Stolen Kisses

by Addison Moore

  Ava. My heart stops and starts, malfunctioning right here in the place I never wanted to be in, standing before someone who my head suddenly wants nothing to do with and my soul is suddenly grieving.

  A part of me wants to lay into her. A part of me wants to wrap my arms around her one last time, but I don’t dare give either her or me the honor. I’m blindsided, confused. I have no idea what the fuck is going on, and I’ve got a fight-or-flight response I really need to tend to.

  “Actually, I am leaving.” I circle around her before she can pull me in. “Family emergency. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s not too late for you to catch up with your brother.”

  I take off into the night, jump into my truck, and drive the hell away from Whitney Briggs, out of Hollow Brook’s city limits and just keep driving straight through the night.

  In the morning, my lids flutter as the brightness of a new day sears across my face. For years I would use a clothespin to seal the split in the curtains to avoid a blast of sunshine in my eyes just like this one. I groan, glancing at the clock on my nightstand that reads eleven thirty-five, and my eyes close again in response to this ridiculous hour. Here I am in my own room, in the bed I’ve slept in for a majority of my life, and I wonder if anything that’s transpired over the last few years had ever really happened. Had Stephanie really died, or is she in our shared bathroom hogging up the shower, ready to sing off-key for the next twenty minutes straight? That would blink Bryson, Baya, and Owen right out of existence, or in the least out of my radar. And I suppose Ava would suffer the same fate, or blessing. Not sure how either of us should classify the fire we inadvertently put ourselves through. I’ve made mistakes before. I’ve walked into a bad situation backward and landed knee deep in trouble. But it would be so very easy, so welcome for it to have all been one long raging battle of a nightmare instead.

  My gut coils tight. Not sure I could ever classify Ava as a nightmare, let alone a bad situation, or even trouble for that matter.

  I reach over and snatch my phone off the nightstand. Six messages—four from Ava asking if everything is okay, pleading with me to call—one from Lucky calling bullshit on my family emergency and telling me to watch my fucking back—and one from Jet telling me he’s there if I need to talk.

  “Shit.” I try to expunge the last trails of sleep from my eyes, squeezing them shut before staring at my messages again—Ava’s.

  She doesn’t know. Does she? Has she known all along? When I asked her what her name was, she said PB and J. Was this some fucked-up act incited to mess with me from the start because of what her sister is going through? A dull huff rattles my chest. What her sister is going through. I almost want to laugh. Nope, I doubt Ava would take revenge that far. She can’t. Everything about her screamed she was genuine.

  I used to be a great judge of character. I used to understand people for who they were, no matter what they presented on the outside. But then Steph died, and my world went to shit, taking my mind and all of my good judgment right along with it. And to think I was this close to being with her.

  My eyes close again, involuntarily this time, and a brief vision of my body lying over Ava comes to me unwarranted as I bury myself deep inside her. I can see her lips part, her head arch back with pleasure, and I would be right there with her, gliding my body over hers, enjoying the hell out of it myself.

  I spike up out of bed, take a long, hot shower, get dressed, and as much as I want to head downstairs, my feet pivot and I head toward Stephanie’s room instead. The door glides open for me as if she were opening it herself. Her canopy bed, the frilly pink curtains, her desk and all of its clutter—it’s identical to the day we lost her. The scent of her perfume, Wild Honey, still permeates the air. I once accused my mother of spraying it down with the remainder of Steph’s bottle, but she swore up and down she wouldn’t dare. I take a deep breath of that sweet scent and hold it for a moment as I observe her notebook still on her desk—notes from trig. A trio of paperbacks sit to the left of that, and a tiny ceramic heart just above it filled with a few tangled necklaces, a ring or two—the bracelet she wore almost every single day but not on that night. I fish it out, the glossy gold chain that sat thick and beautiful over her tiny wrist.

  For so long I thought she took it off for the occasion—that she was leaving it behind like some morbid memento. And once we found out the truth, that Steph hadn’t taken her life at all, I used to pull this strand of gold out and stare at it for hours. Steph simply decided not to wear it that day. I bring it to my lips and kiss it before burying it inside my pocket. It’ll be nice to have something of hers back at the frat house, on my nightstand, close to my heart on those particularly painful nights, and I have a feeling there will be more of those than any other in my future.

