Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(47)

Ava stands in front of me, her arms shielding her stomach. “Your dad’s right, you know?”

“No, he’s not,” I breathe out, wiping the dried blood from under my nose. I inspect my hand, then wipe it on my pants. “He’s right about a lot of things, Ava, but he’s wrong about you.”

I wince when she reaches up, touches a particularly sore spot on my jaw. I have no idea what I look like. I haven’t checked. “How hurt are you?”

“How hurt are you?” I retort.

She doesn’t respond.

“Come here,” I say, my fingertips making contact with hers. I gently tug, hoping she does the rest.

She takes a step toward me, and then another. I close the distance, wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into me, ignoring the pain in my ribs when she leans against me. She settles her cheek on my chest, while I hold her to me completely, not wanting to let her go. My lips pressed to the top of her head, I whisper, “I need to know what happened, Ava.”

She nuzzles closer to me, her arms going around me. “My mom happened.”

I swallow the truth I knew was coming. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “And I’ll go over tomorrow morning and apologize to Peter, too. I fucked up. I don’t—just the thought of someone hurting you… I… I lost it. I don’t even know what got into me, but…”

“It’s okay,” she says, looking up at me. Darkness looms in her stare, while sadness falls from her lashes. “I should’ve told you the truth from the beginning. It’s just—”

“Hard,” I finish for her. “God, Ava, I can’t even imagine how hard things are for you. But I’m here, whatever you need, whenever you need me. I’m here.”

“I can’t,” she says, slowly releasing me.

I grasp her hand. “Why?”

“Because—” Her phone rings, cutting her off. She looks at the screen, but I don’t want my question to go unanswered.

“Why?”

She ends the call, looks up at me. “Because your dad’s right, Connor.” Then she jerks out of my hold. “And I have to go.”





Chapter 32





Ava





They look like fireflies. The way the water falls from the sky, illuminated only by the streetlamps. I stand in the middle of the road, barefoot and barely breathing, my arms out, face to the sky.

I don’t know how I got here.

When I climbed out of my window, the sun was just setting and now… now I’m surrounded by dark skies and false hope.

I had to get out of the house. Krystal had left and Peter had called the crisis team to stay overnight again, and there were too many people under one roof. Too much pain and anguish. I couldn’t breathe, and yet, I didn’t want to. And even though there was so much going on, it felt…lifeless.

I messaged Peter once I was far enough away and told him not to look for me, that I was fine and just needed space and time to piece myself back together and prepare for another day.

I know I should go home.

That I should face my fears and tackle them head-on.

My mind travels the right roads at the right time to get me there, but my heart…

My heart takes me to Connor.

Outside his bedroom window, mud seeps between my toes, and the frigid air creates goosebumps along my skin. I raise my fist and tap, tap, tap on the glass.

A moment later, a light turns on. And then nothing. I tap again, my heart racing. The blind lifts and Connor appears, his eyes squinting. It’s clear he’d been asleep, or close to it. Hair a mess, he’s shirtless, the obvious beginnings of bruises mar parts of his torso, and I look down, shame filling every part of me. I bite down on my lip as he slides the window up. “Jesus Christ, Ava. What the hell are you doing?”

His warm palms meet my soaking wet elbows, and then his entire body is cocooning mine, lifting me off my feet and into his bedroom. My feet land on his soft carpet, and I look down at the mess I’ve made. “I’m dirty,” I tell him.

Inside and out.

Dirty, dazed and damaged.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs. “Just wait, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

I stand in the middle of his room surrounded by blue walls and basketballs, raindrops dripping from my hair, my fingers. He returns with a towel and a first-aid box, his movements swift. His towel-covered hands start at my hair, and then down my arms. He squats when he gets to my legs, does each one in turn, and then he stands up again, his touch gentle as he leads me to his desk chair, encourages me to sit. “Your dressing’s ruined,” he informs. He sits on the edge of his bed and reaches across, rolling me toward him. “I have to change them, or you won’t heal properly.” Concerned eyes look up at mine, keep them there. His chest rises with his long inhale as if it’s the first breath he’s taken since he’s seen me. He asks, “Can I do that for you, Ava?”

Slowly, I nod, my gaze moving from his eyes to the bruise beneath it, the cut on his nose and the corner of his lips, then down to his collarbone, another bruise, two more on his torso, and I fucking hate myself.

He starts at my neck, slowly peeling off the gauze, his eyes focused, hands steady. “Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet.