by McLean, Jay
My heart does a stupid flip, and I settle my hand on her knee, praying she won’t push me away. As soon as the teacher’s turned his back to the class, I face her.
My eyes thirst for her, as lame as that sounds. But it’s true. Five fucking days and I’d forgotten how hot she was. I’m staring, breathing her in, and I don’t even care. I’ve missed her hair, a mess of a thing that seems to have a life of its own. And her eyes surrounded by thick, long lashes. She has freckles on her cheeks, right below her eyes, but just a few. And those lips, goddamn those lips. And her jaw… I’ve thought too long and too hard about that jaw, what it would be like to kiss her there, and then lower, down her neck and to her collarbone… which I can’t see because she’s wearing a turtleneck beneath her school shirt and it’s strange because it’s warm out and she’s never worn… my thought trails off when I see it. I know exactly what it is because our medicine cabinet’s filled with all the ones Dad takes home from work. Sterile dressing to cover a wound.
Ava catches me staring and lifts her shoulder, adjusts her clothes. She’s trying to hide whatever is there, and there’s only one reason why she’d do that. She doesn’t want me to know how it happened.
I scribble on my notepad: What happened?
She writes back: Nothing.
Bullshit.
I watch the seconds tick by, forming all the minutes until class is over and I can ask her out loud. As soon as the bell rings, she’s on her feet, rushing to get out. But she’s too slow, or I’m too fast, too desperate. I catch her just outside the door and grasp her arm to stop her from fleeing. “What happened?”
She inhales deeply, before stating, “Nothing. Stop worrying.” She tries to pull out of my hold, but I keep her there.
“Ava, I’m not playing. What the fuck happened? You’re MIA for five fucking days, and you come back hurt?”
“It’s not what you think,” she says.
I don’t even know what I’m thinking.
“I have to get to my next class. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
She bails, leaving me standing in the hallway with my heart pounding and my mind racing. Five days. Five fucking days and she hasn’t shown up to school once, has barely answered my texts. Ever since Trevor left—
Trevor left, and Peter came….
Peter.
Ava
I’m going to tell Connor the truth.
I decided a few minutes after leaving him in the hall that I would come clean and tell him everything. I wanted to tell him then and there, but the mix of anger and concern in his eyes had me panicking for a way out. I just needed a few minutes to myself so I could collect my thoughts and explain things in a way that would make him understand. The last thing I needed was for him to misplace his emotions and blame my mom for everything. Of all the things that could possibly ruin whatever it was we had going, his misunderstanding of my mom’s mental health would be the most heartbreaking.
I sit in the bleachers, our usual spot, and wait for him to show up while I make up pieces of our future conversation. I want to be ready for any questions he has, and I want the answers to be real. To be raw.
Minutes pass, and I start to get antsy. My breathing becomes shallow, my palms begin to sweat, and the burns begin to itch. I try not to think about it as I wait. Stand. Sit again. I check the school website for the basketball roster, thinking maybe he forgot he had some prior engagement. Nothing comes up. I stand again, look over and out and everywhere I can for him. Then my phone rings. It’s already in my hand, so I answer without looking.
“Connor?”
“It’s Krystal, Ava. I think you might need to come home, honey. A boy is fighting Peter in the front lawn.”
I hang up without a word, dial another number and start rushing toward the lot.
Rhys answers on the first ring. “What’s up?”
“I need a ride home. It’s Connor.”
“Meet me at my car.”
* * *
Rhys’s car screeches to a halt halfway up my driveway. I have one foot on the ground before he comes to a complete stop. “Oh, my God, Connor, stop!”
The two are wrestling on the grass, Peter on top of Connor, his fist raised. He gets a shot at Connor’s stomach, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. Connor rolls them both over until he’s on top, and his fist hitting Peter’s jaw sounds like lightning, feels like thunder. There’s blood pouring out of Connor’s nose and Peter’s mouth, splatters of crimson all over their shirts. “Stop!” I cry out, reaching for Connor’s arm. He doesn’t flinch. Another punch to Peter’s gut.
