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“Ah, nonsense,” she spits out with a huff. “You had a little fight. That does not mean you should whore yourself to the first—” She pauses, taking in my appearance, then wrinkles her nose. “What is he wearing anyway?”
I look down at my jeans and tweed sweater. I know it’s not an Armani suit, but fuck, it’s notthatbad.
“Mom. Can you let me talk to him alone, please?”
“Why? How about we all talk?” she singsongs condescendingly. “I want to know why this boy wants to see my daughter.”
“Mom,” Ava says more forcefully. “I need to talk to him in private.”
The sharp bite to Ava’s tone certainly hasn’t gone unnoticed by her mother, who pins her with a seething glare.
“Don’t you snap at me!” she snarls. “You will show me respect, and I will not have strange boys coming to my home!”
It all happens in the blink of an eye.
Her mother screws up her face and hurls her wineglass directly at me. I quickly duck down as it flies over my head and smashes onto the porch behind me—the momentum of the throw sending Ava’s mom off balance.
Ava moves quickly, catching her before she hits the floor.
“Come on, Mom.” Ava helps her stand up straight. “How about you sit down on the couch, and I will get you a new drink?”
Ava guides her by the arm toward the living area, and I step inside, closing the door behind me and following behind them.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” her mother screams, pushing her away. Ava lets go but walks beside her tentatively, closely watching her movements. “Where is my wine? Ava, get me my wine.”
When Ava doesn’t answer, her mother turns to face her head-on. “Did you not hear me? Or do I need to spell it out for you? Get me my fucking wine now!”
“I will,” Ava assures her. “But you need to sit down first, okay?”
Retaking her mother’s arm, she attempts to lead her to the couch. “I told you not to touch me, you fucking whore!” she screams, ripping her arm away and turning on her, with a raised hand.
I see it coming, but luckily Ava sees it too and quickly steps back as her mother attempts to strike her, the force of her swing sending her to the floor on her hands and knees.
Ava’s gaze darts to mine as I move in, and she holds up her hand, shaking her head.
“Look at what you have done,” her mother spits, attempting to get to her feet but falling back down. “You think you are so much better than me, don’t you? Perfect little princess. Does this boy know what a pathetic piece of trash you really are?”
Unable to get to her feet, she crawls toward the couch on her hands and knees while Ava watches, her expression neutral.
Jesus Christ.
Never in my whole eighteen years of life did I ever think I would see a grown woman in a designer suit crawling across the floor at five o’clock in the afternoon because she is too drunk to walk.
Ava continues to watch, not the least bit perturbed by the situation, and it’s then that I realize the magnitude of what she is going through.
This is normal for her.
Only a person who has seen a scene like this many times over could be desensitized to it.
After a series of grunting and cursing, Ava’s mother finally manages to pull herself onto the couch and curl up in the fetal position, falling asleep almost instantly.
Ava approaches and takes the blanket off the top of the couch and places it on her.
I make my way over and stand behind her. “Ava.”
“She will be asleep until morning now,” she says, her voice monotone and keeping her back to me.
“Ava,” I repeat, taking hold of her arm and turning her around.
