Page 143 of Heartache Duet

There’s a knock on Rhys’s door, and we all hide the alcohol we managed to sneak up. “Yeah?” Rhys calls out.

His mom pokes her head in. “Did you hand out the gifts, pookie bear?”

The entire room burst out in cackles.

“Yeah, pookie bear,” Mitch mocks. “Did you?”

Rhys sighs, then offers his mom a toothy grin. “I’ll do it now. Thanks, Mom!” She closes the door, and Rhys goes to his closet, pulls out a giant garbage bag of gifts. “Have at it,” he says, dropping the bag in the middle of the floor.

We dive in like kids at a party when the piñata breaks, fighting and wrestling for gifts we don’t even deserve. I rip mine open, my eyes widening when I see what’s inside. “Yo, this is a Louis Vuitton wallet. I think maybe—”

“Mine too!” Oscar announces, already transferring his cards.

“Damn,” I laugh. “You guys really do live in another world.” I move to the window, flick open a gap in the blinds to see all the cars parked on the front lawn—by valets, of course. And that’s when I catch sight of her. I’d recognize those loose curls anywhere. She’s sitting in front of her old house, just like the day of the cafeteria incident. And I understand that she doesn’t want anything to do with me, but seeing her like this, remembering how she was back then, I can’t help but go to her. If she needs me, I’m here. Always. I tell whoever is listening, “I’ll be back.”

I try to make my presence known because I don’t want to startle her, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Ava’s transfixed, chin up, staring at the house she used to call home. “Hey,” I croak.

Slowly, she turns to me, and even in her apparent hopelessness, she’s still stunningly beautiful.

My heart heavy, I ask, “Can I sit with you?”

Turning back to the house, she nods, a movement so slight I almost miss it.

I sit down next to her, ignoring the icy ground beneath me. “You okay?” I ask.

Ava doesn’t respond immediately. She just stares, her blinks slow. “It’s so nice, huh?”

“The house?”

“Yeah,” she sighs out. “We used to hang colored lights out during Christmas. They only have white ones, but it’s still so beautiful.”

“It is,” I murmur, but I’m not looking at the lights. I’m looking at her.

She inhales deeply, her voice quiet when she says, “Sometimes I come here and just look at it. I try to remember all the good times I had there, the happy memories, but I can never seem to think of anything but… but the blood.”

“The blood?”

She nods, her lids heavy when she turns to me, eyes clouded. “There was so much blood, Connor,” she says, her voice strained with her withheld emotions. Her bottom lip trembles, and I fight the urge to hold her, to pull her into me and love her openly. “There was supposed to be a caregiver with me that day,” she says. “But they were ill, and they couldn’t come, and I had a test first period.” She swipes at the tears with no cry to accompany them. After an audible swallow, she adds, “I had a stupid test, and so I left her there. Alone. I was gone no more than two hours and when I came back…” She shudders a breath, and this time, I ignore what I know she wants. I clasp my hand around hers but keep silent. “It was so quiet. I called out to her, but she didn’t answer. And then the stairs. I remember the stairs. I remember the creaks under my feet. And I remember going through every room, feeling the dread escalate with every step.” She sniffs back her anguish. “And then the bathroom and the blood and the water and she was in there and she…”

“Ava…” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her. I pull her into me, my heart pounding.

She sobs into my chest. “She wasn’t breathing, Connor. Oh, God…” Her shoulders shake, her cries coming louder.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I whisper into her hair. I sniff back my own tears while I listen to her fall apart, and I do my best to keep it together. “It’s okay, Ava.”

“But it’s not,” she cries out, gripping my jacket. “It’s not okay. Nothing is okay, and I don’t know… I don’t—” She struggles to speak, struggles to breathe through her pain. “She hates me because I saved her. She hates me!”

“No, she doesn’t,” I try to soothe.

“She doesn’t, Ava,” Karen utters, and I don’t know where she came from or how long she’s been listening. Ava pulls out of my hold, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Karen repeats, sitting on the other side of her. “And I know… I know that this place, this house, brings back all those memories for you, but there are so many good ones,” she rushes out. “Like that tree,” she says, pointing to a small tree right in the middle of the front yard. “That’s Scout’s tree, remember?”

Ava lets out a sob.

“And remember when your mom surprised you with him? We got off the bus, and she was standing right on that porch, and you didn’t know she was coming home and you ran up the driveway so fast your bag caught on your skirt and you flashed me your bright red undies?”

Ava…

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