“Enough!” Peter yells, half defending himself while trying to buck Connor off him.
He has his hand on Connor’s throat now, while Connor screams, “Is that what Ava said, huh? Enough?”
“Connor stop it!” I squeal.
“I didn’t fucking touch her,” Peter yells, getting the strength to shove Connor away. Connor rolls to the side, but Peter won’t quit. “Who the fuck do you think you are!”
Connor kicks up his legs, gets Peter in his chest with a knee. “That’s enough!” Rhys shouts, trying to get between them.
“Ava!” Krystal calls out. “I’m calling the police.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t see through my tears.
Connor pushes Rhys away, and now he and Peter are on their feet, fists raised, both on the attack. “You ever touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Peter lunges for him, his shoulder going straight to Connor’s stomach. A guttural sound leaves Connor’s lips, and he’s on the ground, only for a second before he’s back up.
“A little help, Ava!” Rhys hollers, struggling. He’s holding Peter back, but he won’t last long, and fear and frenzy shake me from the inside.
I run as fast as I can from my house to Connor’s, my fists balled as I bang on the door. “Help!” I yell. I pound harder, faster, until the door finally opens. Connor’s dad looks at me wide-eyed and startled. “It’s Connor. You need—”
Corey’s racing down the steps and toward my house, and before I even make it back, he has his arms around Connor’s waist, trapping his hands to the side. “Knock it off!”
Now the two guys are restrained, and I stand between them, not knowing what to do or how to act. “I swear to God. I don’t give a fuck who you are or where you’re from, you so much as look at her again and I’ll end you,” Connor seethes, his face red. I stand in front of him, but he doesn’t see me through the rage flaming inside him. He spits blood from his mouth, his chest heaving beneath his shirt.
“Connor,” I cry, trying to calm him.
“Get out of my way, Ava.”
His dad tightens his hold. “Connor, that’s enough!”
Sirens approach, and when I look around, I see our neighbors outside their homes, all watching us, some with their phones out.
The Insane Asylum.
The Looney Bin.
Tears flow, cascade. I lower my gaze, cover my mouth to muffle my cries. “You need to leave, Connor,” I beg.
His heavy breath hits the top of my head, and I look up to see him watching me. Beaten and bruised, his eyes hold mine. “Ava,” he whispers, shaking his head.
“Please,” I urge. “Just go home.”
Chapter 31
Connor
I’m locked. Trapped in my own fucking home—my own nightmare—while outside, Ava and Dad speak to the police as if I don’t have a voice of my own. An hour passes, and Dad still hasn’t returned, and I’m losing my damn mind. I pace. Three steps one way, then three steps the other because it’s all the room this shitty house has to offer.
I’m pissed.
Beyond it.
Because she didn’t ask him to leave. She asked me.
Finally, Dad enters, and I stop pacing. Arms down, chest out, I’m ready for it. “I convinced them not to press any charges against you,” he says.
“Me?” I shout. “What about that fucker?!”
“Watch your goddamn mou
th, Connor!”
I draw back. “You’re kidding, right? He’s the one hurting her, and you’re in here blasting me?”
“He didn’t touch her!”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was there, okay! I’m the one who treated her!” he yells. My stomach drops, and everything inside me stills. I take a breath. And then another. I start to speak, but he beats me to it. “Whatever it is that’s going on with you and that girl, it ends now.”
I shake my head, defiant. “No.”
“You think this is up for discussion?”
I start to walk away.
“I’m serious, Connor. I forbid you from spending time with her.”
I turn on my heels, an incredulous laugh bubbling out of me. “You forbid me?”
“Yes.” He stands in front of me, arms crossed, standing his ground.
