Chapter Fifteen Ava #2
He did not lie. He did not oversell. He said he went with his mother when he was home, less at school, and that he respected anyone who made him think harder about what kind of man he was becoming.
Ruthie stared at him for so long Ava considered checking for smoke.
Then she said, “That will do.”
Nate looked like he had passed a test he had not studied for.
Ava looked like she wanted to crawl under the table and live there with the emergency napkins.
When lunch finally ended, Karen sent Ava to wrap leftovers and Nate to carry folding chairs back to the hall closet.
Ava protested.
Karen ignored her.
Ruthie watched everything with the serene satisfaction of a woman directing a play.
Nate followed Karen’s instructions without making one joke about being useful.
More evidence against him.
Ava stood in the kitchen beside her mother, spooning chicken into a container and trying not to listen to Nate in the hallway.
It was hard not to listen. His voice carried just enough.
Polite. Warm. Not too polished. He asked where the chairs went.
He thanked Ruthie when she told him. He laughed when she said the hall closet was not a metaphor and he should not look so nervous.
Karen watched Ava watch the doorway.
Ava snapped her attention back to the container. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed maternally.”
“That is my right.”
“Use it elsewhere.”
Karen leaned against the counter. “He seems kind.”
Ava hated the softness in her mother’s voice.
“He is a hockey player.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
“They are adjacent at best.”
Karen smiled. “He watches you.”
Ava nearly dropped the spoon. “That sounds creepy.”
“Not like that.” Karen glanced toward the hallway. “He watches for you. There is a difference.”
Ava’s throat tightened.
“Mom.”
“I know. I am not pushing.”
“You invited him to dinner after seeing one photo. That is pushing with table settings.”
“Fair.” Karen took the lid from Ava’s hand and snapped it onto the container. “But I saw your face in that photo too.”
Ava went still.
“You looked like yourself,” Karen said.
That was worse than a question.
Ava turned toward the sink. “I am myself all the time.”
“No, baby. Sometimes you are very busy surviving yourself.”
The kitchen blurred at the edges.
Ava gripped the counter.
She did not cry.
Absolutely not.
She had mascara on and pride to maintain.
Karen touched her back once. Gentle. Brief. No demand.
That almost did it.
“I’m fine,” Ava whispered.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” Karen said. “But I know you’re trying very hard to be.”
Ava closed her eyes.
In the hallway, Nate laughed at something Ruthie said.
Low. Real. Easy.
Ava felt it in the kitchen like heat through a wall.
This was supposed to stop after dinner.
Rule eight.
After dinner, we stop.
Ava had written it. Nate had agreed. It was a good rule. A necessary rule. A line before this fake thing got legs and started sprinting through her actual life.
The problem was that her actual life had already noticed him.
Her mother noticed.
Her grandmother noticed.
Her own traitorous body noticed.
Even the rolls had made an impression.
Ava opened her eyes. “Do not get attached to him.”
Karen’s brows lifted.
“I’m serious,” Ava said. “This is new. It’s not... we are not... I don’t know.”
Karen nodded slowly.
“I can respect I don’t know.”
“Can Grandma?”
“Absolutely not.”
Ava laughed despite herself.
Good.
Laughing was safer than crying.
Mostly.
Nate appeared in the kitchen doorway with his sleeves pushed up and Ruthie’s empty tea glass in one hand.
Ava looked at his forearm.
Again.
This was becoming a medical condition.
Nate noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His mouth almost moved.
Ava pointed at him. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your arm did.”
Karen made a strangled sound.
Ava froze.
Nate froze too.
Ava slowly turned toward her mother.
Karen’s eyes were wide with a terrible effort not to laugh.
“I meant,” Ava said, voice flat with doom, “the glass.”
Nate lifted the glass. “My arm is carrying it.”
“Stop assisting.”
“With the glass or the arm?”
“Both.”
Karen lost the fight and laughed into her hand.
Ava stared at the ceiling.
“I live here,” she told God or drywall. “I have to recover from this here.”
Nate set the glass by the sink, very carefully not smiling.
His restraint was insulting.
“Mrs. Lane,” he said to Karen, “lunch was great. Thank you for having me.”
Karen smiled. “You are welcome anytime.”
Ava’s head snapped toward her. “Mom.”
“What? Hospitality is not a proposal.”
Ruthie called from the living room, “Depends on the rolls.”
Ava closed her eyes.
Nate coughed.
Karen beamed.
The afternoon was over.
Ava could feel it. The dishes were stacked, the leftovers packed, the polite goodbye stage approaching. She should have been relieved.
She was relieved.
She was also standing at the edge of something she had built rules to avoid, and she could not tell whether stepping back was wise or cowardly.
