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“Bullshit,” Connor scoffs. “Watch me.”
Only minutes later, we’re standing on the porch of my old house. Connor looks down at me with the goofiest grin on his face, before raising his fist and knocking twice.
I grasp on to his arm. “This is stupid. Let’s just go.” I start to pull him away just as the front door opens.
A middle-aged man pops his head out. Brow knitted, he asks, “Can I help you?”
“Hello, sir,” Connor says, tightening his hold on my hand so I don’t run. “My name’s Connor Ledger, and this is—”
“Who is it?” a woman says from somewhere inside. The man opens the door wider and his, I assume, wife appears next to him. She looks first at Connor, then at me, her eyes widening when she sees me. “Ava?” she asks.
I have no idea who she is or how she knows me. Still, I find myself nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”
She places her hand on her husband’s chest, moving him out of the way. “I’m sorry, I probably sound crazy right now, but I recognize you from when I went through the house with the realtor. You were here with your… brother?”
I nod.
She adds, “Yeah, you were packing up all your stuff.”
Memories flood my mind, darkened moments of that time in my life when nothing made sense, and everything felt like it was crumbling around me. “I don’t remember you,” I murmur, unconsciously stepping toward Connor. I use his arm to shield me, because if she knows me, then she probably knows everything else about me.
“Did you want to come in?”
“No,” I rush out, tugging on Connor’s arm. My neck cranes when I look up at him, heat burning behind my eyes and nose. “Can we go?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I didn’t mean to cause you any…” Pain? Discomfort? Heartache? She could use any of those words, and they’d all be correct because standing here, in front of a door I used to call mine, an entry to a place I used to call home, where music was loud and laughter was louder, until… until all the blood seeped into my hands…
“I want to go,” I repeat, stepping back, trying to get Connor to do the same.
Gaze laced with pity, he rushes out, “But the patio and the lake and the memories, Ava. The good ones, remember?”
Tears well in my eyes again. “I don’t care,” I lie. I want to remember the good. I just don’t know if I can.
“You want to go to the patio?” the woman asks, nodding. “You can do that.” She motions to the side of the house. “Come through the yard if you don’t want to come in.”
Connor keeps his eyes on mine, eyebrows lifted in question. “It can’t hurt,” he pushes, and he looks so damn hopeful and eager.
“Okay.”
“Yeah?”
I nod.
“Give me five minutes,” the woman says. “Meet me at the side gate.”
Connor keeps his arms wrapped around me while we wait, no words spoken between us. I don’t know how we got from him drowning his losses, to celebrating Duke, to this. Now. And I know I should be grateful, but the truth is, I’m scared.
“We’ll go, you’ll see it, and you’ll know right away if you want to leave or stay, and I’ll do whatever you want,” he says as if reading my mind. “No pressure.”
The side gate opens, and the woman smiles. I should really get her name, but I don’t think I could talk through the knot in my throat. “Please,” she says, waving us in, “take your time.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Connor says, all hints of alcohol in his tone gone. I lead him past the main house, the pool and pool house, and beyond the greenhouse to where the yard opens up. The lake is prettier than I remember, and I stand still, my eyes drifting shut as I inhale a breath, basking in the memories of that scent alone. When I open my eyes again, Connor’s watching me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod, slowly, then look over around him to the patio. The chairs are different from the ones we had, but there are two there, a small table between them. Fairy lights hang from the pillars around the patio, lighting up the small space. We make our way over, noticing the jug of iced tea and slices of pie set out on two little plates. Connor laughs. “Y’all do things so different on this side of town.” He sits down on one of the deck chairs and tugs on my hand until I’m sitting on his lap, his hand on my stomach. “It’s nice out here,” he murmurs, his chin on my shoulder. “Tell me a memory.”
I half turn to him. “What do you mean?”
“Tell me something about your mom before. What did you talk about right here, in this very spot?”
