Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(8)

Chapter 7





Ava





One of the only two friends I have left belongs to my brother. He was there the first day I met Trevor—when I was nothing but a kindergartener in a bright purple dress and rainbow-colored socks. He’s been there pretty much every day since. From grade school to middle school to high school, wherever Trevor Knight was, so was Peter Parker. Yes, that’s his real name.

When he and Trevor graduated, they both took off to Texas A&M. It’s safe to say we all grew up together, but the four-year age difference meant we experienced things at different times. While they hit freshman year of high school, I was in fifth—and back then, I was trying to decide between Harry Styles and Justin Bieber while the Glee soundtrack blasted from my bedroom.

The point is, now that I’m older, wiser, and the experiences of my life have forced me to grow up, the four years between us don’t seem so vast anymore.

Peter comes from the “right” side of town, the same side where Trevor and I grew up before we had to sell the house to cover my mother’s medical bills. The same side with the fancy, big houses and boats in their yards. His parents usually go away for the summer, a new country every year, and every year he’d join them. Until last year. Last year, he spent his summer helping Trevor with his business. Trevor’s offered to pay him what little he can. Peter refuses every cent, knowing we need it more than he does. He’s become a good friend to me, a solid wall of dependency that for so long, I refused to believe I needed.

And that’s the difference between Trevor’s friends and mine: when our worlds came crashing down, Peter stood by our sides. My so-called friends stopped coming around, too afraid of the woman with the half face and stub for an arm.

Soon enough, they stopped calling altogether.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Peter jokes, throwing his entire weight on the couch next to me. “It’s very—”

“Thrift store chic?” I finish for him.

He shakes his head, placing the bowl of popcorn on my lap. He’s home for the week, and when he found out Trevor was out quoting jobs after hours, he offered to come over so I wouldn’t be home alone. “No,” he says, “It’s got bits of your personality all over the place.” He grabs a blanket from behind us and places it over his lap. “Like this.” He rubs the blanket between his fingers. “It’s very… boho.”

“You mean homeless?”

With a chuckle, he throws his arm on the couch behind me and gets comfortable. “So, Ava. Tell me everything. What’s been going on with you?”

“Same old, really. Just counting down the days until school’s over.” I hit play on the remote, but keep the volume muted.

“You’ll miss high school when it’s over,” he tries to assure.

I scoff. “I think your version of high school and mine are very different, Peter.”

“Yeah, I guess.” After grabbing a handful of popcorn, he asks, “You still friends with that Rhys kid?”

Nodding, I stare at the opening scene of the horror movie he’s got us watching.

“Is he still helping you out at school? Getting you notes for your missed classes?”

“Yeah,” I reply through a slow exhale.

On TV, a blonde girl climbs the stairs toward the killer.

“Good,” Peter says, nodding. Then adds, “He’s a good guy, Ava. He’s just not good enough for you.”

“Okay,” I mumble because it doesn’t really matter what he thinks.

“Ava?” Peter asks, his leg brushing against mine. He’s closer than he was only minutes ago, and discomfort swarms in my veins, beating against my flesh.

I manage a “Yeah?”

The warmth of his breath floats against my cheek as his heated fingers brush along the skin of my shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s acted like this. It won’t be the last. And it would be so easy to use him this way, to be with someone who understands without explanations, who forgives without excuses.

I swallow, nervous. “If Trevor knew what you were thinking right now, he’d kill you with his bare hands.”





Chapter 8





Connor





The way Stephen Curry puts his defenders off balance with a simple behind-the-back crossover is history-making. He’s proven that a killer jump shot can make or break a team’s final score, making him arguably the best ball handler in the NBA.

Me?

I can’t even catch the fucking ball when it’s thrown directly at my chest.

It’s the day after Ava tore me to shreds, and I’m in the locker room following another pathetic practice, staring down at my hands trying to reason with them. For years, I’ve lived and breathed this sport. I dreamed about it even when I was awake. The amount of shit I’ve broken in the house because I couldn’t stop thinking about it is enough to fill a whole other house. Every lawn I mowed to earn money to replace those things—worth it. Every grounding—worth it. Every single hour I spent watching game tape or studying plays or fantasizing about what it would be like to play at Madison Square Garden was worth it.

But here? Now? I’m second-guessing it all.