Chapter 20
I Want You to Want Me
Reuniting with Kiki feels like the universe finally sent in backup. I’ve never had a sitcom-style girl gang to get me through a breakup—just me and my slightly alarming coping strategies.
So I’m thrilled she’s here.
Even if her main goal seems to be facilitating my sexual reawakening. Or, in her words: “Some deeply transformative pelvic alignment with a stranger.”
It’s both touching and mildly horrifying.
Life on the island has been breezy and low-stakes. Gavin and I slipped into a rhythm I didn’t see coming, and I’m not sure I want to disrupt it by succumbing to some human chakra tune-up.
When she asked if I found Gavin attractive, I dodged. Said I couldn’t picture myself with someone who didn’t love music as much as I do. The man listens to nothing but classical. And I always said I loved how good Jared was with kids. The visual of Gavin stiff-arming a toddler like it’s a grenade doesn’t exactly scream “dad material.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either. Just a half-cooked, self-preserving smokescreen.
Because the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about Gavin.
The tires crunch over the gravel as the house comes into view.
“We’re here,” I say, but it comes out like a question.
Kiki leans forward in her seat, eyes scanning the property. “This certainly isn’t a drawback,” she murmurs, already looking suspicious. Like she smells romance in the air and plans to follow the scent to its source.
We climb out of the car. The ground stills beneath our feet, but the air hums—music, unmistakable, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Inside, sunlight slants across the foyer floorboards as we pause just beyond the threshold. In the living room, a man stands with his back to us, guitar slung high, fingers moving with easy precision as he plays.
Maybe Gavin’s friend Quinn arrived early.
Kiki clutches my arm. “Who is that?” she stage-whispers.
“Hello!” I shout at the top of my lungs, hoping the stranger will turn around.
Kiki may not need or want sex, but she looks thrilled as she stares at the man’s absurdly appealing backside. He has on a pair of old Levis and a tight-fitting plain black tee, and his hair is flopping all over the place as he lets loose and strums on his guitar while simultaneously belting out I Want You to Want Me by Cheap Trick like he has a personal, emotional stake in the outcome.
Kiki leans over. “I want him to want me.”
Next to him is a gangly boy who looks to be about twelve, pure concentration as he, too, jams on a guitar. I look around for Gavin, but he’s nowhere in sight.
The man drops to his knees, riding a guitar riff, selling the song’s emotional thesis—wanting, needing, loving—with reckless conviction.
Okay, yes, we love you, but who are you? Where is Gavin?
The guy pulls the plug on the amp, and the music cuts off.
A beat.
He turns around, and it’s—oh, shit—it’s ... could it be?
It’s Gavin.
This is not the man I told myself I wasn’t attracted to.
Unspooled. Sweaty. Electric. And unrecognizable in the best possible way.
He wipes his forehead with the bottom of his tee, exposing a relief map of taut muscle and toned, forbidden territory.
Jesus. Abs. He has abs.
Kiki turns to me, her eyebrow raised so high it’s practically on vacation. Because apparently my life is a romantic comedy now, and no one told me.
As Gavin sets his guitar down, she whispers. “Right. Totally not into music.”
I try to speak, but all that comes out is an undignified squeak. “I swear, I had no idea.”
“Hey, Ava. I didn’t expect you back so early.” Gavin gestures to the boy. “This is Micah. He lives next door.”
Micah waves with a sheepish smile. “Hey,” he says, practically blushing. He then turns to Gavin. There’s clearly adoration and respect emanating from him.
Gavin puts his arm around Micah. “Great on that first guitar solo. Practice is paying off.”
“Yeah, guess you were right about that.” Micah beams. Like Gavin just handed him the keys to a secret club.
Kiki leans into me again. “Sucks with kids, too. Tragic.”
I ignore her. Mostly.
“Micah, I’m gonna make my favorite not-so-fried-chicken sandwiches. Want in?”
He glances at Gavin, who nods. “Awesome. I’m starving.”
Gavin claps him on the back. “Go wash up, then call Ana to let her know you’re staying.”
He walks toward us, and it’s frankly criminal that a man can look like that. He’s glowing, grinning, the very embodiment of undone, while I try to remember how to keep my knees from buckling.
“Hi, Kiki. It’s nice to see you again.” Gavin extends his hand out to her.
“Trust me, the pleasure is all mine,” Kiki purrs.
“So,” I say, trying not to sound like I’ve forgotten the English language, “when you said you used to be the lead singer in a rock band, you weren’t kidding?”
“Why would I be kidding?”
“Right. Good question. Why’d you give it up?”
“Long, boring story. Besides, I don’t think I was cut out for life on the road. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m a homebody.”
It comes back to me. The time Jared told me Gavin turned down a dream opportunity to travel the world with friends because Patricia had cancer, and someone needed to stay behind to help with Jared and Cari, who were still in school.
The more I learn about Gavin, the harder The Plan gets.
Kiki doesn’t say a word. Just arches an eyebrow again like she knows exactly what my brain is doing. And she’s not wrong.
In the kitchen, Gavin moves to the sink and starts rinsing out the coffee pot like it’s nothing, like we’re all just people here, not witnesses to his musical seduction of the universe.
