by McLean, Jay
Mom giggles—actually giggles. “Ava didn’t tell me how handsome you were. Come, come,” she orders, moving toward the kitchen.
Connor says, stepping into the house, “I should’ve brought flowers or something. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine,” I assure, the panic over their first meeting lifted. “You being here is enough.”
He settles his hand on the small of my back, guiding me in my own house. Dipping his head, his words just for me, he says, “You look nice, Ava.”
I pull back so I can take him in again. My initial thoughts haven’t changed. “You look… okay, I suppose.”
“It’s milk and cookies,” Mom announces proudly, standing behind a chair at the kitchen table. On the table are a giant plate of cookies and three tall glasses of milk. “I used to do this for Ava’s friends whenever they’d come around. They were a lot younger then, though.” Her eyes shift from Connor to me, a wistfulness in her gaze that sets my soul at ease. “You remember that, Ava?”
“Yeah, Mama,” I answer, my voice cracking with emotion. “Of course, I remember.”
Please don’t ever forget me.
She smiles, but it’s sad, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. I wonder if the memories of before haunt her or heal her. “I know you’re seventeen now, but I don’t know what else to do…” She looks at Connor. “When I left Ava for my first deployment, she was only ten years old and so…”
Connor rolls up his sleeves, looks directly at her with the same gentle softness in his eyes he carries with him everywhere. If he’s at all shocked or deterred by her appearance, he doesn’t let it show. “I’m here for it, ma’am,” he says. “I mean, who doesn’t love milk and cookies?”
We sit at the table, all three of us, sipping on milk and munching on cookies while Mom asks Connor about himself. “How tall are you, Connor?”
“Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt,” he jokes.
Mom says, “Kobe Bryant’s only six-five and look at him.”
Connor’s eyes widen.
Mom adds, “And Chris Paul’s six foot even. That never stopped him.”
Connor drops his cookie on the plate. “Damn, if I don’t like a woman who can talk ball.”
Mom laughs.
I tell him, “Mom played college ball.”
“No way!” Connor doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. He stuffs an entire cookie in his mouth. “These cookies are so good, Miss Diaz.”
The conversation moves from him, to the paper we’re working on, to me as a kid, me as a baby, and even though some of Mom’s stories are embarrassing, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Because I realize that she remembers all the important things, all the events that made me who I am, who we are as a family. She remembers the camping trip we took together right before she deployed, the tent leaking, the marshmallows I loved to watch being set ablaze right in front of my eyes. She remembers the fireflies. The magic. “And we sang that song, remember?”
I nod. “‘Fireflies’ by Owl City.”
“I love that song,” she hums. “It brings it all back, doesn’t it, Ava?”
Another nod, because I can’t speak through the knot in my throat. There’s an ache in my chest, but the right kind. The kind that reminds me of why I’m here, of why I wake up every day at 4:30, and why I feel absolutely no jealousy when I hear about the parties over the weekend or the games I’ve missed or see the public displays of affection from the kids at school.
I’m here because she is.
Mom refills Connor’s milk. “How tall are you, Connor?”
And just like that, my stomach sinks.
Connor says, not skipping a beat, “Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt.”
Mom smiles. “Kobe Bryant’s six-five and look at him.”
Under the table, Connor taps his foot against mine. “That’s true.”
Mom adds, “And Chris Paul, he’s only six foot and that never stopped him.”
“Also, true,” Connor says. Then adds, “Did I mention how good these cookies were?”
Mom’s smile widens. “I’m glad you like them.”
The front door opens, and Trevor appears, sniffing the air before even stepping foot in the house. “Is that Mama Jo’s cookies?” he asks no one in particular. Connor and I watch as Trevor turns his back to slide off his shoes, talking to himself, “I love me some Mama Jo cookies. Mmm-mmm.”
Connor stifles his laugh.
When Trevor turns around, he sees Connor at the table and halts momentarily. Slowly, as if stalking his prey, he makes his way over to us and picks up a handful of cookies. His glare shifts between Mom and Connor. Once. Twice. To Connor, he says, “These are my favorite cookies…. and you’re in my seat.”
Mom and I bust out a laugh.
Today…
Today is a +infinite day.
* * *
Ava: Thank you.
Connor: For what?
Ava: For giving me a part of my mom I thought I’d lost.
Connor: No, thank you.
Ava: For what?
Connor: For letting me be witness to it.
Ava: You’re something else, Connor.
Connor: You’re something MORE, Ava.
Chapter 20
Connor
“Is your dad tall?” Ava asks, walking along the bleacher bench, bouncing my basketball.
“He’s a few inches shorter than me.”
Ava spins, goes back the opposite direction—long, tanned legs moving swiftly. I could watch her all damn day. “Is that where you got your height and athleticism from?”
“Height is from his side, but he doesn’t have an athletic bone in his body. Apparently, my mom ran college track, though.”
Ava stops completely, the ball held to her waist. Lips parted, she tilts her head, as if contemplating. The girl’s got an inquisitive mind, I’ve realized, and I wonder what questions are floating through her head. “Huh” is all she says.
