Shelter

by Stephanie Fournet

  It sounded like a wingman gig, but I’d always liked Ross. He was worth a sacrificed Saturday night to some girl’s roommate.

  But not on Ava’s first night out of rehab.

  I scrolled through my phone’s contacts and tapped Ross’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, man. What’s up? Ready for tonight?”

  I winced at the friendly eagerness in his voice. “Yeah… about that…”

  “Cole, no,” he groaned. “Don’t back out now. I thought you’d outgrown that.”

  I frowned. “Outgrown what?”

  “The homebody syndrome,” he said, as if it was obvious.

  “What?” I turned my back on the thickening arrivals crowd so I could hear him better. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You used to do this all the time,” he said, his voice teasing, but it still held a hint of frustration. “Make plans midweek, and when the weekend would roll around, you’d say you had too much work, too many deadlines, or… how did you put it? You and Ava needed a night in.”

  I blinked at his assessment. How many times had I blown him off over the years? I didn’t like to admit it, but his words struck a chord. I recognized them. Especially the ones about Ava. How many times had I cancelled on Ross — and other friends — because I felt I needed to keep an eye on her?

  Trying to count them all was futile. When had I gone from keeping an eye on Ava to keeping her alive? Was it back when we lived near campus? When the drinking had gotten out of hand? Or was it after we moved downtown, and she’d discovered heroin?

  I let out a sigh. “Not much has changed,” I admitted.

  “What do you mean?” Ross asked, the tease in his voice giving over to concern. “You working yourself to death or you’re still your sister’s keeper.”

  A bitter chuckle escaped me. “Both, I guess. But work isn’t the reason I’m calling.”

  “Ava.” It wasn’t a question. When we’d made plans, I hadn’t told him about Ava and rehab, but he’d known about her problems before now.

  “Yeah, she’s been… away,” I said, hedging, not ready to revisit the nightmare that had led Ava — finally — to Hazelden Betty Ford. “And I wasn’t expecting her back until tomorrow, but she’s here. In fact, she’s just landed. I’m at the airport picking her up. With the move and this change, I just forgot to call you earlier. I’m sorry, man—”

  “Hey,” he broke in, “don’t worry about it. I was just bustin’ your chops. Family first, man. I get it.”

  Gratitude swelled in my chest. Ross had always been a good guy. “Thanks, Ross. If it wasn’t her first night back, I wouldn’t cancel on—”

  “Cancel what?”

  I spun on my heels to find my sister looking up at me. Her hair was clean. Her eyes clear. And for the first time in months, she met my gaze.

  “Ava.” Her name left me as more air than sound, because I hadn’t seen this version of her in… well, not in years. I stared at her in silence, humbled by the sudden blow to my sternum. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed her.

  In that moment of silence, I realized my sister was looking at me with a mixture of nerves and barely controlled shame.

  “Ross… I’ve gotta go.”

  “Go,” he ordered. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Yeah. Sorry again.”

  “Don’t be. Take care of Ava.”

  I killed the call and practically tackled Ava. “My God, it’s good to see you,” I said, squeezing her tighter than perhaps I should have.

  She let out a squeak, but she squeezed me back. She pressed her cheek to my chest. “It’s good to see you, too,” she said softly.

  I gripped her arms and set her back from me, letting my eyes have their fill. “Ava, you look great.” It was incredible, really. She looked whole. Younger even. More innocent.

  Her eyes widened at my gaze, and Ava shook her head, brushing my hands away. “Don’t look at me like that.” Her words were light, but a frown came to her brow. “It’s embarrassing.”

  She gave me her profile, but I grabbed her by the elbow and turned her toward me. “Why? Because I think you look healthy?”

  She scrunched up her nose as a little shudder passed over her. “Yeah, it’s weird.” Her eyes scanned the airport with a wary cast. “Being here is weird.”

