting ready over there by three if you wanna come with. ”
The distraction works, the allure of prom effectively pulling Mom free of her spiraling funk. Her expression brightens. “If you’re sure I won’t be in the way?”
“Absolutely not.” I reach across the table, clasping her hand in mine. “I’m always going to want you with me. You’re my number one.”
I keep an eye out for Declan when I get to school, equal parts anxious and eager to see him.
Last night felt like a turning point in our friendship, a reset of sorts, but with an added layer of tension any time I think of the way his arms felt wrapped around me.
He did that to comfort you because you were a sobbing mess, I remind myself sternly. It wasn’t meant to be romantic.
And yet I’m sure I heard his heart pounding as loud and fast as mine.
“There she is! My lucky charm.” Tyler’s voice cuts through the crowd like sunshine on a rainy day, bringing smiles to everyone around us while he and a handful of his teammates make their way down the hall.
They’re wearing their white home jerseys, and nearby hands are immediately held out for fist bumps and high fives when they pass.
Tyler bounds to my side, grinning widely.
“You coming to the game tonight? Chapel Hill is going down.”
I grin and slap his proffered hand, his puppy-like excitement as contagious as ever. “Can’t today. I’m working on a project with Declan after school.”
“My man Declan.” Tyler grins. “I haven’t seen him since our Ping-Pong match. How’s his forehead doing? I think I might have got him pretty hard on that last shot.”
“He’s fine,” I deadpan, but Tyler just continues to grin in that happy-go-lucky, everything-is-awesome way of his. Honestly, I’m pretty sure the latter is his personal theme song.
“Well, that’s cool that you guys are working on something together. Hey, is he going to prom on Saturday? Maybe he and his date can share our limo. The more the merrier, right?”
The guileless sincerity in which he suggests this makes me smile in spite of myself. He really is a sweet guy. The kind my mom would be thrilled to invite over for dinner and a movie night. The Dean to our Lorelai and Rory.
Only, everyone knows Dean isn’t going to make Rory happy in the long run…
My gaze strays back down the hall, searching for a mess of dark brown hair, and that battered shop hoodie I kind of want to steal for myself.
“I don’t think he’s going,” I reply, distracted by visions of Declan in a tux.
Lean and tall. Sleek, but with an added touch of nerdiness in his bow tie or cuff links.
He’d probably be a terrible dancer. Hopeless, really.
We’d have an absolute blast.
“Bummer.” Tyler starts walking backward. “I’ve gotta get to homeroom, but I’ll see you at lunch. Nacho day,” he adds, turning to his friends. There’s a chorus of hoots and hell yeahs as their herd moves down the hall.
I watch him disappear inside a classroom, wishing I had even an ounce of his natural charisma. Maybe then, I’d be able to make Mom happy, despite Dad walking out on us. Replacing first her, and now me. My chest aches, threads of bitter what-ifs wrapping around my heart, squeezing and slicing.
Maybe then, he never would have left in the first place.
Declan and I have apparently shifted into parallel universes, as I never catch more than a passing glimpse of him all day.
I do, however, text him a joke involving escalators, to which he responds with one about mermaids crossing the ocean.
They’re ridiculously corny and Stasia would never stop making fun of me if she ever saw our thread.
They’re the best part of my day, and I’m feeling buoyant when I come home from school, ready to make a quick change into my shop clothes and run down to Declan’s to finish up our preparations. And maybe sneak in an anime or two, if there’s time. (I’ll make time.)
The mood shifts, however, when I step inside the foyer and see Mom’s purse hanging on the coat rack, her work heels stored neatly in the shoe bench. Did she get out early? I peek into the kitchen, but there’s no sign of her.
I dump my backpack on the floor and call up the stairs. “Mom? You home?”
No answer.
My pulse kicks up, and I take a deep breath, willing myself not to freak out. I’m sure everything is fine. I slip off my shoes, taking the time to tuck them away in the bench, and pad calmly up the stairs in my stocking feet. “Mom?”
Nothing. Maybe she’s out on the deck? The weather is unseasonably nice today. Maybe she opted to work from home. I stop in front of her bedroom and rap my knuckles on the door before cracking it open. “Mom? You in here?”
A muffled groan lures me the rest of the way in, and I peer through the faint light at the bed, the bright spring sunshine blocked by heavy, room darkening curtains. Mom lifts her head off the pillow.
“Oh, Ava. You’re home.” She blinks groggy eyes and squints at the neon numbers glaring from her alarm clock. “Is it that late already? Shoot. I only meant to lie down for a minute.”
“Are you sick?” I perch on the side of the bed and rest my hand on her forehead, checking for a temperature. “It’s not like you to be in bed at this hour.”
Not anymore, anyway. But we don’t talk about the time before.
“I’m fine, just a bit of a headache is all.” She sits up and brushes a clump of blonde hair away from her face. “How was school?”
“Good.” I skim her bedside table, and my heart stutters at the sight of an empty whisky bottle—one of those tiny ones like they serve on airplanes.
Mouth dry, I scan the floor for others, but it’s clean.
A quick check of the wastebasket tucked beneath the table shows only crumpled paper and tissues.
I swallow, going back to the singular bottle.
A drink to relax before bed, that’s not so bad.
Like she said, she’s not an alcoholic.
Dad’s news threw her for a loop, that’s all. It’s just a momentary hiccup, nothing like before. Anyone would be thrown off to hear their ex is having a baby with someone else. She just needs a chance to adjust.
I paste a smile on my face. “Can I get you anything? Water, ibuprofen?”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” Mom stretches out of bed, the crisp, fitted pantsuit she put on this morning now wrinkled beyond recognition.
She looks down with a grimace. “I’m just gonna hop in the shower, then catch up on the mountain of emails that have undoubtedly piled up while I was in here sleeping the day away.
” She laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
My lips strain to keep their smile in place.
She’s up.
She’s showering.
She’s verbal.
This is fine.
Everything is going to be just fine.
I change into my running clothes, jamming a pair of AirPods into my ears.
Everything is fine, I just need to move.
I press play on the first running playlist I find, yank the laces of my sneakers tight.
If I can just block it all out, stop thinking for like two seconds, it’ll all feel so much better.
My feet hit the sidewalk at a jog. I pass Declan’s house, his open garage door.
I don’t stop. I need to outrun this creeping dread clawing its way up my back.
Legs pumping, I veer off the sidewalk onto an intersecting bike trail.
Someone passes me on the left, wheels flying by in a blur.
I shift farther to the right, keep running.
Faster.
Harder.
Lungs on fire.
Can’t stop. Can’t let the fear catch up.
I can’t…
My lungs seize, and I stumble off to the side, knees sinking into the grass beside the trail. My stomach churns, threatening to spill its contents. The world spins around me, and all I can see is Mom lying in bed. Bottles strewn about the floor. An empty fridge.
Deep, bone-crushing silence.
The air is too thick, I need to breathe. I need…
My hand shakes when I reach for my phone. It takes three tries to punch in the passcode correctly. Several more to open Declan’s and my messages.
Me: Need you
I pause, struggling to suck oxygen into my increasingly constricted chest. The screen is little more than a blur of lights and letters.
Me: Larken Trail
My thumb slides over the send tab just before the phone slips from my fingers into the grass. I tuck my head between my knees and hope to God he sees it.