Page 84 of Going Viral for Christmas
She’s what I’m staying for.
I’ll prove that to her.
After Mandy and I finish drying the last dish, I go searching for Ava.
I pass through the den, where a handful of her relatives are engaged in a loud debate about the Red Sox bullpen. I avoid that one.
In the front room, Fisher is standing on a chair wearing a fishnet shirt, dramatically reading everyone’s fortunes from a tea-stained napkin. There are feathers in his hair. Why? I don’t ask.
“Fisher,” I call out, trying to snag his attention. “You seen Ava?”
He gives me a knowing look, climbs down off the chair, and adjusts his shirt. “Tree house, friend. Goes there when she needs some peace.” Fisher grabs two glasses from a nearby table and hands them to me. “Wine is on the rack on your way out. Good luck.”
Snatching a bottle of red, along with a corkscrew from a basket holding several of them, I step outside and let the screen door close behind me.
The crisp air nips at my skin, scented with pine needles and the faint sweetness of fallen leaves. It’s quieter out here. The laughter and music from inside are now muffled, becoming a memory I’m already starting to miss.
My eyes scan the backyard. Tucked beneath the arms of two old oaks, half-shrouded by shadows and strung with soft fairy lights, is Ava’s treehouse. Elevated above eye level, it’s more than a childhood hideout. It’s her sacred spot.
And she’s up there. And I’m suddenly very nervous.
I hesitate for a moment, debating on giving Ava the distance she so obviously needs, but my selfish nature takes over, driving me straight toward the treehouse.
Shoving the corkscrew in my pocket, I climb the ladder, strategically carrying the wine and glasses with me. Each step creaks under my weight, an echoing heartbeat in the quiet.
Ava’s silhouette is my guiding light under the golden glow inside. Once I’m at the top, I see her. Knees tucked to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her, eyes on the stars beyond the little open window. She’s surrounded by this space that’s so precious to her. The secrets it must keep.
I want to be someone who belongs here, in this perfect, quiet corner of the world. With her.
She doesn’t say anything as I ease onto the floor beside her, setting the wine down first. It’s cramped in here, and my knees bump hers. The air is warm and fragrant with cedar and the fading scent of chimney smoke. It’s intimate. As though the whole world forgot to press record on this moment—and I’m grateful for it.
I pour two glasses. Ava’s fingers brush mine when she accepts hers. We sip in silence for a beat.
“This place is…” I pause, searching for a word that’s worthy.
“Magic.” Ava finishes for me. She smiles, leaning her head back against the wood-paneled wall. “My dad built it when I was six. Told me every girl needed a castle. I said I wanted a hideout instead. So he gave me both.”
“You spent a lot of time up here, then?”
“Every weekend. After school. I used to bring my notebook and write for hours. Or read. Sometimes I’d lie here and listen to the wind.”
“I didn’t have anything this cool growing up.” My eyes scan the space. “Not even close.”
Her voice softens. “Where did you grow up?”
“L.A. But not the shiny parts.” I take a drink, letting the tannins roll over my tongue. “Tiny apartment. Paper-thin walls. My dad was a mechanic, always working. Mom left when I was eight. Never came back. I have no idea if she’s living or dead.”
Ava winces. “Oh, Soren, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” It isn’t.
“How did you cope?”
I think back. “My middle school English teacher saw potential in me. Taught me how to read for escape—and write for it too.”
Ava is cradling her wine glass between her palms, listening. “Is that when your writing career began?” She smiles.
“Yeah. Stories were my way of running away. I’d stay up late making up lives for other people. Better ones.”
