Heartache and Hope: Heartache Duet Book One

by Jay McLean

  “Here?” he asks, moving to the center circle. “You want to work here?”

  I shrug. “I figured it’s where you’re most comfortable.”

  Dropping his bag by his feet, his eyes take in the surroundings: from the championship flags strung off the ceiling to the retired jerseys hanging on the walls. I try to make small talk. “First game of the season’s in a few weeks, right?”

  He eyes me sideways, a rush of air falling from his lips. I watch the way his shirt shifts beneath the muscles of his broad chest, strong shoulders, and I look away, hoping he isn’t witness to the heat forming on my ears, my cheeks, my entire damn body. “So, I think we should talk about—”

  “The paper,” he interjects.

  “—what Rhys said,” I finish.

  He drops the ball, sweeps it up again, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “So, this paper…” he says, deflecting. “I’ve taken some notes. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to give us a starting point.” After reaching into his bag, he pulls out a few sheets of paper and holds them out between us.

  Okay.

  So.

  He obviously doesn’t want to deal with what happened, and I’m clearly not going to get anywhere.

  I step into the circle so I can take the notes, flipping through them without actually reading a word. My mind works in overdrive as I try to come up with a way to fix things for us, for me. I need a way to settle my guilt. “I was thinking,” I start, needing a moment to catch my breath. It’s as if we’re in his car again. Close. Almost too close. And there’s no one here but us. “I was thinking…” I repeat, coming up with a plan on the fly. It’s a selfish plan, one that will help me find a way to gain his forgiveness. “We should maybe put our own spin on it.”

  “How?” he asks, and when I look up, I catch him watching me. He averts his gaze a moment later, focuses on the ball in his hand.

  “I thought we could make it more personal? Have an actual test subject rather than resources we find online so it’s not the same old, same old, you know?”

  He bounces the ball. Again and again. Contemplating. “You have a subject in mind?”

  “You.”

  His eyes widen. “Me?”

  I nod.

  “And what exactly would that entail?”

  “You have to tell me about you. Genetics versus upbringing.”

  He takes a step back, shaking his head. Jaw tense, a fierceness flickers in his gaze, a wall dropping down between us. It’s as instant as it is intense. He closes his eyes, slowly, his dark lashes fanning across his cheeks. By the time he opens them again, all emotions have been wiped. “I wouldn’t be the best subject for this,” he says, his voice flat. “We should use you.”

  “Hell no.” A giant Fuck No. There’s no way I’m willing to reveal the details of my life.

  Not yet.

  Not to him.

  “Well, I’m out.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Ava. We’re not doing this,” he says, his voice firm.

  “But you need the grades, right? To play, I mean. This is the perfect—”

  “I said no!” His voice echoes off the walls, and he cringes at the sound. Annoyance fills his every word. “Just leave it alone.”

  I shrink into myself. I hate being spoken to like this. Being yelled at. “Jesus, what’s your deal?” I snap, combative. “I’m just trying to get to know you here, and you’re—”

  “I’m what?”

  “You’re fighting me.”

  “Fine!” he barks, frustrated, and looms over me. “I can’t do what you’re asking because I don’t know shit about my mom.” His voice cracks on the last words.

  My breath catches on an inhale, my stomach giving out. I lower my gaze, wishing for a damn shovel to dig a hole that I could crawl into. I stumble through my speech. “I’m so sorry, Connor. Did she, umm… did she die or…?”

  “No,” he breathes out. His voice softer, calmer. “I mean, I don’t know. She abandoned me when I was young.”

  I look up again. Right into his eyes already focused on mine. “As in, she left?”

  His lips part, but nothing comes out. A sharp inhale. Steady exhale. His throat moves with his loud swallow, but he doesn’t break eye contact. Finally, he speaks. “As in she drove us to the airport parking lot on a hundred-degree day in the middle of July, made sure I was buckled in nice and tight in my car seat, kissed me goodbye, and walked away. She walked away, and she never came back. So no, Ava, she didn’t just ‘leave me.’ She fucking abandoned me.”

