27 Truths: Ava's story (The Truth About Love #1)

by M. J. Fields

  My period ended twelve days before Christmas. I was late, and I didn’t even realize it. The likelihood of me getting pregnant this past week is not good. I try to convince myself that fate couldn’t be that cruel, but it was. It was, and she hates me.

  I throw my phone across the room and sob into my knees. I need a tissue because the cry is that ugly, so I get up and walk to the bathroom where I blow my nose before heading to the kitchen to get a drink.

  “Why did you lie to me, Ava?”

  I jump when I hear T’s voice and quickly turn on a light switch, hoping I am imagining that he is here. I’m not.

  He stands up and walks toward me, his fists balled at his sides. “Why?”

  I shake my head.

  “When is the last time you fucked Luke Lane?”

  “T, I …” I shrug.

  “Did you fuck him after I fucked you?” He steps towards me and stops.

  “No! Of course not!”

  His shoulders relax a bit, and I reach out to grab him. I want him to hold me. I want him to touch me. I want him to tell me he loves me. But he steps back and crosses his arms in front of himself.

  “When?” he asks. “And I don’t want any more lies, Ava.”

  “I love you. I. Love. You. And it doesn’t matter, T. It doesn’t matter, okay?”

  I expect him to be happy I told him I love him, but he looks disgusted.

  “You think it’s his child,” he accuses.

  I shake my head. “No. No. No.”

  “Did you sleep with him when you were home for Christmas?”

  I cover my face with my hands, hiding from the harsh reality of the truth. “I didn’t sleep with him after you, T. I love you.”

  “Did you fuck him when you were home before you and I fucked?”

  “We didn’t fuck, T. Stop saying that! You and I made love, and we made a baby, and you love me, and I love you, and we should be happy. We should be—” I try to grab him, but he steps back again. “T, please.”

  It’s an awful time to find words for all the feelings I have for him, but there it is. I love him. I love him so much. It is too much pressure, too much for him to deal with, and I know it because it’s too much for me. But he has to be the father. He has to.

  “I cannot believe you,” he says as he walks toward the door.

  “I do! I love you. Thomas, please don’t say anything to anyone until I figure out what I am going to do. Please.”

  He slams the door behind him.

  “Oh, God, what have I done!” I scream. “What have I done!”

  ***

  I spend the weekend in bed alone. I don’t bother getting my phone fixed after its run-in with the wall, but I know he hasn’t called because my phone is linked to my computer.

  I haven’t showered, and I haven’t eaten anything besides saltines and yogurt. I have vitamins and folic acid delivered to me in one of my many moments that I don’t give a damn if I do this alone; I’m going to do it, and I am going to do it well.

  Those moments are good ones. Others, not so good.

  I made my bed, so I will lie in it.

  When Dad calls, I talk to him through my computer and let him know my phone broke. He makes me promise to get a new one. I tell him I will tomorrow, that I’m getting a new one delivered.

  Mom doesn’t call, but I message her, telling her I think I have the flu and ask that we skip this week’s dinner. I get an automatic reply.

  On Monday morning, I drink ginger tea, which settles my stomach. Then I wolf down half a dozen saltines and feel better.

  When I walk outside, the SUV is there, and the driver, whom I now know is Casey, opens the door.

  I am hopeful he is inside until I peek in and see he’s not.

  I step back and look at Casey. “I’m going to walk today, but thank you so much.”

  “It’s ten degrees outside, Miss Links.”

  “I could use the fresh air,” I tell her then start walking the five blocks in the bitter cold to work.

  When I arrive at work, everyone is gathered in the conference room. I slide in and take a seat, pulling out a notebook, and then listen to them delegate case work to all of us newbies.

  I end up on a case a woman is bringing against a large pharmaceutical company whose drug should not have been approved for pregnant women. As luck would have it, I am asked to do some field work that will take me to Lake Placid, NY. I am to interview five women who miscarried after taking the same medication.

  I bury myself in my prep work, and by the end of the day, I am exhausted, but at least work has kept me preoccupied. It also gave me insight into what is safe and not safe during pregnancy.

  At lunchtime, I made a list of books I want to buy at the Barnes and Noble after work. There are so many, and I want them all.

  Every time my mind goes to T or Luke, I block it. I hide in my own little book-filled world of planning and preparation like I did for seven years. These next nine months are not going to be a problem.

  As I ride the elevator down to leave work, I am lost in my head, thinking about all things baby.

  I am going to be fine. I am going to be a mom. I am going to … move to east bum-fuck Egypt so I don’t have to face anyone, so I can enjoy this baby who … I have no idea who the father is.

  When I walk out, the SUV is there, and Casey is opening the door. I’m pulling my hood up and starting to decline the ride when T gets out.

  “Ava, please get in the vehicle.”

  I shake my head, walking faster.

  I can’t deal with this right now. As much as I want him, I need to allow myself to realize that I will be doing this alone.

  I hear the door slam, and then I feel him take my hand. I don’t pull away, but I don’t look at him, either. I just walk as the snow falls down in large, puffy flakes.

