our skills. I’m one foot out the door when I stop in my tracks. It’s a different balloon, but the same writing, same number, same insult.
My stupid grin matches my foolish glee.
I bet Rhys never got balloons.
Chapter 29
Ava
I startle when my alarm goes off, even though I’m wide awake. The biology paper I’m working on has kept me up the entire night—the only time the house has been peaceful enough to work. I set the phone down. I need the A. Not for me, but for Trevor. He works too damn hard to pay for this education, no matter how hard I’d fought him on it. “When it’s over,” he’d told me—whatever over means—“your high school education is going to be important.” And then came the argument about college that ended with me promising I’d apply to some even if I had absolutely zero intentions of going. “You can defer,” he’d said. “And we’ll work out the rest when the time comes.”
I’m typing and typing and typing, rushing through the final two paragraphs when I hear Mom’s bedroom door open. Shit. I look at the time. 5:05. Shit. Shit. Shit. I shut the screen, get to my feet. “Sorry, Mama. I lost track of time. I’ll get your breakfast going.”
Mom’s eyes are dead as she stares at me, and I can’t stand to see it. I look away, start on her food. Flames heat my face when I turn on the stove. I quickly set the pan on top, drop in some oil. Then I go to the fridge, pull out the bacon and eggs. I rush around the kitchen, dropping bread in the toaster, and she stands at the doorway watching me. “Five a.m., Ava,” she says, her voice as chilling as her presence. “I have breakfast at 5 a.m. every goddamn morning.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I turn my back to her so I can work over the stove, my heart beating out of my chest. My hands shake as I try to pick up an egg, and then she’s beside me, looming over and around me.
“Move!” she orders. “I can make my own damn breakfast.”
“No, Mama,” I say, trying to keep as calm as possible, but I can feel the darkness wavering above us, the doom and gloom like a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. I inhale deeply, exhale the same way. “I got it. Please sit down. I’ll only—”
“Move!” she shouts, grabbing at the pan handle.
I fight to get it back, even though I know I shouldn’t. She’s too strong, too wired, and I’m weak… God, I’m so fucking weak. Tears spring in my eyes, and I say, refusing to let go, “I’ll make it! I’m sorry.”
“Goddammit, Ava! I said MOVE!” she screams, pulling at the pan until I finally release it, but she wasn’t expecting it, and neither was I, because the pan flips up and burning hot oil catches on my neck, my chest. I shriek, the pain unbearable, and run to the tap. Tears fall from my eyes, mixing with the oil, burning through my flesh.
“What the hell happened?” Peter exclaims, appearing in the kitchen.
I try to splash water on myself, but it’s useless.
“Jesus Christ, Ava,” Peter says, grabbing me by my shoulders and turning me to him. His eyes widen when he takes me in, and he’s quick to grab a dish towel and soak it with cold water. He wraps it around my neck, then runs to the fridge and pulls out the ice tray. He plugs up the sink, fills it with water and ice.
“What the hell did you do, Jo?” he asks my mom.
Mom doesn’t respond.
I’m on the floor now, my cries so strong they’re silent. My body convulses, the burning flesh heating my insides. Tears. So many tears. Peter finds all the dish towels in the kitchen and dumps them in the filling sink. He grabs a handful and places them wherever he can see the damage. My neck. My shoulders. My chest. “Keep them there,” he tells me. Then he leaves, only to return with his phone to his ear.
“Who are you calling?” I manage to get out.
“The crisis team. We can’t do this alone, Ava. We need help.”
“No, we can’t afford—”
“Quit it. You need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I cry out.
“I swear to God—” he starts, but the call must connect. He gives the person on the other end all our details, Mom’s case number, and as much information as he knows about