  Chapter 13

  Connor

  My ears fill with the sound of the ball bouncing off the hardwood, the backboard, the rim. Again and again. Echo echo echo. My shoes scrape. Muscles in my arms, my legs, my heart burning. Sweat pools, drips down my face, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop. I push harder, further. It’s the only way to get out of my head, to stop the memories from flooding in.

  I remember looking down at my hands, at the sweat that pooled beneath the two toy cars I held on to. Lightning McQueen in my right. Sally in my left. I took them everywhere with me, even in my sleep. “You’re my reason, Connor. Don’t ever forget that,” she said. She kissed my forehead, and I’d kept my gaze down, watching my three-year-old legs kicking back and forth.

  I remember the heat.

  The way the sun filtered through the open door, burning my flesh…

  Right before she slammed the door shut between us.

  No other words.

  No warnings.

  I watched her walk away, step by step until she disappeared between the rows of cars.

  Minutes passed, and I started to worry.

  She’d never left me before, not for that long.

  I struggled to breathe.

  It was so hot.

  I kicked at the back of the front seat in frustration, dropping Lightning as I did.

  I tried to reach for it, but my belt was on tight.

  So tight.

  So hot.

  That’s when the tears came.

  I remember the way the belt cut into me when I kept reaching for the car, over and over.

  I squirmed.

  I screamed.

  I remember how my tears felt on the palms of my hands. Warm and wet.

  I remember the marks those tears left on the windows. Handprints dragged down in desperation.

  I remember the pain in my chest, the ache in my throat from crying her name, over and over.

  Mama! Mama! Mama!

  I remember the heat.

  God, I remember the heat.

  Like a fire burning inside me.

  I remember the thickness of the air in my throat.

  The sweat in my eyes.

  And I remember the exact moment my body started to shut down.

  To give in.

  Give up.

  I remember the heaviness of my eyelids.

  The weakness in my limbs.

  The anguish.

  The despair.

  I remember those last moments.

  The world as a blur.

  Right before it was coated in darkness.

  I’m in a daze when I come to, eyes wet and weary as I watch the ball bounce away from me and into Ava’s arms. Fuck. I’d forgotten where I was, and worse? I’d forgotten who I was with.

  I fold in on myself, exhausted, every muscle in my body screaming for reprieve.

  But I’m not ready.

  Not yet.

  One hand on my knee to keep me upright, I extend the other. “Give me the ball, Ava.”

  “No.”

  I grind my teeth, irked beyond reason. “Not right now, okay?”

  She shrugs. “Okay.”

  I stand taller. “So give me the damn ball.”

  She holds it behind her back. “Come and get it.”

  I’m in no fucking mood for these mind games. Shaking my head, my eyes on hers, I take several steps to close in on her. But as soon as I’m near, she throws the ball away,
and the next thing I know, her arms are wrapped tightly around me, her nose to my chest. I feel the heat of her breath against me, the way my shirt stretches across my torso from the strength of her hold.

  “I’m so sorry, Connor,” she whispers, and everything inside me stills.

  Breaks.

  Shatters.

  My inhale is shaky. My exhale the same. I close my eyes, take in the moment. Bask in it. If only for a second. “What’s this for?” I ask.

  She looks up at me, liquid sorrow coating her eyes. “It just looked like you needed it.”

  I reach up and palm the back of her head, hold her to me. Because of all the things I hoped could heal the memories of my past, the human touch and a single moment of compassion weren’t it. Maybe it was because it was never offered to me before. Or maybe it’s because it’s coming from her.

  When I feel her start to pull away, I bring her closer. Hold her tighter. Because her touch…

  …her touch is like fire.

  Only this time,

  I don’t mind the burn.