  My gut tightened. “Being here? As opposed to New Orleans?” I heard the dip in my voice and knew she did too. We weren’t going back to New Orleans. I’d told her as much when she finally came around in the hospital after OD’ing in our apartment. I pushed the memory of that choking panic away.

  We were not going back to New Orleans. No way. I wasn’t going to let her near her dealer or her heroin friends. Lafayette was a little more than a two-hour drive, but in the ways that mattered, it was worlds away from the French Quarter. I knew her old crowd wouldn’t bother coming here to find her. They’d only ever been interested in her money. Our money.

  None of them had shown their faces in the hospital before she was released. None of them had come looking for her in the weeks before I moved us out of the apartment.

  Ava shook her head, a pained expression flattening the corners of her eyes. “No, being out.” She rubbed the heel of one hand against her opposite forearm, again casting her eyes around the airport in suspicion. “There’s so many people. I feel like they all know about me.”

  My shoulders softened as did my voice. “They don’t know about you. Let’s get your bags, and then we can head to the house. It’ll be quiet there.” I started to stride forward toward the escalators, thinking she’d fall in step with me, but Ava stayed rooted to the spot. I halted and looked back at her. I tried to keep my expression patient, but I had no idea how to help her feel more at ease. I just wanted her to move so we could get home, but I knew that barking at her would just make her shut down.

  “Ava?” I asked when her eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

  She looked up at me, tension and suffering clear in her eyes. “I need to get to a meeting,” she said finally.

  Relief coursed through me. “Right. Sure.” We’d talked about this, as I had with the family liaison counselor. I’d identified seven different locations in town where she could go to a meeting. One of them would be held at six-thirty tonight at Lafayette General. “There’s one at the hospital in a couple of hours. We can go together.”

  I watched her eyes. They remained open but shuttered as though she’d drawn blinds over them.

  She took off for the escalators.

  “Is that okay?” I asked, following.

  Ava clutched the handrail as we began our descent. She wouldn’t look at me. “I’d rather go by myself.”

  I sighed. “Ava, I don’t know if that’s—”

  “I’m not going to get high,” she said, whipping her gaze to mine. The force behind her words almost set me on my heels. I felt the stares of strangers settle on us, and I my skin prickled beneath them.

  I lowered my voice. “I didn’t think you would—”

  “But you don’t trust me to go on my own, either.” She hit me with a no-nonsense glare.

  How could I trust her on her own? It had only been twenty-eight days since I’d had practically wrenched my arms free of hers in the Hazelden lobby. She was only staying, she’d told me, because I wouldn’t let her come home.

  I couldn’t let her come home.

  Not after I’d almost lost her. Keeping her safe was the only thing that really mattered, and I’d failed. Again.

  So maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. Maybe I didn’t trust me.

  I let go a heavy breath. “I’m just worried about you.”

  Ava closed her eyes in a long, pained blink. She focused on me again. “I’m worried about me too.”

  Her words triggered a whirlpool of dread in my stomach. Then she crossed her thin arms over her chest, and again, the no-nonsense glare was back. “But I have to prove to myself that I can do this. And not because you
’re shadowing me.”

  I bit back the refusal that lunged to spring from my lips.

  “Cole, I want to do this.”

  The look she gave me wasn’t the desperate, pleading look I’d seen so many times. When she’d wanted money. When she’d wanted me to stop asking questions. When she had wanted a fix. No, this one looked tired. Mature. And a little scared.

  It was the hint of fear that gave me hope. The look told me she was afraid she had something to lose. All she had now was her sobriety. If she was afraid to lose that, we might be onto something.

  We’d reached the luggage carousel, and at once, I saw her red Mark Cross suitcase. I pulled it from the conveyor before meeting her gaze again.

  “Okay. I get it. I’ll just drop you off.”

  Ava’s eye roll was immediate. “Cole, do you really think that’s any better than you walking into the meeting with me?”

