“Not mad.” Ava snaps her gaze to mine. “It just reminds me of how much I’m surrounded by stubborn men, and I don’t want Charlie to be an idiot like them.”
“I have a feeling I’m in trouble and don’t know why.”
“Your status depends.” Ava puts her hands on her hips. “Want to tell me why you and Drake went from bromancers to enemies instantly?”
Bile burns the back of my throat. I turn away and lift a rolled rug to move it into the corner. “No.”
“Figures.”
The subject needs to change, but I keep us hovering dangerously close to the memories of the past. “So, Charlie, he’s what? Three or four?”
“Four.”
The same timeframe I received the last voicemail from Drake. I shake my head, refusing to make any connections with the guy.
“Sounds like you have a question, but I didn’t hear one.”
I roll my eyes. This woman and her life mission to get me to spit out the things in my head.
“Fine. I might be the smallest bit curious about Charlie’s mom. I didn’t know Drake was married, or whatever they are.”
Ava pauses. “He’s not.”
“Divorced? Separated?” Why do I care?
“None of the above.” Ava busies over another box as she talks. “Charlie is a bright place after . . . well, he came after the worst storm. Not a literal storm, I mean an emotional one,” she clarifies, her voice cracking.
She wipes at new tears in her eyes.
“Ava.” I lose my mind and cover her hand with mine. Tears drip onto her cheeks, and I hate that my stupid questions put them there.
“Drake’s wife, Veronica, she was in an accident when she was thirty-five weeks pregnant, and . . . Ronnie, she . . . she didn’t make it.”
It’s a sucker punch to the gut.
Drake was married.
He’s awidower?
I don’t want to feel sympathy. We’re supposed to hate each other. I should hate him. I want to hate him. But there is a horrible, jagged piece of regret that pierces through the indifference. More than I want to hate him right now, I wish I’d been there.
I can only imagine what that moment in his life was like.
“I didn’t mean to get so heavy,” Ava says, “but to be fair, you did ask, and I’m not going to lie about the crappy parts of life if you ask. But that doesn’t mean you get to be an oyster again.”
“I’m not an oyster.” My voice is gruff, but a hidden smile starts to tug at my lips.
“You are. There you went, drifting away in some silent thought process without sharing those pearls with the class.”
It’s unnerving how she can still pick up on my tics after all these years.
“I wasn’t thinking anything.”
“Liar.”
I stand from the sofa. My eyes narrow. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a liar.”
