Heartache and Hope: Heartache Duet Book One

by Jay McLean

  Ava: So these serial killers…

  Shaking my head, I smile at her response.

  Connor: What’s your middle name, Ava?

  Ava: I have two. Elizabeth Diana.

  Connor: Like, the Royal family?

  Ava: lol. Yes. My mom was a little obsessed. What about you, Connor? What’s your middle name?

  Connor: Jordan.

  Ava: As in Michael? Lol. Did you have your whole life planned out before you were even born?

  Connor: I’d love to say yes, but no. Just a fluke, I guess.

  Ava: Got it.

  Connor: Yep.

  Ava: So…

  Connor: So…

  Ava: I should probably get back to this homework.

  Connor: yeah, I should probably do the same.

  Ava: See you at school?

  Connor: Yep.

  I drop my phone in my desk drawer, slam it shut. Keep it away from temptation. Because sending her useless, one-word texts is the second-best time I’ve had since I moved here. The best was when she was riding shotgun in my car.

  I try to eat.

  Try to study.

  Try to sleep.

  Nothing flies.

  Hours pass, and I’m still wide awake, tossing and turning when my phone goes off in my drawer.

  A text.

  I stare in the general direction of it. It might be Dad, but he calls, not messages.

  It goes off again.

  And again.

  Hope fills my chest—please be Ava—and I reach for it without getting out of bed.

  Ava: Hey, I hope this doesn’t wake you.

  Ava: I’ve just been thinking about you… about what you told me today. And I have a question but feel free not to answer.

  Ava: I was just curious. Do you remember any of it… what happened to you?

  My response is swift. Easy to formulate. Because I give her the same answer I’ve given everyone before.

  Connor: Not a damn thing.

  Chapter 15

  Ava

  Four thirty a.m. comes around quick.

  After a hurried shower, I check over the notes that Krystal, Mom’s in-home caretaker, had provided. She’s here Monday through Friday, from 7 a.m. until I get home from school. On the weekends, it’s just Trevor and me. Or just me, most of the time. Trevor doesn’t like to leave me alone with her so much, but he works, and now and then I force him to go out and live a normal twenty-two-year-old life.

  We’re so lucky he was able to pick up the family business when his dad left, and it only took him a couple of months to get certified. If he’d let me, I’d have dropped out of school and worked, too, but for him, that wasn’t an option. For him, it was vital that we look further into my future than just tomorrow.

  Breakfast is already on the table when Mom appears from her bedroom at 5 a.m. sharp. No alarm clock needed. Years in the military can do that. “Mornin’,” she greets, kissing me on the cheek. She adjusts the hood of her robe to hide most of her battle scars as she takes a seat at the kitchen table.

  “Morning, Mama. Did you sleep well?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. No screams in the night mean no flashbacks or memories of her real-life nightmares, and I’m grateful for that always, but last night especially because I couldn’t sleep.

  My mind was too inundated with thoughts of Connor.

  And me.

  Not Connor and me.

  At least not like that.

  But, I’d thought about him a lot, all day and night, and I kept replaying what he’d told me.

  I wondered if everyone remembered traumatic experiences the way I do. Vivid and powerful and intense. As if I were reliving the moment again and again. Maybe he was too young. Or maybe he blocked it out completely. Sometimes I want to ask my mom if she remembers any of it, but I’m too afraid of her answer.

  Sometimes, I’m afraid of her.

  “I slept like a baby,” she says, a slice of toast halfway to her mouth. She watches me watching her and places the bread back down. Using her one good arm, she scoots back in the chair and comes to a stand. “Ava?” she asks, her tone flat.

  I swallow, apprehensive of her next move. She stops in front of me, her eyes shuffling between each of mine. “Ma?” I whisper.

  Her head tilts.

  I dig my heels into the floor, my muscles taut.

  Ready.

  Waiting.

  Of all the injuries and affects her “accident” caused, the toughest ones to deal with are the ones no one sees. And while this entire town was running scared from her physical trauma, not one of them ever thought about the invisible scars. PTSD, reassimilation, agoraphobia, and short-term memory loss to name a few. Sometimes I worry that she’ll wake up one day and have no idea who I am, that she’ll forget about me altogether.

  Mom smiles, a vision that has me exhaling with relief and warming me from the inside out. “You look so exhausted,” she says, holding my face in her hand. “But you’re still so damn beautiful, Ava.”

  Please, please don’t ever forget me.

  CONNOR

  The sun is just beginning to rise when I finish my weekly six-mile run. Out of breath, I slow to a jog as I turn into my cul-de-sac and take in my surroundings. All the houses on the street are the same, but different in their own right. All in various levels of upkeep. Ours is at the end, one of the more modest ones on the block, a simple cottage style with a centered door, a window on each side, and a rotting porch Dad and I plan to fix sooner rather than later.

  I spot Trevor’s truck in front of his house, the Knight Electrical sticker on the side a giveaway. I should follow through on Dad’s invitation to have him over for dinner, but when I check the time, it’s too damn early to be knocking on doors. I go back to the house, shower, then sit on the couch with Forensic Files on in the background. An hour passes, and all I’ve done is read through my text conversation with Ava too many times to count.

