“I’ll show you gross,” Ava threatens, shifting her squinted eyestoJoel.
When she puckers her lips, making gaga kissy faces, Joel screams a window-shattering squeal before racing to the other side of the room. Ava’s on his tail before he even makes it halfway across the living room. She tackles him onto the ground and holds him down similar to how I normally pin her down. She smoothers his face in kisses, smooching noises and all. Joel screams in protest, but the large smile etched on his adorable face is giving away his deceit. He is loving every single moment of his mom’s attention. And rightfully so, heshould.
“Daddy, help me,” Joel squeals between giggles. “Save me from the girlgerms!”
I throw back my head and laugh. I don’t want to be saved by Ava’s girl germs. I want to be smotheredinthem.
* * *
“Is he asleep?”Ava asks when I walk back into thelivingroom.
I nod. “Yeah, he was asleep before his head hit thepillow.”
Ava laughs. I wasn’t joking. The poor little guy was exhausted. After Joel and I ganged up on Ava, tickling her into submission, we went into the kitchen to prepare pancakes for dinner. Joel’s excitement was beaming out of him the entire time. As was mine. After a good dose of sugar, Joel was literally bouncing off the walls. We played a few more rounds of the airplane, then Ava gave him a bath. He didn’t stop yawning the entire time Ava was dressing him in his air fighter pajamas. Only after promising to take him to the park tomorrow did he agree to go to bed. I’m not going to lie, I was as smitten as the President on Inauguration Day when Joel asked me to read him a bedtime story and tuck him into bed.We never got to read a story… maybenexttime?
“Did you want a wine?” Ava offers, pacing to thekitchen.
My facescrewsup.
Ava chuckles softly. “Beer?” she queries with an arched brow, noticing myexpression.
I nod before plopping onto the rock-hard coach. My shoulder is screaming in pain. Not a faint scream, an Alex Koehler from Chelsea Grin scream at the start of the song “Sonnet of the Wretched”scream.
I’m still rubbing the knot out of my shoulder when Ava paces into the living room with a refilled wine glass and a bottle of beer. I lower my hand when I notice the direction ofhergaze.
“What’s the deal with your shoulder?” she asks, handing me the beer and taking the spare seat next to me. “I’ve noticed you rubbing it a few timestonight.”
I take a swig of my beer before angling my torso to face her. If I want any chance of regaining the trust I lost when I vanished, I need to be honest with her.Abouteverything.
“Igotshot.”
Ava’s wine traps in her throat. She wheezes and coughs, spraying the coffee table and my shirt with red wine splatters as she fights to keep her lungs full of oxygen andnotwine.
“You alright?” I ask, putting my beer on the coffee table so I can pat her ontheback.
It takes her a few moments to recover from her coughing fit before she lifts her tear-glistening eyes to mine. I can’t tell if her eyes are welled with tears from her coughing attack or because Iwasshot.
“Shot? Like shot with a gun shot?” she queries with her browsarchedhigh.
Inod.
“By whom? Why?” she asks, her words coming out in a hurry as a mask of panic slips overherface.
“The girl I was protecting was kidnapped. Her kidnapper didn’t appreciate my presence,” I report, shrugging my shoulders, acting like it’s no big deal. I'll do or say anything to remove the cloud of concern plaguing herbeautifuleyes.
Ava stares at me, her eyes widening more with every second thatgoesby.
After a beat, she mumbles, “And here I was thinking root canals and extractions wereexciting.”
I laugh. Only Ava would find the lightheartedness in a somber conversation. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. Ava doesn’t have a judgmental bone in her body. She has never judged me. Not once. Not even if she was bursting at the seams to know something, she wouldn’t ask, preferring only to be divulged information when the informant felt comfortable sharing it. She doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “strong-armed.”
Setting her wineglass on the counter, Ava props her legs under her bottom and swivels to face me. “Can I see where you were shot?” she queries, her tonesheepish.
When I nod my head, she licks her lips, leans forward, and gently pulls down the neckline of my shirt. I grab the back of my shirt and yank it over my head. Ava’s eyes enlarge as her throat works hard to swallow, somewhat surprised by my impromptustrip.
“I was shot in the chest, but the bullet exited my shoulder,” I explain, peering into her eyes. “You won’t see the wound properly with myshirton.”
I manage to catch my eye roll halfway. I sound like a slack-jawed idiot. It is nearly as good as the fake yawn maneuver I regularly used on her when we were watching re-runs ofFriends.
