alright, I want to talk.” She noticeably swallows and looks back at the bowl of soup on the nightstand.
“Do you want more?” I ask. I quickly reach for it and climb on the bed to give it back to her.
“There’s more downstairs if you like it.” It’s just a can of homestyle chicken noodle. But it does smell good.
She takes the bowl eagerly and smiles. “I do like it. My mother made us chicken noodle when we were sick, too.” She spoons out the broth and blows on it before taking it into her mouth.
She seems happy with the memory, but the mention of her mother makes me sick. It reminds me of my own mother. Both our mothers were slaughtered.
“My mother did, too. Never from a can though.” I grin at the memory. “My mother loved cooking,” I say matter-of-factly, and settle on the bed next to her. This is better, I think. Besides, I’d rather talk about this.
She chuckles into the spoon and takes it greedily into her mouth. “My mother hated cooking. We had a chef. But not when I was little. Back then it was different.”
I try to recall what I know of her father, but it’s not much. I suppose her famila made more money later on in her life and that’s why things changed for her. With the right setup and connections, there’s a shit-ton of money to be made.
“A chef sounds nice.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another bite.
“I like cooking. But it’s nice every once in a while.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “I can grill, and I can bake, but I tend to burn shit on the stove.”
She looks at me with a wide smile as she asks, “But it’s harder to bake, isn’t it?”
“Nah,” I lean farther back and rest my back against the headboard, “Baking is just mixing up a simple recipe and you pop it in the oven.”
“Oh, do you mean like Betty Crocker?” she asks, and I look at her with confusion.
“Of course, what did you think I meant?”
She sets the empty bowl down and tries to cover her mouth with her arm as she laughs while shaking her head. As I watch her shoulders rise and fall slightly with the sweet sounds of soft laughter, I realize how easy the atmosphere is between us.
This is Ava. I like this side to her.
“What kind of baking do you do?” I ask. I just want to keep the conversation going. I want this feeling to last.
“Like, fresh morning biscuits--” She looks reminiscent, and I interrupt to be an ass.
“They have those in a can. They’re called Pillsbury.” She outright laughs and swings her hand at me, playfully smacking me on the arm.
It triggers her, though. Her face falls and all sense of humor is gone. It’s as though I had the real Ava to myself, if only for a small moment. But now she’s gone. Replaced by the shell of a woman.
“Ava,” I say, as I reach out to her. Her eyes dart to mine, but her body is tense and I can feel waves of anxiety pouring off of her. My hand lands on her thigh and I decide to keep things light. “You have to know what Pillsbury biscuits are, don’t you?”
She quickly responds, “Yes. I’ve seen them before.” Her body stays tense as though she’s expecting a harsh reaction. It brings me back to reality. She’s so fucking hurt.
It breaks my heart. I clear my throat and lean back against the headboard, patting the seat next to me. She obediently scoots closer.
“You’re hurting. I want to help you,” I say simply. I know the only way to help her is to make sure she never goes back to them. I know that. And I want to make sure that happens. I question if she’ll ever be alright, but a feeling deep in my gut tells me I can heal her. I can take away her pain and make everything alright.
“Tell me what I can do, Ava.” It’s a command. It may be fucked up to take advantage of her submission. I don’t feel comfortable pushing her to talk. But I have no problems pushing to find out how I can help her.
Her sad blue eyes look up at me as the corners of her plump lips tilt down. Her lips part and then close as her eyes fall. This is my Ava. I know this is her because she’s giving me emotion, even if it