  Chapter 14

  Connor

  Dad greets me at the door when I get home. It’s been a solid two weeks since we’ve seen each other in more than just passing. By the time I’d get back from school, he’d be asleep, and by the time he’d leave for work, I’d be getting ready for bed. “Can I help you?” he asks, hand pressed to my chest to stop me from going inside.

  “What?” Confusion clouds my mind.

  “Do I know you? I mean, you look like my son, but it’s been so long I can’t be sure.”

  Chuckling, I swat his hand away and force my way inside. “Haha. You became a comedian overnight.” I start for my room.

  “I ordered pizza,” he calls out after me.

  “Can’t wait.”

  In my room, I drop my bag and ball on the bed, dock my phone on the speakers and hit play on Kendrick Lamar. In my mind, I’m at Toyota Arena wearing number 13, James Harden, and I’ve just sunk a killer fadeaway against the Nets. In the real game, Harden walked away with one hand out pretending to hold a bowl, the other holding a utensil to mimic stirring the pot—his signature celebration. In my bedroom, I do the same while the imaginary crowd chants my name, Led-ger! Led-ger! Led-ger! I nod, hold my hand to my ear to encourage them. Louder! Louder! Louder! My eyes close, and I take in the moment, remember the feel of Ava’s body against me. The way her eyes locked on mine. Connor! Connor! Connor!

  A stupid grin sweeps my entire face.

  “Connor!”

  My eyes snap open. Dad’s at my door, his hand on the knob. He eyes me sideways, looking from me, to my speakers, and back again. Shaking my head, I move to the speakers and switch off the music.

  Dad says, “Pizza’s here.”

  I walk past him and toward the kitchen.

  “I take it you had a good day,” he muses.

  I shrug. “Same old.” Then I ask, only slightly embarrassed, “How much did you see?”

  “Enough to know you’ll never be able to grow a beard as majestic as Harden’s.”

  I rub my chin, and for a split second, I wonder if Ava likes beards. “I could grow a beard.”

  “So…” Dad says, settling in the chair opposite me.

  I pick up a slice of pizza, take half of it in one bite. “So?” I mumble around a mouthful of food.

  He throws a napkin toward me. “So, tell me everything. We haven’t had a real conversation since school started. How are the classes?”

  I swallow. “Good.”

  “And the team?”

  “Also good.”

  “Welp. I’m glad we had this talk,” he jokes, standing. He opens the fridge, eyeing the drink selection. I watch his every move, waiting for the right time to bring up what went down today. Besides the people who were there that day and my dad’s parents, no one else knows what happened to me. Until Ava. I figure I should ease into it, so I say, “So, I met a girl…”

  His shoulders tense. “Oh yeah?” he says, refusing to turn to me.

  “Yeah,” I edge. “She’s uh… she’s in my psych class. We’re working on a paper together.”

  He moves again, and just when I think I can proceed, he asks, “Psych, huh? What’s that like?”

  I ignore his question, sit higher in my chair. “Her name’s Ava.”

  “Right.” He turns to me now, his eyes trained on the floor. “Just remember we need to keep focused on the end game, Connor.”

  Irritation fills the emptiness inside me. “We?”

  “You,” he sighs out. “I mean you.”

  Puffing out a breath, I slump in my chair, throw the napkin in the almost full pizza box. I’m frustrated. It’s obvious. And the truth is, I’ve tried to understand why he’s like this. Why he seems to have a distaste for all women. In all the years post-Mom, I’ve never known him to date, or even have a random hook-up. I guess, in a way, I get it. The one woman he loved enough to have his child left, abandoned not just me, but him, too. Only he wasn’t there. What happened to me didn’t happen to him. I’m the one who should have his level of hatred and distrust. Because in truth, as much as I hate to think about it, she only left him. But me? Me she wanted dead. And that’s a hard fucking pill to swallow no matter how I try to spin it. I inhale deeply and swallow all those thoughts. Bury them deep inside me. Like always. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, mask back in place. “I’m pretty sure she’s not interested in me.”

  Dad nods. “That’s probably for the best.”