I try to calm my thoughts, try to settle my breathing. “You forbid me?” I repeat, then take a step forward, tower over him. “For seventeen years I’ve done nothing, not one damn thing, to ever disobey you. You’ve never had to punish me or set rules for me. I’ve always tried so fucking hard to be the perfect kid because I was so afraid you’d abandon me, too—”
“Connor—”
“No!” I scream. “This is the first time in my entire life that I’ve ever needed your help, and this is what you do? You take away the one good thing I have in my life and—”
His sneer cuts me off. “You’re acting like an ungrateful brat. You have plenty of good things in your life!”
“Like what?” I shout. “Basketball?”
“Yes!”
“It’s just a game! It’s not—”
“It’s more than a game! It’s a ticket out!”
“For you, Dad! It’s a ticket out for you!”
His arms unfold, anger pulling at his brow. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I open my mouth but stop myself from saying something I’ll regret, something I’ve held on to for years. It means that he wants me gone, to a college far, far away, so he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. So he can get rid of the unwanted burden that was left to him. “Nothing.”
“If you have something to say, say it!”
“I don’t,” I mumble, looking down at the floor. “But you can’t stop me from seeing her.”
“Bullshit, I can’t,” he says, his voice raised again. “She—that family of hers—they’re bad news, Connor. And you don’t need them in your life. Not now. Not ever!”
“I need to get out of here.” I step into my room and grab my ball, then shoulder past him to get to the door.
The moment my hand’s on the knob, Dad yells, “That girl is nothing but a bad distraction! She’s got problems, problems too big for you to shoulder, and she’s tearing you down with her! Look at you! Look at what she’s made you do! She has nothing good to offer you, Connor! Not one damn thing!”
I open the door.
Freeze.
Solid.
Ava’s standing on my porch, her fist raised, ready to knock. I slam the door shut behind me, my anger deflating. “How much did you hear?”
Eyes glazed, she slowly looks up at me. “All of it.”
I sigh. “If you’re here to tell me how much of a fuck-up I am, you can save it.” I drop the ball, lean against the porch railing. “I’ve heard it all already.”
Ava stands in front of me, her arms shielding her stomach. “Your dad’s right, you know?”
“No, he’s not,” I breathe out, wiping the dried blood from under my nose. I inspect my hand, then wipe it on my pants. “He’s right about a lot of things, Ava, but he’s wrong about you.”
I wince when she reaches up, touches a particularly sore spot on my jaw. I have no idea what I look like. I haven’t checked. “How hurt are you?”
“How hurt are you?” I retort.
She doesn’t respond.
“Come here,” I say, my fingertips making contact with hers. I gently tug, hoping she does the rest.
She takes a step toward me, and then another. I close the distance, wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into me, ignoring the pain in my ribs when she leans against me. She settles her cheek on my chest, while I hold her to me completely, not wanting to let her go. My lips pressed to the top of her head, I whisper, “I need to know what happened, Ava.”
She nuzzles closer to me, her arms going around me. “My mom happened.”
I swallow the truth I knew was coming. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “And I’ll go over tomorrow morning and apologize to Peter, too. I fucked up. I don’t—just the thought of someone hurting you… I… I lost it. I don’t even know what got into me, but…”
“It’s okay,” she says, looking up at me. Darkness looms in her stare, while sadness falls from her lashes. “I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning. It’s just—”
“Hard,” I finish for her. “God, Ava, I can’t even imagine how hard things are for you. But I’m here, whatever you need, whenever you need me. I’m here.”
“I can’t,” she says, slowly releasing me.
I grasp her hand. “Why?”
“Because—” Her phone rings, cutting her off. She looks at the screen, but I don’t want my question to go unanswered.
“Why?”
She ends the call, looks up at me. “Because your dad’s right, Connor.” Then she jerks out of my hold. “And I have to go.”
Chapter 32
Ava
They look like fireflies. The way the water falls from the sky, illuminated only by the streetlamps. I stand in the middle of the road, barefoot and barely breathing, my arms out, face to the sky.
I don’t know how I got here.
When I climbed out of my window, the sun was just setting and now… now I’m surrounded by dark skies and false hope.