  Better? Better wasn’t the word I’d use. It would be hard enough to drop her at the hospital entrance and hope like hell she didn’t ditch the meeting altogether. She’d lied to me so many times over the years, how was I suddenly supposed to feel okay letting her out of my sight?

  Worrying about Ava and building my business had been my twin missions for eight years. Everything and everyone else had been shoved aside. It wasn’t like I could just turn off the worry now that she was out of rehab. I might never be able to turn it off.

  And what would I do with myself if I could?

  “Here,” she said, digging her phone out of her bag. She jabbed her thumbs against the screen for a few seconds. “There. I’ve shared my location with you. I’ll Uber to and from the meeting. You can track me the whole time if it makes you happy.”

  I arched a brow at her. Ava had her own car — that I technically owned — but over the Family Visit weekend two weeks ago, I’d voiced my concerns about handing over her keys. “And you’re okay with that?” If so, it was a compromise I could live with. I’d stay at home and wait out her meeting, and afterward we could have dinner together at the house.

  Ava hesitated, narrowing her eyes at me. “I am if you keep your plans with Ross.”

  I was shaking my head before she even finished. “No. No. No.”

  My sister huffed a breath in frustration. “Why not? You made plans. You obviously wanted to go out with him.”

  “Yeah, but you’re here now. It’s your first night back. I should focus on that.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “Cole, listen to me. I’m trying to do this right,” she said, her brow crimping in a grimace. “I’m only on Step 4, my moral inventory, and it’s enough to bring me to my knees. I know what my addiction has done to you. I tried to hide from it for a long time. Please don’t let me add one more ruined night to the list of wrongs I’ll have to atone for when I get to Step 8.”

  I found myself blinking at her. This was Ava? Moral inventory? Atonement? The hope that had sparked in my chest burned a little brighter.

  “Please.” Those were tears pooling now, turning her blue eyes liquid.

  Ouch.

  I’d always hated seeing her cry. Hated it.

  Would it make any difference if I waited at home for her or went to the gallery and kept tabs on her by phone? I could come home right after she got back. There was no way I’d be going out with Ross and company as planned, but Ava was worth the gesture.

  “Alright,” I said with a nod. “I’ll go.”

  We made the short trip to the new house in near silence. But it wasn’t an awkward silence. My guess was Ava’s mind swam with thoughts just as mine did. Would she like the house? Would being back in Lafayette bring up too many awful memories? Should we have relocated somewhere else? Somewhere new?

  I’d thought about other places. Places close enough for me to keep an eye on the New Orleans office. Baton Rouge. Houston. Even Austin where Louis now was. My hometown didn’t hold a host of warm memories for either of us. But when the time came to look for office space and a new house, I just couldn’t picture us anywhere else.

  And the first night I’d spent in the new house — back in the 70506 zip code — I’d slept long and deep. And I’d dreamed the most potent, intoxicating dream. It was about the house Myrtle Place. Over the years, I’d dreamed of being there countless times. Nightmares. Always mounting the stairs in slow motion. Hearing my mother’s cries. Breaking the door down and finding horror behind it.

  I’d always wake up sweating. Choking. Sick to my stomach.

  But this was different. Instead of the dead of night, this dream opened at dawn. Not inside the house, but outside…

  I walked all night through a forest. It was cool and green, and a blanket of fog swirled around my feet. The sun was just breaking through mist, and I made my way to a clearing to watch it. And the house, instead of being in the middle of town, sat there in a wide, open field.

  There was no guesthouse. No pool. No patio. Just a stone path that led to the back porch. I saw it, and I knew there was nowhere else I wanted to be. I took off for it at a run.

  And I’d awoken to my alarm with tears in my eyes.

  When my head had cleared, I’d sensed there was more to the dream, but waking had snatched it away. Still, that whole day, I’d remember the feeling of walking into that clearing with a bittersweet ache in my chest. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that the dream was one I would never have had in New Orleans. It was only something sleeping in Lafayette could give me.

