Chapter Sixteen #2
Eventually, her stomach growled, puncturing the afterglow. Jay laughed, and reached for his phone at last to order pizza, remembering she liked it best with green peppers and bacon.
They ate outside, the box balanced awkwardly on a cooler between them. The sun was sinking low, streaking the sky with orange and pink. Around them, other campers drifted through the park—packing up their sites, walking dogs toward the water.
Ava coaxed the fire pit to life, and they draped throw blankets from the RV’s closet over their shoulders. The night was mild, but she felt the chill in her toes. Smoke curled up from the fire, the firelight casting soft, flickering shadows that danced across Jay’s sharp features.
When he pulled his phone out again, silencing whatever had come through, Ava nudged his leg with her foot. “You should probably answer them at some point.”
“They can wait.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket.
“The meeting’s at ten in the morning, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you ready?”
He stared into the fire. When he spoke, his words were barely a whisper. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
Ava watched him, and the clinical part of her brain—the part that spent twelve hours a day charting vitals—began to run a silent diagnostic.
She noticed the pupillary response first. When Jay turned his head toward the firelight, his pupils didn’t constrict with the reactive snap of a sober man; they stayed slightly fixed, reflecting the orange flames in a way that made his gaze look distant, even as he smiled at her.
He was over-enunciating. Every t at the end of his words was crisp and deliberate, a conscious effort to keep his consonants from softening.
When he reached for a second slice, his hand overshot the crust by a fraction of an inch before he corrected.
It was a minute cerebellar lag—the kind of motor-control glitch she’d seen a thousand times in the ER, usually right before the patient started slurring.
“I’m gonna grab the cake,” she said, standing because she suddenly felt restless. She needed to get away from the data points her brain kept collecting. “Be right back.”
Inside the RV, she paused in the kitchen, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. She should check the cabinets or look in the bedroom to see if she missed anything obvious.
But what if she found something? What then?
She pushed herself to open drawers, looking for plates and silverware—not bottles. When she did, she knocked over the stack of cards beside the necklace box.
She gathered them from the floor. The envelopes had a year scribbled on them in Jay’s handwriting. There was one for 2013 through 2017.
Curious, she opened them in order.
The 2013 card popped open with a 3D cake, making her smile. Inside was a simple message:
Happy birthday, A.
The year you turned 26 was the year I missed you most.
Love, Jay
The 2014 card blared a tinny “Happy Birthday,” its childish cheer clashing with the tender note:
Happy birthday, A.
The year you turned 27 was the year your absence felt heaviest.
Love, Jay
She ripped open 2015, the front of it showcasing a cat in a rainbow birthday hat.
Happy birthday, A.
The year you turned 28 was the year I desperately wanted to see you again.
Love, Jay
Then there was 2016: a hot pink card with a fluffy yellow chick wearing sunglasses calling her “one cool chick.”
Happy birthday, A.
The year you turned 29, I still thought of you every day.
Love, Jay
And finally: 2017—this year. In big red letters, the card shouted: “I regret to inform you that you are now 30.”
Happy birthday, A.
The year you turned 30 is the year you found your way back to me.
I promise to never miss a birthday again.
Love, Jay
The RV door opened when she finished tucking each card back into its corresponding envelope. Jay walked in to see her standing there with tears on her cheeks.
She groaned at the sight of him. “Can we both agree to stop crying for a while?”
He crossed to her, concern flooding his features. “Those weren’t meant to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad.” She wiped her eyes. “I mean, I am, but I’m mostly happy. These are beautiful, Jay. All of this is beautiful.”
“I really am sorry. For all of it. For leaving. For the years I missed. For…for not being better.”
Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, he pulled her into him. He squeezed her tight, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him upright. And that was when the most damning tell hit her: under the scent of woodsmoke and cigarettes was the unmistakable sting of clear liquor.
She had the opening. She could pull back, look him in the eye, and ask if he had a flask. She could be the “Butterfly Bandage” he sang about.
Instead, she felt the necklace against her skin and looked at the cards on the counter—the proof that he had loved her when he was falling apart.
“You’ve always smelled like lemon cakes,” he mumbled against her hair after a few quiet moments.
She laughed despite herself. “Lemon cakes? You never told me that before.”
“Mmm. Don’t know how else to describe it.”
“Lemongrass perfume.”
“That’d be a good song title.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Haven’t you written enough songs about me, Jay Wyler?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be done writing songs about you, Ava Davenport.”
The words should have melted her. Instead, they made her heart stutter. Was he being romantic or was this the maudlin sentiment of someone who’d been drinking?
She kissed him anyway, and he responded with an intensity that almost pulled her under again. When they finally pulled apart, she kept her forehead pressed to his. “Jay, I need to ask you something.”
He tensed and pulled back. “Okay.”
“Have you been—” The words caught. She couldn’t do it. She was going to shatter this perfect moment he’d created for her. “Have you been sleeping okay?”
He relaxed slightly. “Not much. Having trouble shutting my brain off.”
She almost asked again. Almost said that’s not what I meant. Instead, she tucked the question back where it came from.
“We should rest,” she said. “Tomorrow’s going to be hard.”
“I know.” He kissed her temple. “But tonight, I want to be with you. No band. No meetings. No reality. Just us.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “Just us.”
They cut slices of cake and ate them standing at the counter, feeding each other bites and laughing over old birthday stories. He seemed more present now, more like himself.
She let herself believe the earlier strangeness was exhaustion and nerves mixed with the weight of tomorrow. There was probably an explanation for everything. Maybe she hadn’t tasted vodka when he kissed her.
She was a doctor. She knew how to read people. If something were really wrong, she would know.
She would know.
When they finally went to bed, she lay awake long after his breathing evened out. David’s number sat in her phone. The cards were stacked on the counter. Five years of birthdays where he’d thought of her and done nothing…and then this RV, the night before potentially ending his career.
Romantic, she told herself. It’s romantic.
The clinical part of her didn’t comment.
The emerald necklace felt heavy around her neck. Less like a gift and more like a tether to a sinking ship.