  T pulls my hand toward a vending cart and orders two hot chocolates, one with whipped cream, one without. He hands me the one with, and I tell him, “Thank you.”

  We walk a little farther before he asks, “Have you eaten today?”

  “Yes.”

  He feels obligated, pities me.

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then we stop at a crosswalk where he stands in front of me and looks down at me.

  Before he says anything, I tell him, “Please don’t say a word. I’ve had a good day, T. Please don’t make me cry.”

  He looks crushed as he leans down and whispers, “You look beautiful, my goddess.”

  I shake my head, and he nods his.

  Hope is seeping in, and I want it to go away.

  “T …” I nod to the crosswalk as people pass us by to cross the street.

  “Do you love me, Ava?”

  I nod, unable to speak while my body shakes as I try not to cry.

  “How lucky am I to be loved by you?”

  I don’t know what to say or how to react. Why is he saying this when he was so angry with me before?

  He grabs my face and kisses me. His kiss is full of sorrys and hope and love.

  I reach up and fist his hair, kissing him back and giving him the same.

  “I love you, T. I love you, and this baby is ours. Mine and yours and love’s,” I say, revealing the hope I have in my heart, making me vulnerable.

  He kisses me softly, which is exactly the kind of kiss I need. It’s confirmation that those feelings he has are real.

  The SUV pulls up to the curb, and we walk to it, hand in hand.

  “Home, please,” he tells Casey.

  ***

  Slowly, over the next three days, my belongings start to show up at his place where I go every day after work and sleep while he holds me. I know he is doing this slowly to avoid overwhelming me. I see it and feel it, but that fear caused by doubting those feelings has betrayed me before. It makes me wonder if he really wants this.

  We don’t talk a lot about us or the baby or anything at all. It’s depressing, it’s painful, and it’s the truth about our truth, his and mine
.

  Love hurts.

  There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I love him. I do. But it hurts to see him hurt, knowing I have caused his pain, knowing if fate thinks I deserve more pain and this child is not his, then his happiness will be destroyed by me.

  When I get into the SUV on Thursday, I hand him a printout of my itinerary for my trip next week.

  His lips form a line, and he gives a quick nod. “I have a show this weekend. I want you to come.”

  “I really don’t feel up to it.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” He leans back, setting my itinerary between us on the seat as he looks out the window away from me.

  I know he doesn’t want me to work, but I want to, and now I need to be sure I can support myself. I don’t want to burden him with my doubt. I won’t.

  I lean back and look out the opposite window. “I have brunch with my mother on Sunday.”

  “That’s nice, Ava,” he says in a way that I know he’s only placating me.

  ***

  On Friday night, he doesn’t come to pick me up with Casey.

  “Thomas left for the airport an hour ago. Where would you like me to take you?”

  “His place,” I say quickly. “Or did he say I should go home?’

  She smiles. “He said to take you wherever you wanted to go.”

  “Then, if you don’t mind—”

  “I’m at your beck and call, Ava. Wherever you want to go…”

  “To my place for a couple hours and then, if you’re available, his.”

  “Of course,” she says and closes the door behind me.

  SIXTEEN

  * * *

  Love doesn’t see color or race or gender. Love is blind and will be there when you least expect it.

  — T. Greseth

  “Hey, Daddy.” I wave at him through Skype.

  He sighs. “Ava, how are you?”

  “Is everything okay?” I smile nice and brightly.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Tessa leans down and waves. “Hello, Ava.”

  I wave back, smiling. “Hi!” Then I ask Dad, “What’s wrong?” because it’s obvious something is not okay. “Is everyone okay?”

  He nods, and Tessa peeks back on the screen. “He’s following T’s Instagram account.”

  “Tessa,” he growls.

  “Open lines of communication, Lucas,” she says before giving him a loud kiss on the top of the head.

  “He’s a nice guy, Dad. I promise.”

  I love my dad, but the fact that this surprises him after the holidays shocks me.

  “Are you living with him?” he asks, trying to keep calm, but when his mouth snaps shut and his jaw muscles flex, I know he is anything except calm.

  “We’re together.”

  “Living together?”

  I hold up my phone and show him around my apartment. “I’m still a resident of 6th Ave.”

  “Ava …” he warns.

  “I stay with him sometimes, and sometimes, he stays here. And then sometimes, I stay here and he stays there, and—”

  “Every night, I see my baby girl sleeping in a bed I know I didn’t buy. Every morning, I see her sleeping in that same bed.”

  “I told you I stay with him sometimes.”

  “I see my little girl standing at the sink with a man’s shirt on,” he says between his teeth.

  “Well, at least I’m not naked,” I joke.

  Tessa laughs in the background, and Dad … Well, he doesn’t laugh.

  “Are you living with him?”

  I take a deep breath and smile. “Not yet.”

  He leans into the camera. “What the hell do you mean—”

  “Lucas, chill,” Tessa says as I hear cupboard doors shut.

  “I love him, Dad, and he has loved me for years. If he asks me to move in, I will.”

  “Ava, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re my dad.” I smile at him. “I love you for it, too. When I have kids, Dad, I will be the same way, but I am twenty-five years old. I found a boy who loves me and didn’t trample into my life until I had finished school.”