  AVA

  One of the more apparent effects of Mom’s injuries, besides the physical, is dysarthria. She’s still wholly understandable, at least to me, but the trauma to her brain left her with a slight slur and slowed speech. The doctors said that her mind processes everything normally, but the signal from her brain to her mouth is just a little more… crooked.

  Mom works on pronouncing the words on her flashcards Krystal had prepared while I start on the meal prep for the upcoming week. She’s improved so much since we started the speech therapy, but I can tell how frustrating it is for her. Not only is she relearning a skill she attained while still in diapers, but she has to do it in front of me, and I think that’s the hardest part for her. For her, being my mother was always the priority. Everything else came second—even the Marines. But for me, she’ll always be the woman who held me through my first knee scrape, my first loss of friendship, my first heartbreak. She’ll always be the one to teach and guide me with more patience than I deserve. The least I could do is be the same for her.

  CONNOR

  “Oh, my God, I’m so fucking bored,” I whisper, throwing my ball in the air for the fiftieth time. On my back, in my bed, I blindly reach for my phone under the pillow.

  Connor: Yo, are there any pick-up games I can walk in on?

  It takes a good ten minutes for him to respond.

  Rhys: Yeah, man. The team’s got one going right now.

  I balk at his response, read the text again and again.

  Rhys: You want in?

  Connor: The team?? Thanks for the invite.

  Rhys: Want a spoon?

  Connor: What?

  Rhys: For your cry-about-it soup?

  Connor: Whatever

  Rhys: It was a joke. Seriously, you want in?

  Connor: I’m good.

  AVA

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I’m quick to check it. I try to hide my smile when I see his name.

  Connor: Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez.

  Ava: I’ll take men I’d actually be c
aught *dead* with for two-hundred please, Alex.

  Connor: Ah. So you’re not just a pretty face. You got jokes, too.

  My stupid heart does a stupid pitter-patter, and I bite down on my lip so my grin doesn’t split my face in two.

  Ava: You think I’m pretty?

  Connor: Of course I do. But so would Ted Bundy so…

  Ava: I think we change Richard Ramirez for Blanche Tyler Moore.

  Connor: Who’s that?

  Ava: She was a serial killer in the early 1900s who met her victims via newspaper (aka text messages). She promised them love (told them they were good-looking), then when they came to see her (psych class paper), she’d poison them, chop them up into pieces and bury them on her farm. Then she’d take whatever life insurance and money they had.

  Connor: Ha! Joke’s on you! I have no money :(

  I cover my mouth, stifle my laugh.

  Ava: What are you doing on this fine day, Connor?

  Connor: I have a multitude of dates.

  Ava: Do you now?

  Connor: Yep. First with my basketball, then with my laptop, and later, if I’m feeling frisky, with some leftover pizza. So, yeah. Not much. You?

  Ava: About the same.

  Connor: You play basketball?

  Ava: Not even close. I can throw a mean spiral, though.

  Connor: You’re into football?

  Ava: It’s a family thing. I don’t have a choice.

  Connor: Right.

  “You got that list for me?” Trevor asks, hand out waiting.

  Dropping my phone, I quickly fish the list from my pocket and hand it to him.

  “What’s with your face?”

  I touch my cheeks with the back of my hand. Fire.

  Trevor smirks. “Are you texting some guy from school?”

  “What guy from school?” Mom asks from her spot on the couch.

  I look out the window. “It’s such a beautiful day outside…” I deflect, even though it’s true. The sun’s out, leaves are starting to turn orange. If only I could leave...

  “This guy who—” Trevor starts.

  But I interrupt, “Don’t skimp on my chocolate. I’ve got cramps.”

  “Dammit, Ava, I don’t need to know this shit,” he grunts, recoiling away from me as if he’ll catch The Menstruation.

  “It’s such a heavy flow!” I yell after him.

  He slams the front door shut.

  I laugh harder.

  Mom says, “Don’t you think that boy goes through enough?”

  I shrug. “I have to get my kicks where I can.” Then I turn to her, my smile fading. “You think you might want to try wearing your prosthetic today? Just for a little bit?”

  “Not today, Ava.”

  “But Krystal—”

  “No.” She turns away from me, her facial scars in full view. “We’ve been through this before—”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. It’s not growing back, so there’s no point in pretending like something’s there when it’s not!” She’s quick to stand and march to her room. Before kicking the door shut, she mumbles, “I have one good arm; it’s all I need.”

  CONNOR

  Of all the things my dad and I are, handymen are not it. I searched the entire house and garage for a measuring tape and came up empty-handed. Now I’m on the porch measuring the fucker with a 12-inch ruler. A bunch of kids rides past on their bikes, no older than ten, and I watch them, feeling a pang of childish jealousy. They dump their bikes and start throwing a football around. I check for Trevor’s truck, but it’s not there. When I’m done with the measuring, I head back inside, get on YouTube and spend the next hour watching old men build porches from scratch. I thought we’d just have to replace the top; turns out, it could be the foundation, which means getting under there. With a grunt, I get my ass back up and out but freeze when I see the kids messing with Trevor’s house. Rolls of toilet paper in each of their hands, they make quick work of stringing that shit all over the front chain-link fence, giggling maniacally at their masterpiece.