  I glance around her room once again. Mom thinks that this shrine actually helps keep her memory alive. Dad and I tend to agree. There’s a gentle peace in this room. It’s always been here, even when Steph was alive. I used to come in and hide out in the closet, reading comic books while she talked on the phone. I remember at least half of those conversations—mostly with friends and half of those were with Bryson. I remember a few with Aubree, too. Aubree. That witch with her long red locks, her wicked grin, those glassy eyes that always looked right through me. For some reason, I can’t seem to juxtapose her features against Ava’s—don’t want to.

  I open up the closet and thump my fingers over Stephanie’s clothes before heading downstairs.

  “Morning to you, Mr. Sleepy Head!” Mom engulfs me with a firm embrace, both the house and my mother hold the strong scent of roasted turkey, and I inhale as much as I can as if trying to suck in all of the memories this place holds, Stephanie’s ghost right along with them.

  “Afternoon,” Dad corrects, coming at me with his glasses sitting low on his nose, already in a dress shirt and slacks ready to take on the holiday. We might be a small family, but holidays and birthdays alike are quasi-formal events that we make a big deal out of.

  Mom leans in and whispers, “I didn’t want to wake you.” She nods toward the staircase. “Where’s your friend?” She extends the word friend out to mean anything but something platonic.

  Crap. I should have called last night before I got lost on that never-ending drive. My eyes snag on the dining room table set for four, and my stomach tightens in a knot.

  “She had a family emergency.” One lie is bad enough, why make it two? This one just so happens to work both ways.

  “Oh, poo!” Mom claps her hands just once as if annunciating her disappointment. “I was really looking forward to getting to know her. Well”—she fans her hands through the air on her way to the kitchen—“I’ll have everything ready to go early. Get settled and we’ll eat soon.”

  Dad and I watch the tail end of a game before helping Mom trek far too much food to the dining room. As much as I appreciate all of the hard work my mother does for this holiday, I always feel a bit guilty when we hardly put a dent in the meal.

  We take our seats, and Dad says grace, but I can’t get over how sad that plate sitting across from me looks. That was Steph’s seat. Today it would have been Ava’s. My throat clenches with a painful lump as I lose myself in that empty chair. I didn’t think anything could feel as bad as losing Stephanie.

  I was wrong.

  Thanksgiving was a bust. Not only did I eat a fraction of what I was capable of, I wasn’t able to be there for my parents like I wanted to. Each time they tried to start a conversation with me, I’d grunt out the shortest answer possible. My mood is killing their mood, so as soon as Saturday morning rolls around, I head back to Beta house and lock myself in my room.

  Life may be in the shitter once again, but there are options. I waste the afternoon and most of the evening away trying to digest each and every one. A: I stay at Briggs and ride out my scholarship—hoping to God I don’t die from the agony I’m currently embroiled in. B: Finish out the semester, take spring off, and look for another school that might ta
ke me on come fall. C: Fuck it all and drop out. Get a job loading ships at the dock. I’d make a decent living. I could get married one day and have a family of my own. Try to live a normal life for once—try to forget all about this abnormal life I keep trying to squeeze myself into. A vague picture of a large house, a white picket fence comes to me, three faceless, genderless children, a beautiful faceless wife by my side. But slowly, painfully, her features come into focus, and I’m staring right at Ava Vincent and her million-dollar smile. Breaks my heart all over again.

  I pluck my phone off the distal end of the mattress and stare at the last message she sent today.

  I talked to Jet, and he said your family was fine. He wouldn’t tell me anything else. I won’t lie. It hurt to hear that. I’m glad everything is OK with your family, but why do I get the feeling not everything is OK with us? Anyway, I thought we were a pretty good fit. You know, like PB & J.

  PB and J. I’m not sure what part of that text guts me the most. Hell, maybe all of it.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Jet. At the Black Bear if you need to talk.