I head to the counter and start prepping sandwiches. Or, at least, I try.
I grab some ciabatta and somehow forget how to slice. I turn the knife the wrong way, fumble it, recover with fake confidence, and pretend I’m not unraveling like a woman who just watched her maybe-crush shred a Cheap Trick solo in faded denim.
Kiki hops onto a stool at the island, watching me while she sips an espresso like it’s tea in a Jane Austen adaptation.
She doesn’t speak. She smirks. Which is worse.
When Micah returns, we devour our sandwiches, and the kitchen becomes a comedy club. He’s got Kiki and me doubled over with a story about school cafeteria sabotage and an ill-fated pudding cup.
I’m laughing so hard I almost miss Gavin clearing our dishes. He’s washing them in the sink. Rolled sleeves. Quiet competence.
When Micah is done telling his story, Gavin dries his hands on a towel and nudges him out of his chair. “Okay, scoot. They’re too old for you.”
“Thanks for lunch, Ava. It was nice meeting both of you.” He shakes Kiki’s hand. He starts to shake mine, but I pull him in for a hug. “Give us a call any time you’re hungry.”
He nods his head vigorously, and as Gavin escorts him to the door, I hear him whisper: “Ava is really nice. And, pretty.”
“How come you’ve never commented on how nice or pretty Olivia is,” Gavin responds.
“She’s pretty, too, but I never get to visit when Olivia is in town.”
It’s absurd, but I glow anyway—because apparently even tween praise is lethal when Gavin is standing nearby to hear it.
I clear my throat and start wiping down the counter, like that’s a normal thing people do after getting soft compliments from adorable kids and watching hot men do the dishes.
“Micah seems nice,” I say.
Gavin leans against the counter. “He’s a great kid from not-so-great parents. When they aren’t home fighting, they’re off traveling or having affairs, and leave him to pretty much fend for himself. I’ve known him since he was five. Anyway, he ensures I don’t get rusty on the guitar.”
He says it so offhandedly, as if mentoring a neglected kid is just something he does between conference calls and climate strategy meetings.
I don’t know what to do with this version of Gavin—the generous one, the casual rock god, the man who’s steadily wrecking my very careful emotional blueprint.
“Let’s take these outside,” he says, grabbing a pitcher of lemonade from the counter and tucking a couple of linen napkins under his arm like it’s second nature.
Kiki and I each pick up a glass and follow him through the wide back doors, out onto a wooden deck overlooking the bay.
“This is Mom’s favorite spot when she’s here,” he says, setting the pitcher down on a low table.
We settle into the chairs, the late afternoon sun lighting the twisting trunks of the Madrona trees. Sailboats drift in the distance, and for a moment, no one talks. We just take in the horizon, relaxing into our surroundings.
“Kiki, you used to work at Pulse, right?” Gavin asks, finally breaking the silence.
“Yep, until Ava rescued me.” She clinks her glass with mine.
“She means got her fired,” I add.
“Best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Kiki grins.
“What do you do now?” Gavin asks.
“I’m doing pop-up events for an underwear brand. While I look for something more permanent. Something creative.” She pauses. “Actually, I haven’t told anyone, but I have a side project.”
She looks a little nervous—for Kiki—but excited, too.
“I’m contemplating a personal crowdsourcing project,” she says, more cautious now.
“To manufacture the underwear?” Gavin asks, his business side intrigued.
“Not exactly,” Kiki responds.
She hands Gavin her phone. I lean in to see the screen and try not to notice how ridiculously good he smells. It’s a GoFundMe titled: Freeze My Eggs, Not My Dreams. The photo is of Kiki in a lab coat holding a tray of egg cartons labeled HANDLE WITH CARE and a bouquet of birthday balloons.
“Kiki,” I whisper with realization.
“I want kids. I don’t want a partner right now, maybe not ever, but I want a family. And this way, I buy myself time. I’m asking friends to buy me this instead of dinner or coffee or birthday gifts. Also, my video ends with me whispering, ‘Ova and out.’ So I kind of have to commit.”
I burst out laughing.
“You’re unbelievable,” I declare as I embrace her.
“So, let me get this right. Instead of waiting around for Mr. Right while your ovaries age, you’re going to freeze them so that when you want to have kids at, let’s say, 40, your eggs are still 32, and you don’t need a Mr. Right. How much does it take to freeze one’s eggs?” Gavin asks.
“Ten thousand dollars,” Kiki confesses.
“It’s a lot of money, but people spend $40k on cars all the time. Having a child is way more important than having a car, isn’t it?” Gavin asks.
“Way,” Kiki says, grinning a mile wide.
I pretend his empathy for Kiki doesn’t affect me. But my chest reacts anyway to his gentle encouragement. That way he has of making you feel like maybe your wildest plan is not so wild after all.
“It’s a clever way to solve a problem,” Gavin adds.
And, with that, he has won Kiki’s heart. She stares up at him like he’s singlehandedly restoring her faith in men.
“You know what, Gavin Jones, I like you.”
“Same, Kiki. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a shower and make myself presentable.”
As soon as Gavin clears the room, she turns to me.
“If that’s not presentable, I’m genuinely concerned for your safety.”