  “I love it,” Ava said as we pulled into the driveway. Her words shook me from the spell of the dream’s memory, and I turned to find her wearing a soft smile. “It’s so homey.”

  Compared to the three other places we’d lived in our lives, it was more than modest. At 2100 square feet, it was about the same size as the French Quarter apartment, but that was where the comparison stopped.

  “Oh my God, Cole,” she gushed when I opened the front door onto the family room. “It’s adorable.” The movers had transported most of our stuff from the apartment, but I’d had Bette order a new living room set, one that fit the warmth and comfort of the house, not the modern, minimalist lines of our apartment. A café au lait sectional welcomed us in front of a fireplace we could light next fall. Beyond that, the space opened into the buttercream kitchen, complete with breakfast counter and bar stools. The house seemed to rise up to meet us instead of turning up its nose. I was glad she liked it.

  A relieved chuckle shook from me as I realized how much her comfort and approval meant. “Yeah, it is.”

  She brought her eyes to mine, something like innocent wonder shining in hers. “We’ve never lived anywhere like this.”

  I bit my lip to keep my smile in check. A real home was a good start, but I couldn’t pin all my hopes on it. I knew the statistics on heroin addiction and recovery. Some studies claimed the relapse rate was as high as eighty percent.

  A comfy couch and buttercream walls couldn’t stand up to that.

  I nodded, telling my hope to keep quiet. “Let me show you your room.”

  An hour later, I watched Ava climb into the back of an Uber, glad that I’d agreed to head out myself. If I sat at home, I’d only obsess about her four-to-one odds.

  Chapter 18

  ELISE

  I was running late, and Alberta was going to kill me.

  I’d asked Ed if I could leave at four thirty, and I really, really meant to do it, but I’d set up the 3D printer to render my latest design, and it had finished that morning. I had painted the band during my lunchbreak, and it was completely dry at four o’clock.

  Okay, so I didn’t have to open up the acrylic paints and start mixing the perfect blue for the aquamarine inlay, but I thought I could get it done before I left so it would be ready to show Ed on Monday when we opened.

  But I was wrong. I’d been so meticulous with each round-cut gem, that when I finally got to the last one, I looked up and saw it was already five-thirty. Unfortunately, I still needed to dash home, shower, and change.

  I
was supposed to be at the gallery at six sharp, right when the doors opened so Alberta could have rock solid support by her side. And I knew it wasn’t just for the exhibit. She needed me there to settle her nerves over her first date with Ross.

  Alberta had always been beautiful. She was stunning. She was regal. Her bottle-blue eyes and cocoa-powder skin could settle a hush over any room she entered. But I thought it was her uniqueness that left her so ill at ease. Alberta joked about it most of the time, but being a person of mixed race for her meant she never quite felt like she belonged squarely in either camp, her mother’s white world or her father’s black one. She said it was like walking on the deck of a boat, unsteady footing wherever she went.

  Grounding her was supposed to be my job tonight, so when I rushed into The Green Door Gallery a half hour late, it was with a boulder of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I found her standing along the south wall of the gallery — a wall that held six of her canvases — talking to a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and hazel eyes.

  I scurried toward her, and Alberta greeted me with a steely glare. “Hello, Elise.” She smiled through gritted teeth. “So glad you could make it.”

  I clutched her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m the worst best friend ever. I’ll make it up to you,” I spluttered, willing to promise anything. “I’ll do all the cooking for a week. I’ll take the trash out for two. I’ll wash your car with my toothbrush.”

  The woman beside her tipped her head back with laughter.

  Alberta rolled her eyes. “Corinne, this is my best friend and roommate, Elise Cormier.” She brought her unamused gaze to mine. “Elise, this is Corinne Granger-Clarkson. She manages the gallery and—”

  I offered the woman my hand. “And you’re a legend,” I gushed. “I’ve seen your portraits in the Hilliard, and I saw that feature about you in The Independent. When was that? Like last summer?”