I had to get out of the house. Krystal had left and Peter had called the crisis team to stay overnight again, and there were too many people under one roof. Too much pain and anguish. I couldn’t breathe, and yet, I didn’t want to. And even though there was so much going on, it felt…lifeless.
I messaged Peter once I was far enough away and told him not to look for me, that I was fine and just needed space and time to piece myself back together and prepare for another day.
I know I should go home.
That I should face my fears and tackle them head-on.
My mind travels the right roads at the right time to get me there, but my heart…
My heart takes me to Connor.
Outside his bedroom window, mud seeps between my toes, and the frigid air creates goosebumps along my skin. I raise my fist and tap, tap, tap on the glass.
A moment later, a light turns on. And then nothing. I tap again, my heart racing. The blind lifts and Connor appears, his eyes squinting. It’s clear he’d been asleep, or close to it. Hair a mess, he’s shirtless, the obvious beginnings of bruises mar parts of his torso, and I look down, shame filling every part of me. I bite down on my lip as he slides the window up. “Jesus Christ, Ava. What the hell are you doing?”
His warm palms meet my soaking wet elbows, and then his entire body is cocooning mine, lifting me off my feet and into his bedroom. My feet land on his soft carpet, and I look down at the mess I’ve made. “I’m dirty,” I tell him.
Inside and out.
Dirty, dazed and damaged.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “Just wait, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
I stand in the middle of his room surrounded by blue walls and basketballs, raindrops dripping from my hair, my fingers. He returns with a towel and a first-aid box, his movements swift. His towel-covered hands start at my hair, and then down my arms. He squats when he gets to my legs, does each one in turn, and then he stands up again, his touch gentle as he leads me to his desk chair, encourages me to sit. “Your dressing’s ruined,” he informs. He sits on the edge of his bed and reaches across, rolling me toward him. “I have to change them,
or you won’t heal properly.” Concerned eyes look up at mine, keep them there. His chest rises with his long inhale as if it’s the first breath he’s taken since he’s seen me. He asks, “Can I do that for you, Ava?”
Slowly, I nod, my gaze moving from his eyes to the bruise beneath it, the cut on his nose and the corner of his lips, then down to his collarbone, another bruise, two more on his torso, and I fucking hate myself.
He starts at my neck, slowly peeling off the gauze, his eyes focused, hands steady. “Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet.
I shake my head.
Breaths staggered, his gaze flicks to mine, then back down again. He moves forward, just an inch, his heated breath hitting my jaw. I hear the moment his lips part, and my eyes drift shut when his mouth finds the burn. A moan escapes from deep in my throat.
He repeats the process again and again, each kiss lighting a spark inside me, warming me from the inside out. He pulls back, his eyelids heavy, then he blinks. Once, twice. And his bright blue eyes are focused again. He grabs a tube of cream and starts applying it to the burns, gently, then replaces each of the gauzes he’d removed. When he’s done, he exhales loudly, his fingers reaching up to move the hair away from my eyes. He stares at me, eyes flicking between each of mine. “What were you thinking being out in the cold like that?” His fingers trace my arms, up and down, up and down.
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “But I needed to see you.”
His forehead rests against mine when he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”
I rear back, run my thumb below his eye. “Does this hurt?” I ask.
He nods, his hand circling my wrist and pulling my hand down so he can link our fingers together. “A little.”
I lick my lips, kiss away his pain the way he did mine. His palm cups my jaw, his fingertips laced through my hair while his lips find mine, skimming, but not kissing. We exhale at the same time, our breaths merging. I run my hands along his arms, feeling his muscles tense beneath the contact. Then over his bare shoulders, down his chest. I pause just over his heart, wait until I feel his life beating beneath my touch. “Magic,” I whisper, my lips still on his. He sucks in a sharp breath, holds it there. I run my hand to his collarbone. “Does this hurt?” I ask, finger tracing the reddish-purple mark.
