First and Forever (Heartache Duet #2) - Jay McLean Page 0,14

nods, her lids heavy when she turns to me, eyes clouded. “There was so much blood, Connor,” she says, her voice strained with her withheld emotions. Her bottom lip trembles, and I fight the urge to hold her, to pull her into me and love her openly. “There was supposed to be a caregiver with me that day,” she says. “But they were ill, and they couldn’t come, and I had a test first period.” She swipes at the tears with no cry to accompany them. After an audible swallow, she adds, “I had a stupid test, and so I left her there. Alone. I was gone no more than two hours and when I came back…” She shudders a breath, and this time, I ignore what I know she wants. I clasp my hand around hers but keep silent. “It was so quiet. I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. And then the stairs. I remember the stairs. I remember the creaks under my feet. And I remember going through every room, feeling the dread escalate with every step.” She sniffs back her anguish. “And then the bathroom and the blood and the water and she was in there and she…”

“Ava…” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her. I pull her into me, my heart pounding.

She sobs into my chest. “She wasn’t breathing, Connor. Oh, God…” Her shoulders shake, her cries coming louder.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I whisper into her hair. I sniff back my own tears while I listen to her fall apart, and I do my best to keep it together. “It’s okay, Ava.”

“But it’s not,” she cries out, gripping my jacket. “It’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and I don’t know… I don’t—” She struggles to speak, struggles to breathe through her pain. “She hates me because I saved her. She hates me!”

“No, she doesn’t,” I try to soothe.

“She doesn’t, Ava,” Karen utters, and I don’t know where she came from or how long she’s been listening. Ava pulls out of my hold, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Karen repeats, sitting on the other side of her. “And I know… I know that this place, this house, brings back all those memories for you, but there are so many good ones,” she rushes out. “Like that tree,” she says, pointing to a small tree right in the middle of the front yard. “That’s Scout’s tree, remember?”

Ava lets out a sob.

“And remember when your mom surprised you with him? We got off the bus, and she was standing right on that porch, and you didn’t know she was coming home and you ran up the driveway so fast your bag caught on your skirt and you flashed me your bright red undies?”

Ava…

Ava laughs… a sound so pure, even if it ends with another cry.

“And you jumped into her arms, and she held you, swung you around as if you weighed nothing. God, I was so jealous of that genuine love she has for you. And then she brought out this mutt of a dog she found at the pound… so old and raggedy and blind in both eyes, and you fell to your knees and you loved that ugly-ass dog as much as your mom loved watching you with him.”

Ava’s shoulders shake, this time from laughter.

“And your bedroom balcony,” Karen continues, nudging Ava’s side. “Remember how you and I used to stand out there and pretend like we were performing for a crowd of millions? We’d bust out the High School Musical soundtrack as if we could fucking sing, and we truly believed that Troy Bolton was going to somehow climb up there and declare his undying love for us.”

I ask, “Who’s Troy Bolton?”

“Shut up, Connor,” Karen snaps, and Ava giggles, her head down.

“But my favorite memory of all is that tire swing in your backyard.”

Ava glances up at her, wordless and breathless.

Karen stares at the house like Ava did only moments ago: gaze distant, mind lost. “I’d just turned fourteen, and I needed to talk to you, but you weren’t there. Trevor had taken you out for the day, just you and him. And when your mom told me, I said that I’d wait for you, and I sat in that tire swing. I was probably there for five minutes before your mom came out and told me that she was no Ava, but she’d listen if I wanted to talk. So, I did. I told her about