Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(21)

“It happened when I was three. The last time my dad ever mentioned anything about it, I was in third grade. That was probably when we stopped looking. But looking and hoping are two very different things.”

I want to ask him when he stopped hoping, but I’m almost afraid of the answer. I get through each day searching for hope, so the idea of losing it the way he has…

“Connor?” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For so many things. But mainly… I’m sorry about what happened to you. About how it happened, and what that must’ve felt like. I think, as kids, all we truly need are our parents, and your mom—I think I feel the sorriest for your mom... because she missed out on you.”





Chapter 16





Ava





“Where the hell is my wallet?” Trevor’s walking around the house as if we have all the time in the world.

“Did you check your pants pocket from the last time you remember having it?” Krystal offers.

“I don’t even know when I had it last!” he grumbles.

I put my hand on the doorknob, twist. “Hurry up!”

“Ava,” Mom scolds. “Give him a minute.”

Trevor walks out of his room with three different pairs of pants, patting down each pocket.

“I’m going to be so late,” I mumble.

Now Trevor’s looking behind the TV because of course it’s going to be there. “Why do you have to get to school so early, anyway?”

“Because someone,” I say, glaring at him, “made me see the school shrink.”

“Ava,” Krystal admonishes. “We don’t use that term.”

“Sorry.” I lower my gaze, my voice. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Where the hell is it!” Trevor utters.

“I’ll be outside,” I announce to whoever is listening. I open the door.

Freeze.

On my doorstep is Connor, one hand raised, ready to knock.

“Connor?” I shriek.

“Ava?” He looks as confused as I feel.

“What—” My voice is too high, too loud. My pulse thumps wildly, beating on my eardrums. I try again. “What are you doing here?”

Trevor shoves me to the side.

Connor lifts Trevor’s wallet, but his eyes are glued to me.

“Thank you,” Trevor says, relieved as he grabs for it. “I’ve been looking all morning.”

“You left it in my car,” Connor tells him. To me, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

I say, “I live here.”

Trevor laughs. “I’d introduce you both, but it seems like you’ve already met.”

“Wait,” replies Connor, his feet planted on our porch. “You live here?”

Now Trevor’s pushing me out the door as if he’s the one in a rush. I stop inches short of slamming into Connor, while Trevor shuts the door behind him.

I’m practically sniffing Connor’s shirt; I’m that close to him.

“I told you I lived with my sister,” Trevor says, moving past us and down the porch steps.

I ask, “How do you know each other?”

Trevor answers, “I told you about him, no? He just moved in next door.”

He told me we had new neighbors. He didn’t mention him by name or give any other information.

“Your sister?” Connor asks, confusion evident in his tone.

“Stepsister,” Trevor and I respond at the same time.

“Oh.”

We all three make our way down the driveway.

“Hey,” Trevor says, turning back to us. “Do me a favor? Drive her to school? I might be able to grab a decent breakfast before work.”

“Sure,” says Connor.

I reply, trying to get out of it, “No, wait.” Because the last time I was in the confines of Connor’s car I almost lost all my senses. “His car…” I get stuck for words and idiotically come up with: “His car smells…” But it comes out a question, and I wish I could rewind time, or I don’t know, disappear into thin air.

“My car does not smell,” Connor says defensively.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that,” I admit. “It doesn’t.”

Trevor’s eyes narrow. “How do you know what his car smells like?” Then his face lights up with a stupid shit-eating grin. “Wait, is Connor the Some Guy From School?”

“Trevor!” I screech. “Shut. Up!”

Trevor laughs, his head thrown back as he opens the door of his truck. “Go easy on her,” he tells Connor. “She’s on her period. Apparently, it’s a heavy flow.”

I die.

Right there.

On my driveway.

Dead.





The first thing Connor does when we get into his car is reach for his gym bag in the back and spray deodorant everywhere. I die my second death of embarrassment and cover my face with my hands. “Sorry. Your car doesn’t smell!” I laugh out.

“Uh huh. Sure,” he responds. He’s smiling, though, eyeing me sideways as he starts the car. Then he coughs, waves a hand in front of his face, the deodorant getting to him. He winds down the window. I try to do the same. “Yours doesn’t work,” he says, clearly proud of himself. He sprays the can directly on me.