  Talk. I shake my head at his message. I want to kick, scream, punch, hit, and throw shit. Talking isn’t even on the shortlist.

  A brisk knock erupts over the door.

  “I don’t want any,” I shout, still weighing my options—looking for a sign to tell me whether or not I should go.

  Lawson pokes his head in. “Dude, I’m headed to the Black Bear. I’ll buy you a beer. Let’s do it.”

  If I needed a sign, that was it.

  Lawson and I make tracks through the frosty night air, our breath crystalizing before us in long white plumes.

  The Black Bear is pumping with music that’s a touch too loud and flooded with girls that are a touch too underdressed, but it’s warm inside and the food smells pretty damn good. As much as I hate this place, and I genuinely do, I think if Ava wasn’t who she turned out to be, I could have overcome the obstacles that held me at bay to begin with. But, as it stands, this is the exact place where Jet dropped the bomb on me, and sure enough, I spot him standing at ground zero right where I left him.

  I smack Lawson over the arm. “I’ll see you later, dude.” Lawson has spent the entire semester sleeping with everything in a skirt, so I’m sure he’s not too torn up over the fact I won’t be holding his hand tonight. Instead, I make my way over to that tatted up muscle man at the end of the bar and withhold the urge to go off in a violent rage.

  “What’s up?” He slaps me five and pulls me in for a quick pat to the back. His eyes narrow in on mine as if we’re about to cut through miles of bullshit. “Look, Ava spent Thanksgiving with my sister, Lucky, and me.”

  “Lucky’s your sister?” There you go. If Hollow Brook has ever been good for anything, it’s commingling all of its inhabitants.

  “Yes.” He gives a weighted nod as if it were common knowledge. “And Ava is her best friend. That girl has been in tears for the last three days. Dude”—he exhales hard, squeezing his eyes shut tight—“you need to call her.”

  “No.”

  The bartender comes over and asks if I want anything, but I shake my head.

  “Scratch that,” Jet says mechanically while looking over my shoulder. “You don’t need to call her. She just walked in.”

  I glance back to find Ava, swollen eyes, red patchy complexion with a brunette and Owen by her side.

  Ava stops short and says something to the two of them while shaking her head. Owen follows her gaze my way, and his eyes blaze up like a grease fire. The brunette tries to usher Ava into the restroom, but Owen strides over—his demonic gaze never leaving mine.

  Here we go.

  “Looks like he’s in an ass kicking mood,” I say, amused. “Good. So am I.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Owen looks from me to Jet as if we owed him every last answer.

  A dull smile comes to my lips as Ava and the brunette edge in this direction.

  “I asked what the hell is going on?” Owen barks to Jet before looking at me. “Are you the fucker who broke my sister’s heart?” His eyes widen, tall and round as silver dollars. “Shit.” The word gets swallowed up in a hiss as if it knocked the wind out of him. “She’s only seventeen. Swear to God, if you touched her—”

  Without putting a single thought behind it, I snatch Owen up by the shirt and crash his back against the bar. “Shit is right. Did you know about this? Because maybe you’re just playing the dumb fuck that you are. Is that what you wanted? For me to touch her? So you can send me to prison like I did your sister?”

  Jet yanks me off, restraining my arms from behind, and I land face-to-face with Ava.

  “What did you say?” Her voice crackles as if she’s about to cry. “Owen, what is he talking about? Did you d-d-do something to break us up?”

  My heart breaks just hearing her stutter.

  “Ava.” Owen pulls her to his side and buries his mouth over the top of her head for a moment. “Go ahead.” He nods to me. “Tell her who you are.”

  “Tell her who I am?” I look to Ava and meet up with her glassy eyes. “Don’t you know who I am? My name is Grant Jones, Ava. Your sister slaughtered mine.” I don’t break my hostile stare, don’t want to. For whatever reason, it feels as if I’m defending myself—defending Stephanie in the process. Not sure why. We didn’t do a damn thing wrong, with the exception of getting in their way. “So whether you connected the dots or not, whether or not your brother tried to have me tossed in prison for God knows what—we’re done.” Those last two words come out softer, less caustic than those that preceded them, but I meant them just as much.

