by Frankie Rose
“Hard. Exhausting. I’m catching up on three subjects so I’ll be up to date by the time the new semester starts.” At least studying so hard has distracted me somewhat from the fact that the rest of my life is in pieces.
“Well, you know what they say, don’t you. Nothing worth doing is ever easy. And you’re healing well, I assume?”
“Yes.” I could go into great detail about the fact that I can’t look at the twisted scar on my leg where I was shot without almost suffering a panic attack, but I don’t. She’s the last person who would understand.
“Money’s still in the bank? Groceries in your fridge?” she asks.
I pick up the chopsticks and work to fill my mouth, nodding my response. I can tell she’s getting frustrated, but I’m out of small talk. My life’s complicated enough without my mother deciding to impress her new lover by inviting me back into her life. I’m not stupid. This has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the one person that does matter to her—Brit.
The day I met my mother’s girlfriend in December was as much of a shock to her as it was to me. The look on her face was one of sheer surprise—Amanda hadn’t even mentioned the fact that she had a daughter. She’d pretended like I didn’t even exist.
“So tell me something,” my mother says.
“What?” I shove food into my mouth, bracing myself for what’s about to come next. What she’s about to ream me out for.
“Anything. It’s hard to hold a conversation with you when you keep giving me one word answers.”
“I’m not really sure what you want me to share with you. To be honest, I’m still in shock that you’re even talking to me. This is a record. I’m counting the words coming out of your mouth to see if we break it in the future.” I hate that I’m allowing my emotions out of their cage. I’ve never wanted her to know how badly she’s hurt me over the years.
“I know you’re angry.”
“Actually you don’t know anything about me. You buried me with Dad.” The food has turned to ash in my mouth. I can’t taste a thing. I let my chopsticks fall to the table.
“Avery, please. I’ve made mistakes, I’m aware of that, but I’m attempting to fix some of them now. I’m trying to build a bridge between us.” She waves her hand in the air, as if I’m being unreasonable.
“You made mistakes? My father was murdered and I almost was, too. You moved to the other side of the country. You have no clue what hell I went through. Alone.”
“That’s not fair. Brandon was there for you when I couldn’t be, Avery.”
“Yeah, he was. And speaking of Brandon, how about you tell me the truth, since we’re both here enjoying a lovely meal together. What happened between the two of you when you were younger?”
She looks up in shock, the severe crease of her brows telling me I’ve crossed the line. I wait for her to blow up, to take me out at the knees like she always does, but…nothing. She stares down at her plate, breathes in and out slowly for a moment before meeting my gaze.
“I might not know you, but you don’t know me either, Avery.”
“Not by choice.” I stand, picking up my still-full plate. “Can I go, or will you cut me off to spite me?”
She looks shocked, like the idea of ceasing my tuition fee payments and my allowance has never occurred to her. “I’m not…I wouldn’t do that. I just wanted us to try and work on this relationship, Iri... Avery.”
“Why? Why now? Why not at any point during the last six or seven years, when I could have actually used you in my life?
“Because I’m your mother.”
I almost choke on my response. “Could have fooled me, Amanda. You don’t have a motherly bone in your whole damn body.” I storm toward the front door, pausing when she calls out my name.
“Avery, come back next week. Same day, same time.”
“Is that a request or a command?”
“A request.” She swallows, her calm visibly slipping a little.
“You lied to me about Luke,” I say. “You lied to me about what you said he did.”
“No. I told you the truth. I told you what I thought I knew.”
“That’s very convenient, isn’t it? And isn’t that how most successful lawyers operate? By working with whatever half truth suits their purpose at the time?”
My mother clenches her jaw, but she doesn’t say anything. I open the door and step out of the house, feeling an immediate sense of relief as I do so. “Goodbye, Amanda.”
******
I hate the way I feel. My mother deserved every ugly word from me, every accusation, every angry retort, so why do I feel like the villain right now? I climb into my car and drive home in silence. I cry, even though the fact barely registers. My tears fall silently, streaking down my cheeks, making fat, wet marks on my stone wash denim jeans.
I arrive back at the apartment, Luke’s apartment, my home—I don’t even know what to call it anymore—parking the car at a horrendous angle to the curb. I’m barely seeing straight as I lock it and head toward the building.
“You call that a reverse park? You’re gonna lose a wing mirror if you leave it like that.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of a voice behind me. A voice I recognize all too well.
“Noah?” I turn around and there he is, standing on the sidewalk, shoulders up around his ears, looking like he’s about to bolt in the other direction. I’m stunned to see him. Literally stunned. He’s the cherry on the shit sundae and I seem to be the one holding the spoon. I freeze, holding my breath, immediately wondering how he found me here, how he knew where to come. Has he been watching me? And for how long? He begins to move toward me, and that’s when I see her—the tiny little girl holding his hand. She can’t be any older than four. Her little pink dress is frilly and beautiful, her smile innocent, her almond shaped eyes crystal blue. I can see from here that her sooty eyelashes are incredibly long and curled.
“Um, hi.” I glance back to Noah, a million questions firing inside my head—what the hell’s happening here? being the primary, most demanding of them. Noah gives me a lopsided, almost nervous smile.