I laugh under my breath and stand, take the ball from her. “Ask, curious girl.”
She snatches the ball back. “I was just thinking, you got split genetics.”
“I guess.”
“Do you know much else about your mom?”
“I kind of remember what she looks like, but it’s a little hazy. And I don’t know if it’s from memory or because I saw a picture of her once,” I admit. “In a drawer in Dad’s side table. They were both wearing FSU sweatshirts, so I assume that’s where they met.”
“He hasn’t told you about her?”
“Nah. He doesn’t really talk about her or what happened, and to be honest, I kind of prefer it that way.”
“Aren’t you at all curious?”
“About?”
“God, so many things,” she says, eyeing the sky. “Like where she is or what she’s doing, or I don’t know… why she did it.”
I run my hands through my hair, replay her words. Lightheartedly, I reply, “Maybe she was a sociopath.”
Ava jumps down off the bench and stands in front of me, her head tilted back so she can look me in the eyes. “I’m serious, though, Connor. I mean, if she had some form of mental illness then she should get help.”
I swallow, painfully, and try hard to not let her thoughts consume me. “I get where you’re going with this, Ava. I do. But my mom and your mom—they’re two completely different situations.”
“Because something happened to my mom to make her that way?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Maybe your mom was born like that.”
“Or maybe…” I start, grabbing my ball. I spin it around on my finger, so I have something else to focus on that isn’t her. “Maybe it’s a lot simpler than that.”
“Like what?” she asks.
“Like maybe she just didn’t want me.”
* * *
For the next few days, Ava and I ride
to school together when our schedules align. She hasn’t invited me over again, and besides the few text messages we send to each other at night, we don’t really interact. Psych class and lunch are the only times we see each other, so we make the most of what we get. At least I do.
We sit in the bleachers away from the crowds and talk, learn more about each other. She finds new ways to get under my skin, and I find new excuses to touch her.
“Why are you hanging out with me?” she asks out of nowhere.
I push aside the so-called “food” attained from the cafeteria. School this rich, you’d think they’d supply something a little more… edible. “What do you mean?”
She picks up her sandwich—turkey on rye, the same as always—and takes a bite. With her mouth full, she says, “Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your team?”
“Eh.” I shrug. “You’re nicer to look at.”
She flicks her shoulder, rolls her eyes. “I mean, obviously.”
“Modest, too.”
She laughs, the kind that starts deep, comes out low and slowly turns higher and higher. It’s my favorite of her laughs, and I pity the world for not hearing it as often as it should. “Honestly, though. Don’t they wonder why you’re not part of the jock-patrol?”
“I don’t really click with anyone on the team as much as I do with you.”
“You haven’t made friends?” she asks.
“No, Mom. I haven’t. I told you the first time you were in my car. You could be the suckiest friend in the world, and you’d still be the best one I have. And, to be honest, you’re pretty fucking sucky.”
“Shut up,” she says, shoving my shoulder.
“Nah, the guys aren’t too bad. Rhys seems like a decent dude, but talking to him is like talking in circles—which yeah, is basically like talking to you—but with Rhys comes Mitch and—”
Ava makes a gagging sound, cutting me off. “Yuck.”
“You’re not a fan?”
“That guy’s a self-entitled dick.”
“Hey, remember when you called me self-entitled?”
She stretches her arms in the air, then settles them behind her. “I remember it fondly.” Nose in the air, she adds, “It was the morning of August—”
I reach over and cover her mouth, gently push until she’s on her back, another new excuse to touch her. “You’re such a smart-ass.”
“You love it,” she mumbles beneath my palm.
With her heavy breath against my hand, our eyes lock, stay. And I don’t know why my mind chooses now of all times, why the urge I’ve held on to for so long is at its strongest.
I want to kiss her.
In so many ways.
For so many hours.
My gaze drifts to her throat, the movement sharp as she swallows.
I could kiss her there.
“Connor?” she whispers beneath my touch, her eyes drifting shut.
I could kiss her there, too.
She reaches up, yanks at my wrist to uncover her mouth.
I could kiss her there the most.
“We can’t do what you’re thinking right now.”
My heart sinks. “Why?”
Hand pressed to my chest, she pushes me away and sits up. She refuses to look at me when she says, “Because we can’t.”
And I have no other words but a repetition of “Why?”
“Because,” she starts, looking out onto the field, then down at her feet, at her hands, anywhere but at me. “Because my life is complicated enough as it is.”
“I’m not here to complicate things, Ava. If anything, I want to help.”
“I’m not a charity case.”
I shake my head. Sigh out loud. “That’s not what I meant.”
The warning bell sounds, and I curse under my breath.
Ava’s quick to stand. “We should go.”
* * *
I don’t see Ava for the rest of the day, and she doesn’t respond to my texts all afternoon. I’m tempted to go knock on her door to finish our conversation, but I remember what she told me about her mom’s reaction to knocking, so I force myself to let it go until the next morning.