  I head for the exit, and Owen sidelines me, knocking me into a table, and before I know it, a choir of screams erupts around us. I knew he was gunning for a fight tonight, but in all honesty, I was sort of hoping I’d get one. Owen is strong, most likely bloated out on roids, but my anger, my need for vengeance, lands him on his back and sends my knee in his groin, my fist in his jaw. Another set of arms plucks me off, and I spot Jet helping Owen up. I glance back to find Bryson walking me briskly out the door. Before I can say anything, Jet and Owen tumble out beside me.

  “You don’t do that shit in my bar,” Bryson riots at the two of them before looking to me. “Are you okay?”

  Something about the way he paused to ask me first makes me feel a touch of solidarity with him. Steph loved him. Not sure if he cares, but it’s true.

  “Yeah, I’m all right.” I pat my pockets for my phone and wallet, and they’re both present and accounted for. “I’m taking off. Don’t worry. You won’t have any more problems with me.”

  “Grant, wait.” Owen catches up, still nursing his aching balls. “Fuck,” he barks as he tries to shake off the pain. “You’re not done. Go back and talk to her. She’s hurting. This is killing her.”

  “I’m hurting!” I roar in his face. “We’re all hurting because of your fucked-up family.” I take off across the street, and Bryson appears by my side.

  “What the hell is this about? Did you hurt his sister?”

  I stop short and look at this Ken doll lookalike, with his cut features, his deep-set eyes that are shadowed in this dull light. This is what my sister wanted. What she inadvertently died for. A man. A boy at the time. This, right here, is what Aubree Vincent chose to rot in a prison over. But then again, people rarely choose to rot in a cell. Aubree wanted to get away with my sister’s death—falsely mourn her—and have a life with this man in his ridiculous bar.

  “Yes, I hurt his sister.” I nod, taking the blame fully, making myself out to sound like some insane maniac. “I didn’t realize who she was at the time. But now that I do, I’ve ended it. Sometimes in life there’s just too much baggage to deal with.” I stalk off into the night to the sounds of Ava questioning Owen, her voice rising hysterically into the sky.

  I head to Beta house, lock the door to my room, pull the pillow over my head, and try to forget about life in general.

&
nbsp; Left in Tatters

  Ava

  All my life I’ve been living in the shadow of my siblings, only known as Owen or Aubree’s little sister—with Owen as the cute boy, and Aubree as the killer. For once I thought I had escaped those labels, escaped the shadow of their thorny wings, but here, on this night, I have become Owen and Aubree’s little sister once again in the most painful manner possible. It all makes sense why Grant hated the Black Bear. He knew Owen—and Owen practically lives there. Grant knew enough, but he didn’t have the last piece to the Vincent puzzle. He simply didn’t know enough to hate me—at least not prior to this week. However, at the moment, Grant knows plenty, perhaps too much, but most important, he knows enough to never want to see me again.

  I push Owen hard in the chest as Piper tries to stop me. “How long have you known about him?”

  Owen ticks his head back an inch before shooting a brief glance to his girlfriend. “I met him when school started. It never occurred to me your paths would cross.” He wipes down an eye with the palm of his hand. “Crap, Ava, of all the damn guys at school, you had to find that one.”

  “Oh, so this is my fault?” I shout, incredulous.

  Piper pulls me back a few steps in the event I feel the need to follow in Grant’s footsteps and ensure my brother never makes me an aunt. “He didn’t mean it like that,” she whispers, still pulling me in the direction of their apartment.

  As soon as Jet told my brother that I was bawling my eyes out nonstop, they cut their trip short and hightailed it back to Hollow Brook. I felt like shit at the time, but now, after everything that’s just transpired, I’m pretty glad Owen is back—Piper, too.

  “Ava”—Owen staggers toward me and wraps an arm around my shoulders as we walk in the direction of the Briggs Apartment Building—“I’m so sorry. I never thought for a minute the two of you would meet, let alone—”

  “Nothing happened.” It’s not entirely true. Everything had technically happened. My life was at its pinnacle in that thimble of a moment Grant and I shared.