“Hey, Avery.” He crouches down in front of the little girl, then, and kisses the back of the tiny hand that he’s holding. “Neve, this is Avery. She’s one of my friends. Do you want to say hello?”
The little girl, Neve, looks at me shyly, looks back at Noah, and then nods slowly, as if she’s not really made up her mind. She lets go of Noah and moves toward me, holding out her hand. I’m not sure what to do. I bend down and extend my hand to shake hers. She pumps my arm up and down three times and then lets go, eyes scrutinizing me from head to toe.
“Why have you been crying?” she asks in a small, perfectly adorable, perfectly Irish voice. Her accent is even thicker than Noah’s. She looks up at me with such pained curiosity, like she’s feeling my unknown hurt for me already, and my heart breaks.
“I’m okay, sweetheart. I just heard a sad song in the car on the way home. Do you understand? Sometimes songs can make you sad, but it doesn’t mean you’re really sad.” I am such a liar, but what else am I supposed to say to this perfect, tiny human being?
“Yes. I understand,” she whispers. “I hear sad songs all the time.”
“You do?”
Neve nods, her head moving up and down exaggeratedly. “Yes. Daddy’s Pearl Jam music makes me sad.”
Noah laughs. “She’s full of it. She loves Pearl Jam.”
“When I’m sad, Daddy gives me a hug,” Neve tells me. She steps closer, folding her small arms around my legs, resting her cheek on my thigh, just below my hip. I’m so shocked, I can do nothing but stand there, arms out, letting the child comfort me. Noah straightens up, taking a step forward.
“I’m sorry. C’mon, A stór, what have I told you about hugging strangers?” The endearment that slips from his lips sounds melodic, something I’ve never heard before. It sounds like ‘uh stohr.’ Noah reaches for Neve, but I hold out my hand, stopp
ing him. She smells like baby powder and cotton candy. I fold myself over as best I can, hugging the little doll-like creature. Bending back, craning her neck to look up at me, she whispers, “I’m four years old. I can count to twenty, though. Can you? Do you feel better now?”
I laugh, unable to help myself. “I can count to twenty, although I doubt I’d do it half as well as you. And, yes.” I give her another small squeeze before letting her go. “I feel much better now, thank you.”
“Good. Daddy, you said we could have ice cream.”
“Yes, baby. Ice cream. I definitely said that.” His eyes are piercing right through me as he takes his daughter’s hand.
Daddy.
I’d put the pieces together as soon as she started talking about Pearl Jam, but it’s another thing entirely hearing Noah respond to that name. And with such obvious love and affection, too. It makes me feel strange.
“Are you coming with us, Avery?” Neve looks up at me, smiling.
Noah draws in a deep breath, looking down at his daughter, and shakes his head. “Yes, Avery. Would you like to come with us to get ice cream? I’ve been promising this one cookie dough for the past three days now. I have to deliver tonight, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.” He smiles at me now, though the air is still thick with tension.
Oh, god, I can’t.
I shoot Neve a smile, chucking her under her chin. “That’s a very kind invitation, but I’m afraid I have lots of work I need to do for school. Thank you so much, though. Maybe another time.” I brush a dark curl back from her face, tucking it behind her small shell-like ear. “It was very nice to meet you, Neve. I hope you and your daddy have fun getting ice cream.” I look back up at Noah and simply nod, not quite sure of what else to do.
“You really should fix that before someone scratches the paintwork,” he tells me softly, jerking his head in the direction of my car.
“I will.”
“I’ll see you in class,” he says. They walk off, and as they go I can hear Neve talking in that beautiful, lilting cadence of hers.
“Daddy, I’m a little bit tired, though. I think you should probably carry me.”
“Ah, but you’re a lazy bum. What are these long legs for, A stór?” He still picks her up, though, swinging her onto his hip as they vanish together into the darkness.
I climb back into my car and straighten it up properly.
As I climb the stairs up to the apartment, I can smell cotton candy and baby powder on my clothes.
TEN
AVERY
I’ve decided that I love Williamsburg. Since college is out for summer break, I have plenty of time to look for new apartments. Leaving Luke’s place feels fucking terrible, and every single fiber of my being doesn’t want to do it, but I’m not one hundred percent crazy. I know I have to. To stay would be creeping into bunny boiler territory.
I find a place three blocks away, close to the park—a two-story loft apartment inside an old converted church. It’s stunning. So much natural light. Brand new kitchen. Marble tiled bathroom. It’s obscenely expensive, way more than I’d be able to afford if I were an average working student, but since Amanda’s been topping up my bank account for years I have plenty of funds to cover the rent. I get Morgan to help me move my boxes from Luke’s place. I’m hardly a materialistic person; I haven’t accrued vast amounts of crap I don’t need since I arrived in New York. The bulkiest thing I have to take is a guitar case—one of Luke’s guitars. It’s a half-size, small in comparison to other instruments. Luke told me once, before he left for LA, that it was his very first guitar. The one my father bought for him when he was twelve. He showed me where my father had carved Luke’s initials into the back, as well as his own, and my heart had felt like it was flying. I decided when I was packing up that I was taking the guitar with me. It’s a connection to my father, after all, and I don’t have many of those. Plus, it feels weird to leave such a reminder of my bloodline behind in the apartment. Luke doesn’t deserve it. If he really wants it back at some point, he’ll have to man up and actually come and fucking get it.
