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connor
Monday morning, Ava sent me a message telling me she wasn’t going to be at school, that something came up with her mom. I offered to help however I could, but she didn’t reply to my messages.
Tuesday morning, same damn thing.
Finally, on Wednesday, she tells me she’s going, but she doesn’t need a ride. Peter will take her. Whatever. At least she’s going, and I’ll get to see her. Five days of no-Ava is too damn long. But when psych class begins and she’s not sitting next to me, I start to worry, and that worry starts burning a hole in my gut. Something’s… off. And I don’t know what to do about it. Finally, about twenty minutes into class, the door opens and she appears. That first breath I inhale when I see her, God, it’s like I’d been holding on to it for all five days. She hands Mr. McCallister a note and then makes her way over to me, a slight smile on her lips that has me goddamn giddy with excitement. I’ve missed her. In all the possible ways you can miss someone, I’ve craved her.
Just her presence alone seems to settle my anxiety, and I haven’t even spoken to her yet. She sits down next to me, her leg tapping mine beneath the table.
I pull out a notepad as inconspicuously as possible and scribble down: You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ava.
With a smile, she reads what I wrote and writes back: It’s good to see you, too, I suppose. Then crosses it out completely and writes: I’ve missed you.
My heart does a stupid flip, and I settle my hand on her knee, praying she won’t push me away. As soon as the teacher’s turned his back to the class, I face her.
My eyes thirst for her, as lame as that sounds. But it’s true. Five fucking days and I’d forgotten how hot she was. I’m staring, breathing her in, and I don’t even care. I’ve missed her hair, a mess of a thing that seems to have a life of its own. And her eyes surrounded by thick, long lashes. She has freckles on her cheeks, right below her eyes, but just a few. And those lips, goddamn those lips. And her jaw… I’ve thought too long and too hard about that jaw, what it would be like to kiss her there, and then lower, down her neck and to her collarbone… which I can’t see because she’s wearing a turtleneck beneath her school shirt and it’s strange because it’s warm out and she’s never worn… my thought trails off when I see it. I know exactly what it is because our medicine cabinet’s filled with all the ones Dad takes home from work. Sterile dressing to cover a wound.
Ava catches me staring and lifts her shoulder, adjusts her clothes. She’s trying to hide whatever is there, and there’s only one reason why she’d do that. She doesn’t want me to know how it happened.
I scribble on my notepad: What happened?
She writes back: Nothing.
Bullshit.
I watch the seconds tick by, forming all the minutes until class is over and I can ask her out loud. As soon as the bell rings, she’s on her feet, rushing to get out. But she’s too slow, or I’m too fast, too desperate. I catch her just outside the door and grasp her arm to stop her from fleeing. “What happened?”
She inhales deeply, before stating, “Nothing. Stop worrying.” She tries to pull out of my hold, but I keep her there.
“Ava, I’m not playing. What the fuck happened? You’re MIA for five fucking days, and you come back hurt?”
“It’s not what you think,” she says.
I don’t even know what I’m thinking.
“I have to get to my next class. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
She bails, leaving me standing in the hallway with my heart pounding and my mind racing. Five days. Five fucking days and she hasn’t shown up to school once, has barely answered my texts. Ever since Trevor left—
Trevor left, and Peter came….
Peter.
AVA
I’m going to tell Connor the truth.
I decided a few minutes after leaving him in the hall that I would come clean and tell him everything. I wanted to tell him then and there, but the mix of anger and concern in his eyes had me panicking for a way out. I just needed a few minutes to myself so I could collect my thoughts and explain things in a way that would make him understand. The last thing I needed was for him to misplace his emotions and blame my mom for everything. Of all the things that could possibly ruin whatever it was we had going, his misunderstanding of my mom’s mental health would be the most heartbreaking.
I sit in the bleachers, our usual spot, and wait for him to show up while I make up pieces of our future conversation. I want to be ready for any questions he has, and I want the answers to be real. To be raw.
Minutes pass, and I start to get antsy. My breathing becomes shallow, my palms begin to sweat, and the burns begin to itch. I try not to think about it as I wait. Stand. Sit again. I check the school website for the basketball roster, thinking maybe he forgot he had some prior engagement. Nothing comes up. I stand again, look over and out and everywhere I can for him. Then my phone rings. It’s already in my hand, so I answer without looking.
“Connor?”
“It’s Krystal, Ava. I think you might need to come home, honey. A boy is fighting Peter in the front lawn.”
I hang up without a word, dial another number and start rushing toward the lot.
