Chapter Eight
Ava groaned as she stirred from sleep, her neck stiff and her spine protesting the unforgiving curve of the leather couch. She was buried under a lush velvet blanket, an expensive comfort that almost made up for the pain.
She blinked at the ceiling, the previous night coming back in pieces: some pirate anime on TV, Jay on the opposite end of the couch, as much space between them as possible.
For the first time in years, they were alone together, and he’d spent half of it coming apart in her arms until there was nothing left but the boy she used to know.
Sitting up, her back cracked. She spotted movement outside the patio window and grabbed her glasses from the coffee table.
Jay was on the balcony, cigarette in one hand and laptop open on the table in front of him.
He was in a video call, from the look of it.
Even through the glass she could see the shadows under his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders.
Last night clung to him. She watched him for a moment, then left him to it.
When she’d arrived the night before, she’d noticed the records by the door, but now her gaze drifted to the floating shelves lining the wall.
Some held books, which had to be Mira’s, as she was always the reader.
These books shared space with vinyl records, a collection that definitely belonged to Jay.
Ava had spent hours and hours in record shops when she was younger, not caring a thing about the albums but loving the crinkles of Jay’s smile when he found something he was looking for.
His collection was a reflection of him: everything from Brand New to Deftones to Fall Out Boy, but, of course, Queen’s albums were the centerpiece.
Interspersed with the records were knick-knacks and photo frames.
Ava stopped to look at the two Grammys, which had a thin layer of dust on them.
He really did the damn thing. He built this whole life after he left, and last night, she’d watched it nearly crush him.
One shelf was different, filled to the brim with cross-stitch hoops: bats against a crescent moon, a bold fuck you very much, purple tulips framing a middle finger, the Wicked Smile band logo.
Then below those was a photo in a simple black frame.
It was an older photo she hadn’t seen before—one she was surprised was actually on display, showing three small children and two smiling adults dressed for Diwali.
Mira wasn’t more than a baby in her father’s arms, both of them in vibrant yellow.
Ari and Jay were around seven years old, wearing matching orange kurtas and holding diyas.
Their mother stood behind the twins, her hands on their shoulders, in a beautiful pink sari.
Ava had almost forgotten what Jay was like before with all that brightness in him. In this photo, he looked happy and safe in a way she’d never quite seen again after his mom left.
Their mother, Indira, never let Ava leave without a snack or a meal for the next day.
She smelled of roses and had the nicest laugh.
Her deportation had been the crack that broke everything open.
That’s when his father started disappearing into bottles, and the CPS calls started coming.
That’s when Jay had learned that the people you loved could vanish, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.
He’d clung to Ava after that. Desperately. Every moment of convinced-he-was-dying panic—he’d come to her window, and she’d hold him until he stopped shaking.
She was just a kid trying to save another kid, but she’d been enough for him then.
She wasn’t entirely sure when she’d stopped being enough…or when he started reaching for other things to hold back the darkness.
A door creaked, and Jay padded inside, looking at the couch before finding her by the shelves. A smile spread across his face, and it wasn’t the forced, rehearsed one he wore for cameras and strangers. This time it was a real one, though it looked tired.
She pointed up to the embroidery hoops, trying for lightness. “What’s up with the edgy cross-stitch?”
Jay made a sound that was almost a laugh and dropped his laptop on the couch. “What, you don’t like it?”
“I just don’t see Mira as the cross-stitch type.”
“She’s not. Doesn’t have the patience for it.” He reached up and grabbed the hoop with the bat. “I tried to teach her with this one, but it was like talking to a wall.”
Ava lifted a brow. “I’m sorry. Are you saying you’re the resident cross-stitcher?”
“Don’t say rehab didn’t teach me anything.
” He placed the bat hoop back and adjusted a few others.
“One thing I learned was if I want to drink, I need something to do with my hands. They had a workshop one day, and I tried it. Stops me from overthinking and keeps my hands moving.” He shrugged.
“I don’t do it anymore. The guys would never let me live it down if I pulled out needles and thread on the bus. ”
“Who cares what they think?” Ava took a smaller hoop off the shelf. This one had a border of brightly colored capsules circling take your fucking meds. “This would look great in my cubicle at the hospital.”