  “Yeah.” I stand, done. “Thanks for the pizza… and the talk, I guess.” I start to leave.

  “Connor,” he calls after me.

  “It’s fine.”

  I knew going into this year that the schoolwork would be hard. I thought I was prepared. I was wrong. The workload is insane, which is okay for now, but once the season starts, I’ll probably have to give up sleep. It’s my only option. Most of my free nights I split between studying game tapes, memorizing plays, and doing homework. But tonight, I can’t seem to focus on anything. Well, anything besides the girl who appears to have infiltrated my mind. I know it’s wrong to be this infatuated, and I’m not one to be making moves on a girl. And I won’t, I assure myself.

  Unless…

  Sitting at my desk, I reach into my bag and pull out the team folder. The first page has a list of numbers, including the coaching staff and all the players. My finger moves down the page until I find the one I want. I stare at the name, flip my phone in my hand. Then I stand. Pace. Convince myself that surely even James Harden had moments like these growing up.

  I type out a text.

  Connor: Hey.

  Rhys: Who’s this?

  Connor: Connor.

  Rhys: Hey man, what’s up?

  I stop pacing.

  Start again.

  Drop my phone on the bed.

  Pick it up.

  Suck it up.

  Connor: Do you have Ava’s number? I need to talk to her about the psych paper.

  Seconds pass.

  Then minutes.

  Fricken eons.

  When he finally responds, he has her number attached and the words:

  Rhys: Remember: whatever she does, don’t let it affect you. And whatever you do, don’t fucking hurt her.

  Connor: Thanks… I guess?

  I go back to pacing. Preparing—out loud—the first message I’ll send. “Hey… Hi, it’s Connor… Hey, it’s me, Connor… Yo… Yo, it’s Connor from school…”

  Dad opens my door without knocking, interrupting my absurdity. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He taps on the door. “I’m heading out…” he trails off, the tension from earlier hanging between us.

  “Okay.”

  Connor: Hey, it’s Connor. From psych. I had an idea about the paper.

  The swiftness of her response has my stomach flipping.

  Ava: Hi Connor from psych :) What’s your idea?

  Connor: I think I’ve come up with a s
ubject that might set us apart.

  Ava: Go on.

  Connor: Serial Killers.

  Ava: Dude

  Connor: No? Too much? Too dark?

  Ava: It’s fucking genius. I’m obsessed with true crime.

  Connor: Me too! You should check out some podcasts. I listen to them on the way to and from school.

  Ava: Shut up! Me too. Casefile is my favorite.

  Connor: Mine too! The narrator…

  Ava: So intense.

  Connor: So good.

  Ava: Lol

  Connor: Cool.

  Ava: Cool.

  Connor: So.

  Ava: So…

  Connor: How are you?

  Ava: Oh, you know, living the dream.

  Connor: Money.

  Ava: Money?

  Connor: I don’t know. I’m trying really hard to sound cool here.

  Ava: lol. What are you doing?

  Connor: Homework.

  Ava: Want me to let you go?

  Connor: Hell no.

  Connor: Wait.

  Connor: Are you busy?

  Ava: Not at all. I was doing the same. Could use the break.

  Connor: Yeah?

  Ava: Yeah.

  Connor: So.

  Ava: So.

  Connor: We’re nailing this whole conversation thing.

  Ava: I know, right? It’s… dare I say… money.

  Connor: Are you teasing me?

  Ava: A little. Don’t hate.

  Connor: I couldn’t if I tried.

  Ava: Yeah? Because for a minute there, I’m pretty sure you did.

  Connor: When?

  Ava: The whole Rhys thing?

  Connor: …

  Ava: About how you make me uncomfortable…

  Connor: Ohhhh! You mean *that* thing.

  Ava: …

  Connor: So what exactly did you mean by that?

  Ava: You don’t want to know.

  Connor: I mean… I asked, right?

  The three dots on the screen appear, disappear. Again and again. My anxiety builds. And builds. To the point of—