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I stand in front of his house with the phone in my hand, and I remember his text, barely. The phone hardly visible through my tears, I try to calm down, my thumbs searching for the last couple of minutes of his game.
I need to be prepared.
I need to be present.
For him.
I find the video, skim until the end, my heart dropping, lips parting when I watch it back.
I don’t think. I just run to his window and knock, guilt building a solid fortress in my stomach. When enough time passes and there’s no sign of life, I knock again. Wait. I check for his car, but it isn’t there, and I knock again and again and again, getting louder each time.
My heavy breaths create a fog in front of my eyes and inside my mind, and I check the time, 2:27 a.m. I sniff back my cries, dial his number and hold the phone to my ear.
It rings on my end, but it’s silent in his room, and I have no idea where he could be. My self-doubt and insecurities fight for a space in my thoughts, and I don’t have the energy to push them away. The call connects to his voicemail, and I suck in a breath, try to replace my weakness for courage.
Vincit qui se vincit.
“Hey, Connor. It’s me…”
FORTY-EIGHT
ava
It’s been a long time since I’ve just “hung out” in the hallways at school, and maybe that’s why I feel like there are even more stares, more whispers than usual. I sit in front of Connor’s locker, my legs crossed and my head down, waiting for him. I want to catch him after practice and before psych so we can at least get a few minutes to talk. I need to explain my stupid text.
I have my headphones in, but no music to accompany it. I wear them so I’ll be left alone, but I’ll still be able to hear Connor coming. Instead, I’m hearing people mock me as they walk past, and then two sets of feet, girls, stop in front of me. I don’t look up when they giggle to themselves. Not even when one of them says, “I bet she has no idea what he gets up to when she’s not around.”
My head spins, my stomach does, too, and I don’t… I don’t understand what they’re saying. All I know is that Connor wasn’t home in the early hours of the morning. And so maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t know him at all.
Another set of feet stops beside me, and I recognize them as Connor’s. “Hey.”
I take a quick moment to get myself together before looking up at him. His face is blanched, dark circles around his heavy eyelids. His body’s slumped as if it’s a task to remain upright, and I get to my feet, say, “Hey.” I ignore the ache in my chest when he bypasses our usual morning kiss and goes straight for his locker, throwing his bag in without taking anything out.
He slams his locker shut, then leans against it, his hands in his pockets when he says, “What’s up?”
His eyes are on mine, but the soul behind them… it isn’t Connor.
I yank the headphones out of my ears and cross my arms over my chest. I feel so little, and I need him to stop making me feel like that. “I’ve been trying to call you,” I murmur.
He shrugs. “I lost my phone.”
My eyes widen. “What do you mean you lost your phone?”
“I mean,” he says, looking down his nose at me, “I misplaced it. I don’t know where it is.”
“I know the definition of lost, Connor. You don’t need to berate me.”
“I’m not,” he sighs out. His eyes drift shut, his shoulders lifting with his heavy inhale. When he opens his eyes again, he says, “Look, I just spent the entire morning running suicides because Coach thinks it’s funny to punish a bunch of hungover kids, and so—”
“You’re hungover?” I cut in.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m just really fucking exhausted. I’ve been pushing myself too far for too long, plus the constant lack of sleep—especially last night—and… everyone has their limits, Ava.” His gaze bores into mine. “And I think I’m at my peak.”
A stillness passes between us, seconds feel like hours, and we do nothing but stare at each other, like we’re both searching for something that’s no longer there. I look away when I feel the heat burning behind my eyes.
Connor pushes off his locker, his hand reaching up, and I close my eyes, wait for the moment his hand cups my jaw or his finger traces my forehead when he shifts the loose strands away… but nothing comes.
“Thank you,” he breathes out, and my eyes snap open as I see him grasp the phone someone’s holding up between us. I follow the arm to the person next to me: Karen.