Morgan and I make three trips, carrying or wheeling my schoolbooks and clothes over to my loft, and no one pays us any attention. Our awkward migration won’t be the strangest thing to happen on the streets of New York City today. Not by a long shot.
I’m feeling good about the whole move and settling in until it’s time for the final run from Luke’s. I have to close the door for the last time, and I feel like someone has me by the throat and they’re choking the life out of me. It feels like everything’s over. This is it. This is final, and it hurts like a motherfucker. I clasp hold of the key so hard, it feels like it’s about to break my skin as I run full tilt down the stairs and out of the building, choking, trying to breathe.
“You okay, sunshine?” Morgan snakes her arm around my waist, leaning her head against my shoulder.
“No. No, I’m not. Not really.”
“Come on. We have to go to the post office on the way over to yours this time,” she says.
“Why?”
“So we can mail the damn keys back to the asshole. If you keep them, you’re gonna be sneaking in here every five minutes so you can shove your face in his closet and smell his clothes or some shit.”
“I do not do that, Morgan.” I do that all the time. Especially when I’m feeling particularly weak and I’ve been watching the Gilmore Girls.
Morgan rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever. We’re mailing them back to him right now.”
“I don’t even have an address, okay? He was moving out of Cole’s place just after I last saw him. It’s not like I can just stick some keys in an envelope, write Lucas Reid on it, shove them in a mailbox.”
“What’s the record label’s name?” Morgan asks.
“MVP.”
“Okay. Leave it with me.” She chatters the whole way to the post office, dragging my suitcase full of books behind her, but her head is also down while she stares at her phone, fingers tapping away. When we reach the post office, she snatches up a padded envelope and scribbles an address on the front. It’s addressed to Lucas ‘Asshat’ Reid, c/o MVP Records, followed by an address in Malibu. She holds out her hand, palm up, her eyebrows raised. “Give, Avery.”
I know she’s right. It’s for the best that I do this, but I really was kind of consoling myself with the idea that I would be able to go over there if I absolutely thought I needed to. If I remembered that I’d forgotten something perhaps. At least that’s what I was telling myself anyway. I take out my keys and unclip the two that belong to Luke’s building. Morgan snatches them from me before I can change my mind, and then she’s tossing them inside the envelope and sealing it shut.
“Wait here.” She hurries off, leaving me with all of my stuff around my feet, and I have to be patient while she goes and pays to mail the envelope, and the whole time I’m itching to go and tell her to give them back.
She seems remarkably smug when she returns. “There. It’s done. Doesn’t that feel better?”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say. “So much better.” But it doesn’t. It feels awful.
Outside, the sun is shining again. I’ve thought it before, but it hits me again how messed up it is that the city is beautiful right now and in my head it feels like it should be raining. Morgan sticks out her bottom lip. “It’s going to be okay, Ave. I promise you it will. Plus you have the most amazing apartment I’ve ever seen right now and I’m jealous as all hell. I can’t believe it came with all that kick ass furniture. Anyway, once we’ve dropped all of this off, I need to head home and meet Sam. Come with me. I want to introduce you guys. Don't you dare say anything about him looking like Cole, though.”
“Sam? There’s another Cole lookalike now?”
“No, Sam is Jag from the band. The Cole clone.”
“Right. That’s not confusing at all.”
“You seriously thought someone out there named their kid Jag for real? That’s just his stage name. Hot, right
?”
“Blistering.”
“So? Are you in?”
“I don’t think I need to interrupt whatever plans you guys have.”
She punches me square in the boob. “Ow! What the fuck was that for?”
“For being annoying, that’s what.” Morgan pulls me into an awkward side hug. “Come on, come with me. We're not going to make out in front of you, I promise.”
“Yes, you will. You and Tate used to subject me to your hot and heavy make out sessions all the time.” I catch the stony look on Morgan’s face, instantly realizing what I’ve said. Tate. Tate, who Morgan was off-and-on dating last year before he overdosed and died on snow-covered rooftop. They didn’t find his body for days. I flinch, wishing I could take back the words.
“Well, there won’t be any making out today,” Morgan says softly. “Maybe some Xbox and some grilled cheese sandwiches if you’re lucky, but definitely no making out, I swear.”
******
Morgan’s apartment is on the edge of the campus. We make idle chit chat while we walk, Morgan making an obvious effort to steer clear of any further Luke Reid related topics. I love her for it.
When we reach her door, Morgan slides her key in the lock, squealing. If she’s this excited before we’re even inside, I dread to think what she’s going to do when she lays eyes on this guy. I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“Hey, sexy!” Morgan flies into the kitchen and throws herself at the guy waiting there—tattoos everywhere, closely cropped dark hair, muscles as far as the eye can see. It’s been weeks and weeks since we went to see his band play, and it seems as though Morgan’s been spending a lot of time with him. His resemblance to Cole really is startling. I smile and wave, dropping my bag by the couch.
