Page 86 of Going Viral for Christmas
I swallow, fighting the instinct to apologize for something I didn’t do. I don’t care about who she’s dated previously—or how many there were. Lord knows, I don’t want to discuss my numbers. What gets me is the thought that no one before me made her feel like she mattered. So I reach for the only thing that might make her smile.
“Well,” I say, aiming for lightness, “your grandma keeps telling me I hung the damn moon, so I’d say I’m officially in your family’s top five.”
A laugh. “To her, you’re an upgrade. The last guy–whom I dated for a whole five minutes before deciding it would be a good idea to bring him home and meet the family–serenaded the turkey with Wonderwall.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I were. He made aggressive eye contact with my dad during the chorus.”
Laughter bursts out of me. “Jesus. Wonderwall?”
“He was a huge mistake.”
“Clearly.” My head tilts. “No wonder I’m in the top five?”
She bites her bottom lip, eyes dancing. “I brought home a male cat once. He’s number one.”
“And why’s that?”
“He hissed at everyone and puked in my cousin’s shoe. It went over about as well asWonderwall,but I thought it was hilarious.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Well, he was probably cute and cuddly, so that’s hardly fair.”
“He was definitely cute and cuddly.” Her smile falters slightly. “And also… cats don’t lie to you or—” She stops. The tension returns.
My smile fades. “Or, what?” The question comes out defensive.
“Not important.” She lifts her glass in a toast, deflecting. “To emotional fortresses and extremely low expectations.”
I clink mine against hers gently. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Ava’s eyes meet mine, defiant yet wounded. “Believe what? That it isn’t important? Or that I don’t let people in?”
“That you don’twantto.”
Her lips press together, she looks away, jaw tight. “Wanting’s the easy part.”
Her voice is soft. Almost like she’s admitting it to herself more than to me. I don’t push. I sit with it. And her. The silence between us isn’t awkward; heavy rather, in the way truth always is.
Ava’s fingers trace the rim of her glass, giving her something to focus on in this tense and now uncomfortable moment for her. I’m sure she’s about to shut this conversation down and run. But then she surprises me.
“I used to think love was this beautiful thing. That it was supposed to fix things, overcome hardship, or conquer all,” she says, opening up a little, but laughing it off at the same time. “I thought if someone loved me enough, it’d glue all the broken pieces back together.”
“Do you not think that now?”
She wraps her arms around her legs, glass still in hand. “Now, I think love is a hammer. You let someone in, and they’ll swing that hammer, making all your racks worse.”
My heart sinks. “Not everyone swings to hurt.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she confesses.
My heart breaks when she says that. I actually feel it shatter inside my chest.
Offering something quieter than words, I reach over and gently brush my knuckles against hers, giving Ava something more peaceful than a promise. Presence. Patience. “I’m not one of them, Ava. If I ever swing, it’s to clear the rubble, not to hit the person standing in it. Old walls come down, and then you build something more beautiful with that person.”
Her uncertain gaze finds mine, searching.
I let the silence hold, so that it means something before I try to ease the weight between us. “But for the record,” I add, smirking a little, “I’m terrible with tools. Probably best if you don’t hand me a hammer.
