First and Forever (Heartache Duet #2) - Jay McLean Page 0,103

now, Connor?”

My shoulders lift. “I’m going to start working on me, start giving my dad more reasons to be proud of me, and give my mom even more reason to regret what she did… and then I’m going to work on my end game.”

Miss Turner’s lips tug at the corners. “And what’s your end game?”

Ava.

I tap at my chest, just like Miss D showed me. “The Happiness.”

Chapter 44

Ava

One year later

“Hey, guys. Just give me a minute. I’ll go find her,” Brandon, one of the so-called nurses, tells us as he makes his way through the doors behind the reception desk.

“Find her?” Trevor says, his eyes narrowed. “What? Did they lose her?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I murmur.

“Ava,” Trevor deadpans.

I roll my eyes. “I’m kidding.” Kind of.

I watch Trevor as he looks around the waiting room. I come to Mom’s treatment center almost daily, but with Trevor back at Texas A&M and working two part-time jobs to try to make a dent in the massive debts he’d accrued over the past few years, he doesn’t get to visit Mom as much as he’d like. I try to see things from his perspective: the peeling paint of the walls, the old bright purple showing through the now sky blue. Posters from the late nineties hang in no particular order, all with motivational quotes that are somehow meant to ease the worry of the people who enter. The worst is the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead; so neglected, the dead insects in the housing are probably older than I am.

“Where the fuck did Peter find this place?” he whispers, more to himself than to me. It turns out, Peter’s promises to take care of me meant me living in his condo while Mom was placed here. My living with him lasted all of two weeks, but that’s a story for another time. As far as my mom… this is all we can do right now. I’ve applied for so many places, but the waitlists are insane, and it’s not like it’s that bad—at least that’s what I try to tell myself every time I walk through the doors.

Brandon returns and, without making eye contact, tells us, “She’s in her room. You can go on back.”

Trevor’s jaw ticks, his hands fisted at his sides.

“Thanks,” I reply, tugging on Trevor’s arm until he follows me through the doors. The hallways are just as bad as the waiting room, and I lead us through what feels like endless narrow corridors until we make it to Mom’s room. She’s in an old plastic chair, her hair matted as she looks out the window.

Zero-days.

Every day here is a zero-day.

And, in a way, I’m grateful she doesn’t realize how shitty she has it. Besides, zero-days are far better than negative days.

“Hi, Mama,” I edge, careful not to spook her. “Trevor’s here.”

A hint of a smile plays on her lips as she looks away from the window and notices Trevor standing behind me. “My kids,” she muses. “I love my kids.”

“We love you, too, Mama Jo.” Trevor approaches, kisses her scars. He leaves his hand on her shoulder, waiting for her to reach up and pat it as she always does.

“How’s school?”

“Good,” he tells her. “One more year and you’ll be at my graduation, right?”

Mom looks away.

Trevor’s gaze drops.

She hasn’t left the building since we got to Texas, too afraid of the outside world, and no amount of convincing can change her mind. “And work, Ava?” she asks. “How’s work?”

“It’s the same,” I reply, fixing the pillows and sheets on her bed. I sit down on the edge, my hands clasped on my lap.

“Same,” she repeats. “Everything is always the same.”

It is. At least for her and me. I managed to get a job pretty soon after we moved here, washing dishes at an old run-down diner. The pay’s not a lot, but it’s enough to get me through the week and to cover the rent on my studio apartment, an apartment Trevor hates despite me telling him that it’s fine.

That it will do.

Everything will do.

For now.

I graduated from St. Luke’s under “special circumstances.” Miss Turner sent my diploma to Amy’s PO box. It’s the only address I felt comfortable giving out. I’m not really sure what to do with a certificate that says Congratulations. You survived. Barely. She’s the only one I talk to from back home, and our phone calls have become less and less over the year.

Sometimes, when I get really lonely, my thoughts wander to my