  “Hey!” I shout, at the same time Trevor’s truck pulls up to the curb, brakes screeching.

  He hops out. “Get the hell out of here!” he yells, chasing after them at a speed much slower than I know he’s capable of.

  The boys bolt to their bikes, cursing, and I take the steps down to meet him on the sidewalk.

  “What the hell was that about?” I ask, helping him remove the toilet paper.

  Trevor shakes his head. “Just dumb kids being kids,” he murmurs, pulling on a longer piece. I watch his face, the tension in his jaw, the frustration in his brows. “What’s been going on? How are you settling in at St. Luke’s?”

  “As well as can be expected.” I hand him all the trash I’ve collected. “You know anywhere good to eat around here?”

  “Yeah.” He balls up all the toilet paper with both hands. “Best place on a Saturday is the sports park. They have a bunch of food trucks. Take your pick.”

  “Sports park?”

  “Yeah, there are batting cages, basketball courts, sometimes they put up the rock-climbing thing. It’s pretty cool. You should check it out.”

  Nodding, I push away my awkwardness and ask, “You want to come with?”

  His eyes widen, and he offers a crooked grin. “Yeah?”

  I shrug. “On me.”

  Pointing to his truck, he says, “Let me just bring in the groceries.” He hands me the toilet paper. “Take care of that for me?”

  “Got it.”

  He gets a few bags from his truck while I get rid of the trash.

  When I get back to the sidewalk, I notice a note stuck on his mailbox, no doubt put there by the same kids—Insane Asylum. I look at the house again. The blinds are open, but the sheer curtains stop me from seeing much else.

  When Trevor comes out, he notices what I’m looking at and rips it off before pocketing it.

  “What’s that about?” I ask.

  “Like I said, dumb kids…”

  The sports park is insane, and I’ve dubbed it my new playground. And Trevor? He’s a cool dude. I would even consider him a friend. I learned that he lives with his stepmom and sister and that he used to play college football but blew out his knee and gave up on it. I also learned (the hard way) that Trevor is a natural-born athlete. Put a ball or a bat in his hand, and it’s like he was specifically built for it. He even gave me a hard time on the court, almost put me to shame until I realized I was taking it a lot more casually than he was. I amped up my game, gave it a hundred, and he assured me I’d have no problems getting into a D1 school, giving me the confidence I’d been struggling to find.

  By the time I drive us back home, the sun’s already beginning to set. I would have stayed longer if Trevor didn’t have to get back. Hell, I would’ve stayed all damn night. “Thanks for hanging out,” I tell him, standing on the sidewalk. “It hasn’t been the easiest making friends, you know?”

  He settles with his back against his fence, his hands in his pockets. “It’ll get better. You’re a good kid with a good head on you.” He glances toward his house. “Right now, your team probably sees you as a threat because you’re good, Connor. Like, really good. And people… people fear what they don’t know.”

  AVA

  Ava: Sleeping?

  Connor: It’s, like, 9:30. Lol

  Ava: Hey, I don’t know. Maybe playing with your balls all day got you tired.

  Connor: Dirty girl.

  Connor: I like it.

  Connor: What’s up?

  Ava: Nothing, just researching these serial killers. It’s a little depressing.

  Connor: I know. I had to stop after a while, too. It’s kind of messed up that we’re so intrigued by it all.

  Ava: Because people fear what they don’t know.

  Connor: You’re the second person to tell me that today.

  Ava: Really? Strange. But I think that’s why it’s so intriguing, right? The more we know, the less
afraid we are of it all.

  Connor: That makes sense. No wonder you’re taking this class.

  Ava: Why are you?

  Connor: Not gonna lie, I thought it would be easy. Why are you taking it?

  Ava: I think it might be something I’ll want to get into more when I’m older. Not necessarily a career, but… I don’t know. It would be nice if I could help turn someone’s bad day into just a bad moment.

  Connor: That’s… that’s a really great way to look at things, Ava. For real.

  Ava: Also because the human mind intrigues me. Makes me curious…

  Connor: Uh oh. Why do I feel like those ellipses are a segue to something else… about me?

  Ava: Because they might be…

  My eyes widen when Connor’s name flashes on the screen. I clear my throat, sit up in bed. “Hello?”

  “I figured it was easier to talk than text.” His voice… I never really paid attention to it before, but now that I hear it, and it’s all that I hear… holy shit. Deep and smooth and so intense… he could easily host a podcast, and I’d listen to it regardless of the topic.

  “Ava? You there?”

  “Yeah.” I swallow. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  The speaker distorts with his light chuckle. “So what’s up? What about me has your curiosity piqued?”

  I pick at the blanket covering my thighs and stare at the wall opposite me, trying to find the courage, the words… “It’s about what happened to you.”

  A loud sigh from his end. “Yeah, I figured. I mean, I hoped it wasn’t that, but here we are.”

  “Do you not like talking about it?” I ask.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it, so much as… it’s not really something I’ve shared with anyone besides professionals, you know?”

  “Wait. I’m the first real person you’ve told?”