Page 11 of Insta-Love

FIVE

Ava

Lily glides along beside me on her purple, black, and lime green skateboard. She’s always been a little left of field, and I love that about her. The other girls I see on our journey from school either walk, ride a bike, or scooter, but not my daughter. She coasts along oblivious to the curious stares she garnered the first week at her new school.

“What did you do in class today?”

“Multiplication,” she says with a groan.

“Why are you complaining? You’re good at it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s exciting.” She flashes me that damn smirk of Glen’s.

“Fair call.” I uncap the water bottle I carry as she pushes ahead and gains speed on a slight downhill in the path. The cool water goes some way to easing the punishment of the afternoon sun.

My legs have bronzed in the few weeks I’ve been walking Lily to and from school. My shoulders have new freckles, and the permanent strap marks left by my tan mean I really should look next time I’m at the mall for a cheap strapless top to wear on my excursions. The benefits are more than physical though: the beautiful scenery as we pass by lush gardens and trees with their branches hanging in an arc over the path goes someway to calming my mind.

Suck on that Gym Boy: I’m walking, and I don’t have stitch. I laugh quietly to myself and shake my head. Still can’t believe he thought I couldn’t walk forty minutes all because I look a little out of shape to him.

The weeks have been monotonous though, and I’m glad for the break dropping Lily off and picking her up brings. If I had to be stuck in the house another hour longer I swear I’d go crazy with cabin fever. There’s only so far I can walk without a functioning car, and when Mum and Dad are both at work in theirs it leaves me not only limited by lack of transportation, but by the fact I don’t often have two dollars to rub together to take a bus.

I’ve applied for nine jobs since moving back to Mum and Dad’s and been rejected for every one. I’m not “what they’re looking for.” They need somebody “more flexible.” Or most often it’s the simple “better luck next time” that drives me crazy. No explanation at all.

Mum and Dad aren’t pressuring us to move out, but there’s a certain self-satisfaction that comes from knowing you can hold your own, and more than anything, I’d like to know I could provide for Lily and myself, alone. I want to prove to them, as well as me, that I can turn this shit situation around and make something of myself, provide a good life for Lily.

She carries on ahead as we cross the last road before our street, the wheels of her board making a low growl as they churn over the pavement. Strands of her thick ponytail lift in the breeze, whipping over her Ironman backpack. The bag was a purchase from the kids department, but she loves it and it fits her personality perfectly.

We never ended up sharing the beds. I insisted she stay on the proper mattress, and after several debates, she gave up. Dad waited until one of the days I was out job-hunting last week and surprised us both with another single bed. I’m pretty sure he knew if Lily and I had waited until I’d saved enough for one it wouldn’t have happened.

I cried in the shower, ashamed that yet again my father had to bail me out as though I was still a teenager. A bed, something so simple, and yet I couldn’t do it. My last savings were spent on Lily’s uniform for school now that she’s outgrown her old shorts. Sure, Mum and Dad help out without expecting a thing in return, but that’s not the point. I want to do it myself. I’m a mother now, so why should my own still be forking over cash for me?

I’m in a trance as we near the house, running over the same old shit in my head, and doing everything I can to find the unlocked door that heralds the way out of this spiral into poverty I’ve found myself in. Lily glides half a property ahead of me, headphones slipped over her ears. I’m transfixed to the patterns of her spinning wheels as I walk, doing my best to think outside of the box when it comes to income for us. Maybe I could do night-fill at the local supermarket while Lily’s asleep and at home with Mum and Dad? The rumble of an approaching car registers, but I’m not concerned as Lily drops a foot down to push on. She gives herself a last boost toward my parents’ property and the growling engine behind us amplifies as the driver shifts down a gear or two. I look up in the same split-second as the black panel work of the vehicle cuts Lily off, forcing her to jump off her board and stick both hands out to save serious impact with the driver’s door.

That fucking idiot. My heart races and adrenalin courses through my veins.

“Are you okay, baby?” I jog the dozen steps to where she stands bent double, looking under the Jeep for her board.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” The tremor of her voice belies her words.

Satisfied she’s unhurt, my panic instantly morphs to anger as the door opens and our neighbour with more muscles than brains drops a leg out.

“What the fuck were you thinking!” I wrap my hand around the side of his door and wrench it the rest of the way open. “You could have run her over.”

He hesitates, half in and half out, his leg dangling out the door and hand poised on the steering wheel to boost himself out of the seat. I’m not distracted by his amazing oak-coloured eyes. I’m not distracted at all. Who the fuck am I kidding? He’s not kitted out in his usual gym attire today, instead decked out in a simple pair of light jeans and an avocado green T-shirt. I’m so scrambled upstairs that I damn near forget Lily’s beside me until she mutters, “There it is,” and skips around the car to retrieve her board.

“Is it okay?” I ask her absently when she returns with it in hand.

She flips it this way and that, frowning. “I think so.”

Our neighbour lifts both hands and I pick out two small initials tattooed in the centre of his palms. Odd place to have them. “I’ll buy her a new one if there’s any damage.”

“Yeah, well, be thankful it’s only her board you might need to replace, because you can’t buy a new one of her.” Fucking lame, Ava. I’m angry, but I’m also completely uncomfortable in such close proximity to this man while he smells so damn good. Is that actual cologne, not body spray? Magazine-issue men like him don’t talk to women like me. I feel like I’m trespassing, as though I’m going to be served a restraining order at any second.

“I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

You aren’t the only one, buddy. “Might be a good idea if you paid more attention then, huh?”

He tips his head to the side and his long undercut falls from how he had it swept out of the way, obscuring one eye. “Look, lady. I could say the same to both of you, right? But I’m not. I’m accepting fault seeing as I was driving the big-arse vehicle.” He sweeps his hand out at the Jeep. “A little understanding could go a long way.”

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