Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(69)

“It sounds important,” I murmur, shoving his knee gently with my foot. “Tell me.”

He holds on to my ankle, tugging gently. With a smile, I get down to his level, sit sideways on his lap. He nuzzles my neck. “I missed you,” he says, kissing me there.

“I missed you, too.”

He exhales, slowly. “Sorry about first period and being late. I know our time together is so limited, but…” he trails off.

I lift his head in my hands, look in his eyes. “It’s okay; I know you’re busy. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he repeats. His eyes search mine, his features falling with every second that passes. “I just miss you is all.” But that’s not all, and I can see it in the way he looks at me, the way his lips tremble.

I hold his face in my hands and release the words I’ve held on to all night. Words I’ve been looking forward to saying to him. “I love you, Connor,” I tell him. “God, I love you so much.”





Connor


I swallow down the pressure that had been building inside me and stare at the soul that causes my heart to beat. Where my world begins and ends. I hold her to me, afraid to let go. “I love you, Ava… with everything I have.”

I keep my eyes closed, hiding the fear in my heart.

What if I do all this?

Risk it all.

And still fail?

What happens to Ava?

To her mom?

What happens to us?





Chapter 42





Ava





“We need to do something,” Trevor whispers.

I look down at the floor. “I know.”

“So… what are we going to do?”

Lifting my gaze, I look at my mother sitting on the couch in the same clothes she’s been in for over a week. She’s been refusing to shower, and no amount of convincing seems to work. “I don’t know.”

“It’s getting bad, Ava.”

“The smell?”

He shakes his head. “That, too, but just… her. She’s getting worse,” he says, his voice hushed as we stand in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. On the kitchen table behind me, another dinner is left untouched.

“It’s fine,” I argue, trying to convince myself more than anyone else. “She’ll be okay; it’s just… a phase.”

My phone dings with a text.

Connor: That game just about killed me. About to hop in an ice bath if you want to join me?





“Shit,” I hiss.

“What?” Trevor asks.

“I forgot Connor’s game.” And the balloon. “Dammit.”

“He’ll understand,” Trevor assures. “You’ve been dealing with a lot.”

I read over his text again, trying to find a way to respond. And then: “Hey, Mama? What if I run you a bath instead of a shower?”

Her expression doesn’t change, neither does the direction of her stare. “A bath sounds nice.”

“Thank God,” Trevor breathes out.

I rush to the bathroom and start running the water.

Ava: As bad as that sounds, I wish I could, just to be near you. I’m sorry there was no balloon. Give me five, I’ll check the school website and get a rundown of the game.





He doesn’t respond, probably in the bath, and so I focus on getting the water to the perfect temperature, filling it with as many scented bath products as I can find. I call her when it’s ready, and she comes willingly, stripping out of her clothes without care. “Will you stay with me?” she murmurs.

“Of course, Mama.”

I close the door behind us and help her get in. She sits with the water to her neck, her eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She doesn't speak, our breaths the only sound in the small room. I push away all other thoughts—thoughts that seem to invade my mind and ruin me from the inside out.

“Do you…” I start, careful. “Do you want me to wash you?”

Nodding, she sits up and bends over, allowing me to have access. I pour body wash on a loofa and start at her back, ignoring the ailing paleness of her skin, the way her spine sticks out far more than it should. I hear her sniff but stay silent. And then her shoulders… her shoulders start to shake. A single whimper fills the cold, dead air, and I reach up to her shoulder, move her hair to the side. “It’s okay, Mama,” I say through the knot in my throat. “Sometimes we all need a little help.”

She reaches up with her good arm, takes my hand in hers. “Thank you,” she whispers, and it’s all I need. All I want. For her to know that I’m here for her. Always.

She doesn’t say anything more, and neither do I. We finish in the bath, and I help her into fresh clothes and into her bed, pull the covers over her chest. She stares up at the ceiling, and I get on my knees beside her bed, put my hands on her upper arm. “Are you not tired?” I whisper.

Her head lolls to the side, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m scared,” she admits.

I sit taller. “Of what?”

She lets out a sob. “To close my eyes.”