Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(18)

“Morning, Mama. Did you sleep well?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. No screams in the night mean no flashbacks or memories of her real-life nightmares, and I’m grateful for that always, but last night especially because I couldn’t sleep.

My mind was too inundated with thoughts of Connor.

And me.

Not Connor and me.

At least not like that.

But, I’d thought about him a lot, all day and night, and I kept replaying what he’d told me.

I wondered if everyone remembered traumatic experiences the way I do. Vivid and powerful and intense. As if I were reliving the moment again and again. Maybe he was too young. Or maybe he blocked it out completely. Sometimes I want to ask my mom if she remembers any of it, but I’m too afraid of her answer.

Sometimes, I’m afraid of her.

“I slept like a baby,” she says, a slice of toast halfway to her mouth. She watches me watching her and places the bread back down. Using her one good arm, she scoots back in the chair and comes to a stand. “Ava?” she asks, her tone flat.

I swallow, apprehensive of her next move. She stops in front of me, her eyes shuffling between each of mine. “Ma?” I whisper.

Her head tilts.

I dig my heels into the floor, my muscles taut.

Ready.

Waiting.

Of all the injuries and affects her “accident” caused, the toughest ones to deal with are the ones no one sees. And while this entire town was running scared from her physical trauma, not one of them ever thought about the invisible scars. PTSD, reassimilation, agoraphobia, and short-term memory loss to name a few. Sometimes I worry that she’ll wake up one day and have no idea who I am, that she’ll forget about me altogether.

Mom smiles, a vision that has me exhaling with relief and warming me from the inside out. “You look so exhausted,” she says, holding my face in her hand. “But you’re still so damn beautiful, Ava.”

Please, please don’t ever forget me.





CONNOR


The sun is just beginning to rise when I finish my weekly six-mile run. Out of breath, I slow to a jog as I turn into my cul-de-sac and take in my surroundings. All the houses on the street are the same, but different in their own right. All in various levels of upkeep. Ours is at the end, one of the more modest ones on the block, a simple cottage style with a centered door, a window on each side, and a rotting porch Dad and I plan to fix sooner rather than later.

I spot Trevor’s truck in front of his house, the Knight Electrical sticker on the side a giveaway. I should follow through on Dad’s invitation to have him over for dinner, but when I check the time, it’s too damn early to be knocking on doors. I go back to the house, shower, then sit on the couch with Forensic Files on in the background. An hour passes, and all I’ve done is read through my text conversation with Ava too many times to count.





AVA


One of the more apparent effects of Mom’s injuries, besides the physical, is dysarthria. She’s still wholly understandable, at least to me, but the trauma to her brain left her with a slight slur and slowed speech. The doctors said that her mind processes everything normally, but the signal from her brain to her mouth is just a little more… crooked.

Mom works on pronouncing the words on her flashcards Krystal had prepared while I start on the meal prep for the upcoming week. She’s improved so much since we started the speech therapy, but I can tell how frustrating it is for her. Not only is she relearning a skill she attained while still in diapers, but she has to do it in front of me, and I think that’s the hardest part for her. For her, being my mother was always the priority. Everything else came second—even the Marines. But for me, she’ll always be the woman who held me through my first knee scrape, my first loss of friendship, my first heartbreak. She’ll always be the one to teach and guide me with more patience than I deserve. The least I could do is be the same for her.





CONNOR


“Oh, my God, I’m so fucking bored,” I whisper, throwing my ball in the air for the fiftieth time. On my back, in my bed, I blindly reach for my phone under the pillow.

Connor: Yo, are there any pick-up games I can walk in on?





It takes a good ten minutes for him to respond.

Rhys: Yeah, man. The team’s got one going right now.





I balk at his response, read the text again and again.

Rhys: You want in?

Connor: The team?? Thanks for the invite.

Rhys: Want a spoon?

Connor: What?

Rhys: For your cry-about-it soup?

Connor: Whatever

Rhys: It was a joke. Seriously, you want in?

Connor: I’m good.





AVA


My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I’m quick to check it. I try to hide my smile when I see his name.

Connor: Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez.

Ava: I’ll take men I’d actually be caught dead with for two-hundred please, Alex.

Connor: Ah. So you’re not just a pretty face. You got jokes, too.





My stupid heart does a stupid pitter-patter, and I bite down on my lip so my grin doesn’t split my face in two.

Ava: You think I’m pretty?