Chapter 13
Somewhere in Oregon
A,
Whenever we’re on tour, I think about how I would sneak into your room to sleep—how much I miss that. I’ve only ever felt normal when I’m with you or if I’m onstage, and I wish the two could coexist somehow.
I want to hop off this bus and tap on your bedroom window and hear your footsteps as you run to lock your door so your parents can’t come in.
I want to see you push your hair out of your face as you work to pop open the screen.
Then I can duck really low so I don’t scrape the back of my head when I climb in.
When my feet steady on that shag rug of yours, I can wrap my arms around you and smell your citrusy hair.
Do you remember the first time I got into an actual fight with Dad?
I came to you that night because I knew you’d stay calm, and I was right.
You didn’t even flinch when you saw me. My jaw was fucked up, I thought my knuckles were shattered, and Dad gave me a black eye too.
That fucker has a hell of a right hook when he’s mad enough.
I looked like total shit and was so wound up I probably could have sent my fist straight through a brick.
But you? You just rushed to me, like you always did.
You cleaned me up, made me drink one of those stupid sparkling waters you love so much, and shoved four ibuprofen into my hand like it was no big deal.
You were always so willing to break your parents’ rules for me. Even though you were a little goody-two-shoes, you’d still let me stay in your room because I needed you. You always put me first, and I never figured out how to do the same for you.
I meant what I said that night: you’re the only doctor I have ever needed, Ava.
I’m sorry,
Jay