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Connor’s throat bobs with his swallow, but he doesn’t respond in words. Shoulders deflated, he looks over at me, and I can see the exact moment hope drowns in his chest, and the liveliness in his eyes flickers and flickers until it dims completely.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, my eyes welling at the sight of him.
He offers a smile—the saddest, most heartbreaking smile—and moves toward me, his chest rising with his heavy inhale. Lips warm, he places a gentle kiss on my forehead and squeezes my hand. “I’ll see you at school?”
I drop my head to his chest, my hand to his heart, echoes of magic tapping against my fingers. “Please don’t be sad,” I whisper, blinking back the heat behind my eyes.
He laughs once, short and sharp. “I’m all right,” he assures, stepping away. A moment later, he’s out the door, taking his heartache with him.
I roll my head to the side, look at my mother again. She’s staring down at the sink. “It’s empty,” she whispers.
“I did the dishes already.”
She shakes her head, slowly, slowly. “Not the dishes, Ava.”
“Then what?”
Sighing, she turns around, her eyes finding mine. “Me.”
* * *
Connor is a picture of hopelessness when I walk into first-period multimedia class. Head down, forearms on the table, he’s ignoring the hype going on around him regarding tonight’s game. “Hey,” I say, dropping my bag beside his ball and sitting down next to him.
He looks up, a semblance of a smile. “Hey.”
“How was practice?”
His cheeks puff with the force of his exhale. “It damn near killed me,” he says through a chuckle. “I’m going to feel beaten and bruised after the game.”
“Is that why you look so…” I trail off, not wanting to trigger him.
Nodding, he replies, “Yeah. I’m just stressed about tonight.”
“Anything I can do?”
A low chuckle builds in his chest and dies in his throat. Leaning in, he whispers, “There’s a lot you can do to relieve my stress, Ava, but it’s not really friendly.” He rests his hand on my thigh, creeping higher up my skirt.
And, just to mess with him, I whisper back, “Like give you a hand job under the desk?”
His hand stills, his shoulders tensing. When he rears back, his eyes are on mine, narrowed. “You win,” he sighs out, his lips curled at the corners. “Honestly, it’s a little of that and a little of what happened with your mom.”
I pout. “I figured.”
“I’ll get over it; it’s just…”
“Hard?” I finish for him.
His lips thin to a line, his eyes cast downward. “I guess I just really hoped it would make a difference, you know? And I thought—it’s stupid…”
“It’s not.”
And that’s all we can get in before Miss Salas enters the room and starts an hour-long diatribe about the effects of social media on our generation.
Connor doesn’t take his hand off my leg the entire time.
* * *
“So, how’s the plan coming along?” Miss Turner asks, taking a bite of her sandwich.