Nate seemed to sense it too, because his jokes softened on the porch.
Karen hugged him.
Ruthie did not.
Ruthie shook his hand with both of hers and said, “Be careful with my girl.”
Ava made a mortified sound. “Grandma.”
Nate looked Ruthie in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.”
Not I will.
Not of course.
Just yes.
Like he understood careful was an instruction, not a sentiment.
Ava hated him a little for that.
The good kind of hate.
The dangerous kind.
She walked him down the front steps because not walking him out would look weird and walking him out also looked weird, and apparently there were no non-weird exits left in her life.
They stopped near his truck.
The white bakery box was gone. The rolls had been absorbed into Lane family history.
Nate looked at her. “You survived.”
“Barely.”
“Your grandmother liked the rolls.”
“Do not let it change you.”
“Too late.”
She pointed at him.
He caught himself. “Banned. I know.”
Ava’s mouth twitched.
The porch door had closed, but she knew her mother was probably watching through the curtain. Ruthie too, except Ruthie would not hide. She would simply stand where she wanted and call it her house.
Nate glanced toward the window. “Are we being observed?”
“Yes.”
“Scale of threat?”
“Maternal surveillance with grandmother oversight.”
“Serious.”
“Extremely.”
He nodded. “What does protocol require?”
Ava folded her arms. “A normal goodbye.”
“Define normal.”
“Do not use that as an opening to be charming.”
“I was asking operationally.”
“You say that now.”
He smiled.
She looked at the driveway.
Then the truck.
Then his shoes.
Anywhere but his face.
Because his face had been in her grandmother’s dining room saying things like she is hard to miss, and because his hand had been in hers when Trevor walked in, and because he had sat across from her mother and given Ava cover without taking the spotlight.
He had done exactly what she asked.
Worse, he had done what she had not known how to ask.
“Thank you,” she said.
The words came out quieter than intended.
Nate’s smile faded.
“You’re welcome.”
“Do not make it meaningful.”
“I am trying very hard.”
“Try harder.”
“I might fail.”
Ava looked up.
The air changed.
There was no crowd now. No Tyler. No Trevor in the room. No grandmother asking lethal questions from an armchair.
Just Nate Brennan in front of her, one hand on the truck door, looking at her like he had finally run out of safe jokes.
Her pulse moved into her throat.
Rule eight.
After dinner, we stop.
This was where it stopped.
This was the clean exit.
This was the line.
Nate seemed to remember at the same time she did.
His expression shifted.
Careful again.
“Dinner’s over,” he said.
Ava hated that he said it first.
She hated more that he sounded like he was reminding himself.
“It is,” she said.
“So we stop.”
“Right.”
Neither of them moved.
A bird chirped somewhere like an idiot.
From inside the house, Ruthie called, “I can still see you.”
Ava covered her face with one hand.
Nate laughed so hard he had to look away.
Good.
Good, because the laugh broke the tension.
Mostly.
He opened the truck door. “Text me if Trevor bothers you.”
Ava lowered her hand. “That sounds ongoing.”
“It sounds like safety.”
“You are not my safety officer.”
“No.”
“Or my boyfriend.”
“No.”
“Or my roll consultant.”
His smile came back. “That one hurts.”
“You’ll heal.”
He nodded once. “See you at the lake, Lane.”
Her stomach did the stupid thing again.
“Bye, Brennan.”
He got into the truck.
Ava stepped back.
This was fine.
Clean.
Over.
Stopped.
Nate pulled away from the curb, lifted one hand in a small wave, and drove down the street.
Ava stood there until his truck turned the corner.
Then her phone buzzed.
For one reckless second, she hoped it was him.
It was not.
**TREVOR: Cute lunch. He seems nice.**
Ava’s chest tightened.
A second text appeared.
**TREVOR: Does he know this is what you do? Turn things serious, then act surprised when men leave?**
The driveway blurred.
Ava’s thumb hovered.
Block him.
Mute him.
Ignore him.
Be above it.
Be fine.
Then a third text came.
**TREVOR: Tell your hockey boy good luck. Guys like that usually hate being used.**
Something inside Ava went still.
Not hurt.
Not panic.
Anger.
Clean anger.
She opened Nate’s contact.
Her thumb paused over the keyboard.
Dinner was over.
They were supposed to stop.
Ava looked back at the house, where her mother and grandmother were absolutely pretending not to watch from two different windows.
Then she typed.
**AVA: Rule update.**
Nate’s reply came before she made it back to the porch.
**NATE CALLAHAN: What happened?**
Ava stared at Trevor’s last message.
Then she typed the only thing that felt true.
**AVA: I don’t think we should stop yet.**