“Take it then.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve made way too many of these things.”
“Maybe you should start a side business. I’m sure people would love a Jay Wyler original cross-stitch.”
He scoffed without much energy behind it. “That’s the least rock-and-roll thing I’ve ever heard.”
She laughed, caught herself leaning into him, and stepped back.
“Got any coffee?”
Ava pivoted toward the kitchen, her heart beating all over the place.
“Oh, sorry.” He followed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I should’ve made some, but I scheduled a last-minute therapy appointment this morning. Last night…it messed me up.”
“Is that what you were doing on the patio?”
Jay in therapy? Jay cross-stitching to cope? Five years really could change a man.
“Yeah. I do that telehealth thing.”
He reached into a cabinet, and Ava looked away from the sliver of skin between his shirt and sweats.
She gripped the edge of the counter. Don’t.
But it was hard not to look. He wasn’t the gaunt boy she’d fallen in love with anymore. He’d filled out: broader shoulders, solid torso visible through his t-shirt, thicker arms, and a strong jawline dusted with overgrown stubble.
She remembered being fifteen and thinking he was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen. She’d had no idea then. No idea that he would grow into this.
But she didn’t need to be thinking about that right now. Not twelve hours after talking him down from a panic attack, and especially not when she was still mad about how everything went down five years ago.
“I like the guy I got matched with when I tried it out the first time. Got lucky, I guess. And he’s always happy to meet at weird hours if I pay a little extra.”
She blinked, the thread of the conversation snapping back into place. He pulled down a canister of Colombian coffee and a filter. Ava took the coffee pot and filled it with water so her hands did something that wasn’t reaching out to touch him like she wanted.
“That’s really amazing, Jay,” she managed. “I’m proud of you.”
Growing up with him, she saw how he struggled with his mental health.
Hell, his whole family did. Ari pretended like nothing was wrong, deciding denial and weed were the best way to live until someone pissed him off enough to throw a punch.
Mira would sink into herself and think no one noticed when she would self-harm.
Then there was Jay, who wrote the saddest songs and drowned himself in vodka until he didn’t feel anything anymore.
Ava convinced herself Jay would always be that way: never helping himself and wallowing in the darkness forever. Yet here he was, proving her wrong.
She handed him the coffee pot. He poured it into the machine and hit the button.
“Did your therapist offer anything useful this morning?”
“Mostly sympathy about how shitty I feel. Told me to give Mira space even though I hate it.” He leaned against the counter, the coffee maker gurgling to life behind him.
“I told him Mira’s been dating Riley for years—that they kept it hidden from me and ‘they’re not good together.
’ That we had a fight about it.” He paused, frowning slightly.
“Didn’t go into the rest. The grooming, the assault—that’s Mira’s story to tell, not mine.
But he said I should try having a conversation with Riley instead of punching him in the face…
which I don’t know if I’m capable of yet. ”
He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Talked about last night too. The panic attack.” His voice went quieter, almost embarrassed.
“He said it’s probably not the last one I’ll have with everything going on, but…
I don’t know. I’m hoping it was a one-time thing.
That I can—” He stopped, shook his head.
“Anyway. He gave me some techniques to try if it happens again.”
Ava fought back a frown. He was trying so hard to sound casual about it, like it hadn’t been as bad as it was.
“Honestly, he probably deserves a punch,” she said, steering them back to Riley.
Jay smirked, some of the tension leaving his face. “Is this the same Ava I know who always preaches that violence isn’t the answer?”
“Violence isn’t the answer, but fuck him.”
His laugh rang out, stronger this time. “This is why I—”
He stopped, cleared his throat, and moved to another cabinet as if shifting a gear. Ava watched him pull out two mugs and pretended she didn’t notice he’d almost said he loved her.
“This is why I love you.”
He used to say it like punctuation after a joke or a terrible blink-182 singalong. He’d even put it in a song once, three verses full of things that made him fall for her.
He set the mugs down and poured coffee into one. It had barely brewed, but it was enough.
“You think I should punch him?”
“I’m reiterating that he’s an asshole.”