Page 193 of Going Viral for Christmas
Hell, write a song about it.
I’m not proud of it. I wasn’t in the right headspace. I was still there—pathetic, pining, and very much in love with a girl who’d stopped believing in happily ever after. I missed her so damn much it hurt to breathe. The worry crawled under my skin and settled there, gnawing, all-consuming.
The next morning, her family had officially had enough of my pity party. Tom greeted me with coffee and a look reserved for stray dogs who’ve overstayed their welcome.
Mandy muttered something about “grown men and their melodrama” while scraping eggs onto a plate.Even G-Ma gave me a side-eye so judgmental that I briefly considered therapy.
I tried to act normal, made small talk about the weather, thanked them for the hospitality, pretended I hadn’t wept into their guest linens like a man auditioning forLes Misérables.I also, mercifully, left out the part where I may or may not have gotten overly affectionate with a pillow.
Mandy finally said, “Soren, sit down. There’s something you need to understand about Ava.”
G-Ma began, “Ava tries to outrun heartache. The worst of the worst was after she broke up withI Hate Your Face.”
“I hate your face?” I parroted, confused.
“Jon Perry,” G-Ma clarified with a dramatic sigh. “Look him up.”
I reached for my phone. She waved a wrinkled hand. “You’ll find him underwalking red flag with a book deal.He’ll pop right up. And if you ever see him in person, I’ve got a shovel in the trunk, a full tank of gas, and no fear of jail time.”
Mandy shot her mother a look, then turned back to me. “Jon put Ava through some shit. For a long time. The whole ordeal left her unable to trust her own instincts, so when things overwhelm that overthinking brain inside her skull, she runs. Hides. It’s her armor.”
“I’m not that guy,” I say, softer than I mean to. “I’ve shown her, over and over. And that I’m here.”
Mandy’s face falls. “We know. Look, Ava would kill us if she knew we were telling you any of this, but there’s no sense in keeping it a secret after all you’ve done to try and find her. Hell, to try and love her.”
For the next half hour, I sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug I wasn’t drinking from, eyes somewhere beyond the curtains while they told me the whole story. Not every detail—just enough to wreck me, piss me off, make me want to commit murder.
Jon Perry. The mentor who wasn’t. The man who slid into Ava’s life when she was young and trusting and turned her world into a maze she couldn’t escape. He painted the broad strokes: the gaslighting that made her doubt her own mind, the isolation that cut her off from everyone who might’ve pulled her out, the control disguised as concern. He fed her praise, then used it like a leash.
Hot, uncomplicated anger rose within me as they spoke. I wanted to find Jon Perry and unmake him, and be a wrecking ball for the men who believe ideas and access are fair trade for a girl’s trust. But anger wasn’t enough. Ava needed steadiness, an unshowy presence, proof—day after day—that a person can be safe.
By the time they were done, I could see how deeply it rewired her. Every instinct she has now is a survival tactic. The constant second-guessing. The need to stay one step ahead, to keep every emotion at arm’s length. She doesn’t just protect herself from heartbreak, she protects herself fromhope.
I get it now.
Every time she pushed me away, she wasn’t punishing me. She was trying to avoid believing I might be different.
I thought of the times Ava disassociated in the middle of a smile, the way she flinched when a hand moved too fast toward hers.Like when I grabbed her leg under the table. I also thought about the casual cruelty of comment threads that reduce people to clickable fantasies and how easily the wrong person can turn those fantasies into a weapon. Like what happened once Lena ran her story.
In that moment, the promise in my chest changed shape. It became a simple, practical plan. Once I found her, I would close the space between us and hold her tight. Stop promising the stars and begin building scaffolding: patience, proof, time.
More than anything, I needed to tell Ava:
You are not the damage.
You are not the reason anything broke.
You are not the fault line.
They finished sharing Ava’s story, and I walked out of that kitchen with the image of her shrinking away still burned into my retinas. Then, I started to shrink myself. Questions tumbled in.
What if I’m not enough to undo a past built on manipulation? What if she just wants to be alone? I would have to respect her boundaries. But isn’t what we have the only thing that should matter?
Regardless, I was done being dramatic about it. If she shows up, I’ll do the same, quietly, every day, until she stops believing that the worst of what happened to her is the map she must follow forever.
Later that night, I flew home, Ava’s story still coursing through my veins as I sat on the plane. I searched online forI Hate Your Face. Found where he lives. What he looks like. He definitely has a nose I’d love to break. His DM’s were itching for some Pembry charm. But I haven’t done anything… Yet.
Ava deserves to return to someone who won’t unravel entirely. However, it’s a little too late for that, if I’m being honest. Just ask Ava’s pillow.
