I huff a humorless laugh. “I can grill, and I can bake, but I tend to burn shit on the stove.”
She looks at me with a wide smile as she asks, “But it’s harder to bake, isn’t it?”
“Nah,” I lean farther back and rest my back against the headboard, “Baking is just mixing up a simple recipe and you pop it in the oven.”
“Oh, do you mean like Betty Crocker?” she asks, and I look at her with confusion.
“Of course, what did you think I meant?”
She sets the empty bowl down and tries to cover her mouth with her arm as she laughs while shaking her head. As I watch her shoulders rise and fall slightly with the sweet sounds of soft laughter, I realize how easy the atmosphere is between us.
This is Ava. I like this side to her.
“What kind of baking do you do?” I ask. I just want to keep the conversation going. I want this feeling to last.
“Like, fresh morning biscuits--” She looks reminiscent, and I interrupt to be an ass.
“They have those in a can. They’re called Pillsbury.” She outright laughs and swings her hand at me, playfully smacking me on the arm.
It triggers her, though. Her face falls and all sense of humor is gone. It’s as though I had the real Ava to myself, if only for a small moment. But now she’s gone. Replaced by the shell of a woman.
“Ava,” I say, as I reach out to her. Her eyes dart to mine, but her body is tense and I can feel waves of anxiety pouring off of her. My hand lands on her thigh and I decide to keep things light. “You have to know what Pillsbury biscuits are, don’t you?”
She quickly responds, “Yes. I’ve seen them before.” Her body stays tense as though she’s expecting a harsh reaction. It brings me back to reality. She’s so fucking hurt.
It breaks my heart. I clear my throat and lean back against the headboard, patting the seat next to me. She obediently scoots closer.
“You’re hurting. I want to help you,” I say simply. I know the only way to help her is to make sure she never goes back to them. I know that. And I want to make sure that happens. I question if she’ll ever be alright, but a feeling deep in my gut tells me I can heal her. I can take away her pain and make everything alright.
“Tell me what I can do, Ava.” It’s a command. It may be fucked up to take advantage of her submission. I don’t feel comfortable pushing her to talk. But I have no problems pushing to find out how I can help her.
Her sad blue eyes look up at me as the corners of her plump lips tilt down. Her lips part and then close as her eyes fall. This is my Ava. I know this is her because she’s giving me emotion, even if it is sadness. I pull her small body into my lap, wrapping my arms around her waist and she melts in my arms. Her hands grip my back, and she holds onto me tighter as I run my hand down her back with soothing strokes.
I hear her say something, but I’m not sure what she says since she’s so quiet. I pull back to look at her, but she keeps the side of her head pressed to my chest and her fingertips dig into my back.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just tell me what to do.” I run my hand along her back, hoping this is helping her. I was wrong before, with Felipe, but this can’t be anything but good for her.
“Please,” she barely whispers, “keep holding me.” Hearing her plea breaks my heart. I kiss her hair and rest my chin on her head. I hold her close and keep rubbing her back.
If she wants, I’ll do this all night.
Feeling her in my arms reminds me of the last time I held my mother. She didn’t hold me back, though. They’d already killed her. The memory flashes before my eyes.
The car slams into another vehicle. The bullets fly past me, barely missing me. But my father clutches his chest, each bullet jolting his body as they pierce his back even through the thick seat. It happened so fast. We were driving to the drop, and then all of a sudden we weren’t. The acrid smell of gas is still vivid in my memory. So is the sound of the bullets. My father’s eyes stayed open even as he stopped breathing. I can hear my own voice screaming.
I remember reaching for my gun. I only got one shot off as the tires screeched, and I saw them drive off. I saw Paul and Cory in the back. They didn’t see me stand back up as they slapped the front seats, urging whoever was driving to go faster. Unlike my father, I'd been wearing Kevlar, and it had saved my life.
I saw red. Nothing but red. But fear crippled me. I was barely coherent. I stood in the middle of the road as a car drove toward me. I walked toward it, forcing the driver to stop. My hand hit the hot hood. The thud sounded so loud.
“Are you alright?” the woman asked, as she clutched her chest. Panic was written all over her face. I remember how pale she looked, how frightened she was for me, but also of me. She wanted to help. Her eyes darted from me to our car. I saw them grow larger as she registered the bullet holes. I still feel like a fucker for pushing her to the right and getting in her car. She didn’t try to fight, just backed away as I stole her car and took off.
It took fucking forever to drive home. It was only 15 minutes away. I drove like hell, laying on my horn and running red lights. It was surreal. I knew they would be headed there next. All I could do was try to get there first.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t save them. I got there too late.
My mother wasn’t breathing. I remember holding her, waiting for her to react. Instead she was limp in my arms. I held her close, just wishing she would breathe. I rocked her just like this. Waiting for a breath. Some sign of life.
Ava pulls herself even closer to my chest and I realize I’ve stopped rubbing her back. I tilt my head down to kiss her forehead and whisper, “Good girl.”
Ava
I lean against the table with both hands braced and my elbows locked. I stare at Marie with daggers in my eyes. I know she didn’t study. She smells like coconut rum. She never takes things seriously. She’s only two years younger than I am, but she’s so fucking immature. She takes everything for granted. She doesn’t remember what it was like before Dad got in with the mob and took over. She doesn’t remember how hard it was. Fuck her arrogance. I can’t stand it.
She’s going to go through life wanting for nothing. Taking advantage of everything. Even if she fails, it doesn’t matter. They’ll still hand her a degree with smiles on their faces. All because of her last name and how deep our pockets go. And she’s happy with that. She’s completely content with her ultimate life goals amounting to nothing more than having an hourglass figure, long blonde hair and long legs that she’s more than happy to spread.
Everything about her pisses me off. I fucking love my sister, but the person she’s become her freshman year of college is horrific. She needs to get the fuck over this phase. My anger boils at the surface.
I open my mouth to lay into her again. But I can’t. Her body jolts, and the wicked grin on her face vanishes. Then she’s shot again. This time the bullet hits her chin. I see her head whip to the side. There's blood everywhere. I still don’t register what’s happened. I don’t believe it. Not until I feel their hands on me. Even then I can’t take my eyes away from her. Her face is flat on the table. Blood is slowly soaking into her hair.