Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)
Jay McLean
Prologue
One minute you’re sipping on your first beer at your first bonfire party, wearing a hoodie provided by a boy you’ve been crushing on for months. He slips his hand around your waist, pulls you closer to him. Then he dips his head, whispers into your neck, “You’re beautiful, Ava.”
It’s your fifteenth birthday, and you have the world at your feet, and you watch the fire blaze in front of you, watch the embers rise, float to a new existence, and you think to yourself, This is life.
Your phone rings, and you pull it out of your back pocket, see your stepfather’s name flashing on the screen, and you end the call, pocket the phone again.
The boy kisses your neck, and you take another sip, your eyes drifting shut at the feel of his lips against your skin.
Your phone rings again.
And again.
And you ignore it every time.
Every single time.
You move to the bed of a truck, your hands in his hair, his hands on your breasts, and you’re so drunk on desire it makes you high on this life.
This life.
This perfect life.
It’s 3:00 a.m. when you stumble home, drunk and delusional. Your stepfather is slouched on the couch in the living room, a single lamp casting the only shadows of the night. “I’ve been calling you,” he says, and you’re too out of it to care. “It’s your mother.”
At fifteen and one day, you sit with your stepfather in the same living room where he waited all night for you. Night has turned to day, and unlike him, you don’t look at the door, waiting. No. You look at the phone.
Waiting.
At fifteen and two days, the call comes through, and neither you nor your stepdad has slept a wink. Your stepbrother is on his way home from Texas, and you wring your hands together.
Waiting.
At fifteen and three days, you find out that the situation is so bad, they’re bypassing Germany and bringing your mother right home. To you. To her family.
At fifteen and four days, your stepbrother comes home, and you look to him for courage, find it in his eyes, in the way he holds your hand while you can do nothing but wait.
At fifteen and five days, you fly to DC, and see your mother for the first time in five months. The last words she said to you were “Be careful.” She smiled at you the way mothers smile at their children, and you hid the pain and fear in your chest, replaced weakness for courage, and offered her a smile of your own.
At fifteen and six days, you try to search for that smile on her face while you sit by her hospital bed, but you don’t find it. Can’t find it. Because half of her face is gone. Half of her arm is, too.
A grenade, they told you.
At fifteen and seven days, you say to yourself, “This is life.” And it only took seven days for you to realize how imperfect it is.
Chapter 1
Connor
LeBron James grew up poor as hell with a single mother and zero privilege. His high school was completely unheard of before he showed up with three of his buddies and took over the league. At eighteen, a senior, he went prep to pro and was drafted by the Cleveland Cavaliers. His initial contract was $18.8 million over four years. Nike had offered him more than one hundred million off the court. This was before he played a single second of professional ball.
Talk about a game changer.
Obviously, I’m no LeBron James.
No one is.
Besides being raised by a single parent, comparing myself to LeBron would be like chasing rainbows.
Also, LeBron didn’t have to change schools senior year just for the slight hope of getting noticed.
I walk back down the driveway for the millionth time, sweat pouring from every inch of my body, and blink away the fatigue from driving all night. Dad’s at the rear of the rental truck unloading the last of the boxes we managed to stuff in there. After this, we only have all the furniture to unload. Fun times. I pick up a large, heavy box and ask, “Where to?”
“What does it say on the box?” Dad huffs. He’s struggling more than I am.
I look down at the box, at the somewhere written in Dad’s handwriting. “It says somewhere,” I tell him, rolling my eyes.
He chuckles. “That must have been when I started to lose my mind. If only I’d had someone to help me pack.”
I shrug. “I was busy.” Lazy.
“Just dump it in the living room, and we’ll go through it later, but I gotta go.”
“Where?” I stop halfway to the house and look at the truck, then him, and back again. “Who’s going to help me unload the furniture?”
“Just take the small stuff for now. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
Sweat drips into my eyeballs. “A couple hours?” I drop the box, use the bottom of my shirt to wipe at my eyes, then search for a hose so I can drown myself. Maybe I don’t even need the water. I could just use my own self-pity. There’s sure as shit an abundance of it. I look over at my dad as he struggles to open the front door with his foot while carrying two boxes. Shit. I need to suck it up and quit complaining. He’s given up a hell of a lot more than I have, and besides, he’s here for me, no other reason. I rush to hold the door open, then I plaster on the most genuine smile I can muster. “No worries, Pops. Take your time. I got it.”