First and Forever (Heartache Duet #2) - Jay McLean Page 0,84
heart aching in all the best possible ways. “Where are we going to camp, Mama? This is crazy.”
“It doesn’t matter where, Ava! As long as we’re together!” She looks at Trevor. “All three of us. Me and my children!” I don’t miss the widening of Trevor’s eyes or the way her words have him standing taller. She’s always referred to him as my brother, but never as her child.
“Grab the sleeping bags,” she orders me, and of course, I do as she says, laughing when I see her throw the tent onto the unkempt grass of our front yard.
She tries to unzip the bag for the tent, but she’s struggling with just one hand, and she starts laughing—the hysterical kind that has me doing the same. It takes three people over a half hour to put up a tent that’s at least thirty years old. It doesn’t help that we only have the streetlamps to guide us. We all three stand back when it’s up and then burst out laughing at the sight of it. It’s obvious rodents have gotten to it since we used it last because there are giant holes where they shouldn’t be. “It’s so sad-looking,” I say through a giggle.
“It’s perfect,” Trevor says.
Mom nudges my side. “Go get your gift.”
I run into the house and grab the jar, then run back out, holding it to my heart. “Got it!”
Mom and Trevor are throwing the sleeping bags into the tent, and I don’t know if she plans on all of us sleeping in there for the night, but I don’t think it’s possible. Still, I crawl in with them and set the jar in the middle, then flick it back on. When the music starts, Mom begins to sing, so loud and so free, and I join in with her. We’re off-key and obnoxiously loud, and I look over at Trevor, who shrugs, yells, “I don’t know the words!”
The tent vibrates, and I think we’re the ones causing it, but then something wet hits my forehead. I look up through the giant hole above me. Another droplet. “Oh, my God, it’s raining…”
Mom cackles. “It really is a do-over!” She takes my hand again. “Let’s go.”
I follow her out of the tent, ignoring the rain now pounding on my shoulders. She starts singing again, louder than before, pulling me to her as she sways me in her arms, dancing to a rhythm only we can hear. Trevor stays in the tent while we dance around him, our laughter filling my heart with joy. The rain only gets heavier, until the ground beneath us turns to mud. Mom cackles when she falls to the ground. Lying on her back, she swings her arms and legs back and forth. “What the hell are you doing?” I laugh out.
“Making mud angels!”
I stomp around her, splashing mud all over us, my arms swinging wildly as I continue to sing.
We needed this.
God, did we need it.
Just one night. One moment to forget everything else, and just like all the times before, Connor’s the one to give it to us… even from all the way in Georgia.
Neighbors turn their porch lights on, opening their doors to see what all the laughing and singing and yelling are about. I don’t care what they see, and Mom—she’s so blissfully unaware, and I love that she is. It’s been eight fucking years since I’ve seen her like this, and I want to hold on to the moment for as long as I can. Mom starts to sing again, screaming the lyrics as she gets to her feet, mud caked all through her hair, through her clothes. She skips around the front yard, her arms flailing. Our next-door neighbor on the opposite side of Connor comes out of his house, his screen door slamming against the tired siding. “Get your drunk ass back inside! You’re disturbing the peace!”
“She’s not drunk, you piece of shit!” I yell back.
“Ignore him, Ava,” Trevor says, coming out of the tent. He palms the small of Mom’s back and holds her hand, and they dance together, a pathetic attempt at a tango that has them both howling with laughter.
The piece-of-shit neighbor’s on the phone now, and more people have come out of their houses, watching our joy from the shelter of their porches. I grab my gift, not wanting it to get ruined in the rain, and bring it to the porch, and when I turn back around, the street is lit up