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“Tell me the truth!”
“Fuck,” I spit, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. “Fuck, Ava, I wasn’t supposed—”
Her sob forces a sharp inhale as she stares at me, her mouth agape. “Why would you keep that from me!” And then she breaks, her shoulders shaking. Those small hands I fell in love with cover her entire face, and she’s crying, the loudest, most unconfined cry I’ve ever witnessed from her, and all the broken pieces of my heart fight for unity again because I remember everything about her, about us, everything I love. I fell in love with her vulnerability as much as I fell for her strength and “I’m sorry, Ava.” I sniff back my own tears, watching her shatter in front of me. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”
I try to reach for her, to hold her, to show her the magic… but she pushes me away. “Don’t fucking touch me.” She’s on her feet and heading for her door, and I try to grasp on to her, but she’s too… everything. She’s too determined and too angry and too… too damaged. She slams the door between us, and I don’t give up. Can’t.
I turn the knob and push, but nothing happens. “Ava, please,” I beg, my forehead against the door. “I’m sorry.”
* * *
I don’t bother going back to school, telling Dad that I’m not feeling well, so he excuses me from classes for the rest of the day. I spend the time in my room, my phone to my ear, calling, calling, calling. My thumbs move faster than ever as I write out text after text after goddamn text, each one going unanswered. I stand at her door four fucking times with my fist raised ready to knock, but stop myself, knowing it could make things worse.
When the world around me turns dark and all hope is gone, I try calling her again. This time, she answers. But it’s not her on the other end of the line. It’s Trevor. “Stop fucking calling, Connor. You’ve done enough.”
I stare down at my phone once he’s hung up, anger and fear and disappointment hitting me in waves. Then I notice the voicemail icon and hope spikes in my heart. Maybe she’s tried calling at the same time I have, and maybe Trevor’s taken her phone because he’s angrier at me than she is…
I hit play on the voicemail, listen to the intro timestamped 2:27 am. “Hey, Connor. It’s me… It’s umm… it’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m at your window but… but I don’t think you’re home and I’m not really sure where you are... I just… I wanted to say sorry about my message. I watched the entire tournament and then with five minutes left in the final, my mom... she broke our TV… deliberately, and God, Connor, I got so angry with her. I yelled at her like I’ve never done before. And I… I’m just having a really shitty time at the moment. And I know that you are, too, and that’s more important right now, so I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like you’ve always been there for me, and I know that you’re probably sick of hearing me apologize but… I don’t know. I just thought… I thought maybe we could spend the night together, or at least a couple of hours. Because um… because I love you, Connor. I just love you… so much.”
I throw my phone across the room, watch it fracture. And just like Ava before me, I break. As if I’ve reached my boiling point and the pressure’s too much, and I explode. Erupt. Detonate. “Fuck!” I shout. My fist flies, goes through the drywall. Again, and again. And then my dad appears, his eyes wide, and I fall to the floor, my head in my hands. “Jesus Christ, Connor,” he whispers, dropping to his knees in front of me. He grasps my hand in his, shifting the blood pooling at my knuckles. “What the hell are you thinking?” He inspects my hand closer, his eyes wide when he looks up at me. “This is your shooting hand.”
FORTY-NINE
connor
I don’t see Ava at school the next day, not that I expected to. But I see her the day after, in psych, walking through the door. I sit higher in my seat and hide my bandaged hand under the table. I need to talk to her, to apologize. I’ve planned out everything I want to say. I need to tell her how sorry I am for the way I’d been acting, that it was never about her, and that it was all on me. That the pressure became too much, and I took it out on her. And I need to tell her that I love her, that I never stopped loving her, not even for a second.
But she doesn’t look at me when she walks in. Instead, she goes to Karen, her mouth moving, but I’m too far away to hear what she’s saying. Karen turns to me, her eyes sad, and then back to Ava. She nods, stands, and gives Ava her seat.
My heart sinks, and I look down at the table as Karen settles in beside me. “I’m sorry, Connor,” she whispers. “I couldn’t say no to her.”
* * *
The day is a blur, and I can’t focus on anything. Not even basketball. After-school practice is a shitshow, and my injured hand only elevates my piss-poor performance. “It looks like it’s healing well,” one of the trainers says, inspecting my hand after practice.
“My dad’s a paramedic,” I mumble. “He made sure it was taken care of. Trust me, no one wants it to heal as fast as he does.”
“Where the hell is my deodorant?” Oscar says from behind me. He’s opening and closing lockers, searching.
“Just use mine,” Rhys offers.
“I have sensitive skin, bruh.”
“Check your car,” says Rhys.
Oscar sings, “You’re not just a pretty face, co-cap.”
I watch the trainer wrap my hand again. “Your dad think it’ll be good to go by the invitational?”
I nod. “It’s just a minor sprain. No fractures.”
“Good. Want to tell me how it happened?”
“Not really.”
“Connor,” Oscar says, his hand on my shoulder. “Your girl’s out in the parking lot.”
My brow lifts when I look up at him.