Sleep eludes me, and just when I’ve tossed and turned for the millionth time, legs kicking out in frustration, my phone goes off.
Ava: I can’t date. I don’t even know what the meaning of dating is for people our age, but I know that I can’t do it. My life outside of school is… my life. My priority. I can’t be that girl for you. I can’t be the girl on the sidelines cheering you on. I can’t be the one you hold hands with when you go out to celebrate all your wins or commiserate all your losses. I can’t be the one you bring home to meet your dad or the one you call when you have off days. I can’t be anything more than I am right now. Which means *we* can’t be anything more. And as much as I hate it, as much as it hurts, I know in my heart that’s what you deserve. And it doesn’t matter how much I want you or how hard I’ve fallen for you. Because I have, Connor. In all the possible ways that absolutely terrify me, I’ve fallen for you. But nothing good can come of this. There’d be no happy ending to our story. There’d be an intense beginning, a shaky middle, and then heartache. And we’ve both been through enough heartache to last a lifetime.
Chapter 21
Ava
I spent first period in the girls’ bathroom because I was too afraid to face Connor.
This is my life now.
After I sent him the wall of text last night, I switched off my phone and managed to get a total of two hours sleep. I didn’t want to see what he had to say or fight him on my decision. It had taken me hours to come up with something I felt was worthy enough to send. I gave him the answers he needed, and with it, I gave him every piece of painful truth.
I was falling for him.
And I couldn’t do anything about it.
But even saying all that, it still hurt when I turned my phone back on this morning and there wasn’t a response from him. I know he’d read it, the proof was there, so maybe that was it for us.
The story of Connor and Ava: over before it began.
It’s what I wanted; I convince myself. It’s what I asked for, really. It doesn’t mean I won’t miss his friendship, or his banter, or the way he puts up with me… or the way he looks at me.
My stomach drops as I stare out at the football field. I pick up my phone, see that it’s been ten minutes since lunch started, and the ache in my heart doubles. Triples. I lock the phone, stare at the wallpaper: a picture of Trevor, my mom, and me on my last birthday. A zero-day. I can see it in her eyes, remember it like it was yesterday. There were no candles on the cake. No poppers. No singing. But there was us. Our mismatched little family; a gradient of skin tones. Trevor being the darkest, then mom, and then me. My reason.
“Sorry I’m late,” Connor shouts, practically sprinting up the steps. “I was stuck on a stupid conference call with Coach Sykes and my agent, something about UCLA. I don’t know; I tuned out.”
My mind does a double take.
My heart does a double flip.
“What are you doing here?” I breathe out.
His steps falter. “Are we...” He eyes me sideways. “Are we not allowed to be friends anymore? Because I swear, I read your text, like, eighty times, and there was no mention—”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to be,” I cut in. “Friends, I mean. I didn’t…”
He sits down on the bench in front of me, a step down, his usual spot. “I’m kind of attached to you, Ava.” He sniffs at whatever food the cafeteria has supplied him. “You gotta work harder if you want to get rid of me.”
I’m beaming, and I don’t even try to hide it.
He chews the corner of his mouth, his eyes on mine. “Ten bucks says I can wipe that smile off your face in less than five seconds.”
Impossible. “Do your best, Ledger.”
“I always sit right here because I can see up your skirt.”
I kick his chest, my mouth open
in shock. “You jerk!” Then I cross my legs.
“Red today,” he laughs out. “Green yesterday. Did you buy a rainbow-themed bulk pack?”
“I hate you!”
“You owe me ten bucks.”
“Fuck you, you didn’t earn it.” I try to kick him again, but he grabs my ankles, settles them on his lap. I should kick him there, but I don’t know… he’d probably make a good dad one day, I suppose.
“Speaking of fuck you,” he says, hands still on my ankles. “Rhys invited me to a party this weekend. It’s the last chance to let loose before the season starts, so I guess the team is getting drunk and I don’t know… trading yachts?” He releases my ankles and starts massaging his shoulder.
“What happened?” I ask, motioning to his shoulder.
“I think I tweaked it at practice.”
I put my lunch to the side and say, “Come here.”
“What?”
“Come here,” I repeat.
He leans forward.
“Turn around, you dumbass.”
“You have the strangest love language,” he mumbles, scooting so his back is facing me.
I press my fingers into his shoulder, feeling the muscles shift beneath my touch. I realize I’ve never touched him before. Not like this. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to the heat of his flesh, the strength of his muscles, the sound of his groan when his head rolls forward. I silently clear my throat, reclaim some form of sanity. “Are you going to go?”
“Huh?”
“To the party… are you going to go?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I should?”
I keep working his shoulder, below his shirt, skin on skin, up his neck and to his hairline and back again.
He moans. “Ava?”
“Huh?”
“Do you think I should go?”
“Probably. Team building. Blah blah blah.”
He chuckles.
I work on both shoulders, watching his muscles contract beneath my touch. Then I move up his neck, run my fingers through his hair.
