Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(28)

Connor rolls up his sleeves, looks directly at her with the same gentle softness in his eyes he carries with him everywhere. If he’s at all shocked or deterred by her appearance, he doesn’t let it show. “I’m here for it, ma’am,” he says. “I mean, who doesn’t love milk and cookies?”

We sit at the table, all three of us, sipping on milk and munching on cookies while Mom asks Connor about himself. “How tall are you, Connor?”

“Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt,” he jokes.

Mom says, “Kobe Bryant’s only six-five and look at him.”

Connor’s eyes widen.

Mom adds, “And Chris Paul’s six foot even. That never stopped him.”

Connor drops his cookie on the plate. “Damn, if I don’t like a woman who can talk ball.”

Mom laughs.

I tell him, “Mom played college ball.”

“No way!” Connor doesn’t even try to hide his surprise. He stuffs an entire cookie in his mouth. “These cookies are so good, Miss Diaz.”

The conversation moves from him, to the paper we’re working on, to me as a kid, me as a baby, and even though some of Mom’s stories are embarrassing, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. Because I realize that she remembers all the important things, all the events that made me who I am, who we are as a family. She remembers the camping trip we took together right before she deployed, the tent leaking, the marshmallows I loved to watch being set ablaze right in front of my eyes. She remembers the fireflies. The magic. “And we sang that song, remember?”

I nod. “‘Fireflies’ by Owl City.”

“I love that song,” she hums. “It brings it all back, doesn’t it, Ava?”

Another nod, because I can’t speak through the knot in my throat. There’s an ache in my chest, but the right kind. The kind that reminds me of why I’m here, of why I wake up every day at 4:30, and why I feel absolutely no jealousy when I hear about the parties over the weekend or the games I’ve missed or see the public displays of affection from the kids at school.

I’m here because she is.

Mom refills Connor’s milk. “How tall are you, Connor?”

And just like that, my stomach sinks.

Connor says, not skipping a beat, “Not as tall as I want to be. Six-five right now, but I’m hoping for a growth spurt.”

Mom smiles. “Kobe Bryant’s six-five and look at him.”

Under the table, Connor taps his foot against mine. “That’s true.”

Mom adds, “And Chris Paul, he’s only six foot and that never stopped him.”

“Also, true,” Connor says. Then adds, “Did I mention how good these cookies were?”

Mom’s smile widens. “I’m glad you like them.”

The front door opens, and Trevor appears, sniffing the air before even stepping foot in the house. “Is that Mama Jo’s cookies?” he asks no one in particular. Connor and I watch as Trevor turns his back to slide off his shoes, talking to himself, “I love me some Mama Jo cookies. Mmm-mmm.”

Connor stifles his laugh.

When Trevor turns around, he sees Connor at the table and halts momentarily. Slowly, as if stalking his prey, he makes his way over to us and picks up a handful of cookies. His glare shifts between Mom and Connor. Once. Twice. To Connor, he says, “These are my favorite cookies…. and you’re in my seat.”

Mom and I bust out a laugh.

Today…

Today is a +infinite day.





Ava: Thank you.

Connor: For what?

Ava: For giving me a part of my mom I thought I’d lost.

Connor: No, thank you.

Ava: For what?

Connor: For letting me be witness to it.

Ava: You’re something else, Connor.

Connor: You’re something MORE, Ava.





Chapter 20





Connor





“Is your dad tall?” Ava asks, walking along the bleacher bench, bouncing my basketball.

“He’s a few inches shorter than me.”

Ava spins, goes back the opposite direction—long, tanned legs moving swiftly. I could watch her all damn day. “Is that where you got your height and athleticism from?”

“Height is from his side, but he doesn’t have an athletic bone in his body. Apparently, my mom ran college track, though.”

Ava stops completely, the ball held to her waist. Lips parted, she tilts her head, as if contemplating. The girl’s got an inquisitive mind, I’ve realized, and I wonder what questions are floating through her head. “Huh” is all she says.

I laugh under my breath and stand, take the ball from her. “Ask, curious girl.”

She snatches the ball back. “I was just thinking, you got split genetics.”

“I guess.”

“Do you know much else about your mom?”

“I kind of remember what she looks like, but it’s a little hazy. And I don’t know if it’s from memory or because I saw a picture of her once,” I admit. “In a drawer in Dad’s side table. They were both wearing FSU sweatshirts, so I assume that’s where they met.”