  “Is he trampling? So help me God, if he is trampling, I will—”

  I reach out and touch the screen. “I wish you could see how he treats me. He loves me, Dad, and I love him.”

  “How do you know it’s love, Ava? How do you—”

  “He smells like Bingo.”

  His mouth drops open and then snaps shut.

  “Like love and home and hope.”

  “Are you on drugs?” he asks.

  “Yes, we do meth together, and it makes our sex life so much hotter,” I say, smiling. Tessa snorts in the background. “No, Dad, I’m not on drugs. I’m on love.”

  “I need a lawyer,” he says. “You need to come home. It smells like home at home, Ava.”

  “I’ll come home when you sue your fuck-stick father,” I tell him.

  “Ava.” He shakes his head disapprovingly.

  “I’m happy, Dad. He’s caring and kind. Hell, he sends a car to take me to work and pick me up from work every day.”

  “I’ll send a damn fleet,” he says.

  “Daddy?”

  “Ava?”

  “I love you more.”

  He nods. “You bet your ass you do.”

  “Okay, I need to get going,” I tell him.

  “He there?”

  “No, he has a show this weekend. But you knew that.”

  “We’re going,” Tessa says in the background.

  Oh, shit.

  Dad looks at me, and I look back at him. A smirk starts to form on his face.

  “Tessa,” I call out, which is the equivalent of going above his head. It pisses him off.

  “Yes?” she replies, walking back to the camera.

  “Can you make sure he behaves?”

  Dad smirks now. He doesn’t even try to hold it back.

  “I have a lot of prep to do for next week, so don’t make me get on a plane, Dad.” I point at him.

  “If he loves you, he will deal with me.” He nods. “Love you, baby girl.”

  “Love you, Dad,” I say, giving him the evil eye.

  He laughs and disconnects the call.

  ***

  I look at my phone and click on the IG app I haven’t used in … forever. I search out Thomas Hardy, finding him under @Drums4life.

  I scroll through his recent posts. The day after Christmas, he posted a picture of my boots from behind me, and I can safely assume it’s when I was walking down the road after dropping him off at the Stadler in Ithaca. The caption reads: If I could turn those feet around, I would, and she would be walking back to me.

  There are several hundred comments and thousands of hearts representing likes.

  They range from, Let her go to nice boots to fuck her. There are a million boots just like those.”

  The next few posts are of places in London. He was there for two days. Just two days.

  A reminder that you are what you came from.

  The responses to those are favorable.

  Welcome home.

  Don’t ever change.

  Keep banging those drums.

  We love you!

  This is your home. We are your people.

  I know the sadness in that statement. It is heartbreaking.

  The next picture is in his loft, and I am standing at the sink. My feet are bare and so am I, but the picture doesn’t show that.

  The caption: I am the luckiest man alive. Her feet are planted where they belong. Home.

  I see a comment from @PsMom. Harper.

  So happy for you, T. P is, too <3

  His response to that one is, She knew it all along.

  The next several are the ones Dad spoke of … in bed.

  It was love at first rub.

  Her toes intrigue me.

  Nothing more beautiful.

  My heart is forever hers.
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  Sole to Soul.

  She loves me.

  One response asks, Is she so ugly you can’t show her face?

  His reply to that is, Her beauty is blinding. I’m not ready to share her. I may never be. She is mine, and I am hers.

  The last picture of me is from last night.

  I know I have to leave her. I don’t know how.

  An hour ago, he posted a picture of a bar.

  Meet and Greet tonight. Who’s down?

  The responses are all I choose DRUMS! and, Why no more backstage Meet and Greets?

  Bitches!

  ***

  I walk outside, and Casey gets out of the SUV and walks around to open the door.

  “Where to?” she asks.

  “Home.”

  At Thomas’s place, I walk into the old warehouse building and close the cargo door before riding up the three floors to the top.

  When I open the door to the loft, I feel the day’s tension soften as I breathe in … him. This place may not be home. However, every night I spend here, every time I lie in his arms, every morning I wake up to a cup of ginger tea and a piece of toast, every time he says, “Thank you, Ava,” in his deep, sensual British accent when I do something as simple as hand him a glass of water, and every time he says “I love you,” it becomes more so.

  My childhood home is warm and inviting. Its walls are perfect. The carpet and hardwood floors are faultless and pristine. Nothing was ever out of place or out of reach. The pictures showed the story of my life and love and happiness. Outside are ten acres of yard and woods and flowers and gardens. A place I played and lived and was loved and never ever felt like life would be anything but perfect.

  The walls here are mostly exposed brick, the floors all appear to be original hardwood, and the ceilings are beams and pipes. The open living space seems even more open due the size of the windows that give you a welcoming view of the balcony that overlooks the East River.

  The master suite has walk-in closets bigger than the one at my apartment, and yes, bigger than my childhood bedroom. The bedroom spills out onto a private patio that allows you to watch the dawn break over the horizon. The second and third bedrooms are modern and roomy. One has a built-in bookshelf that I can imagine being filled with fairytales and children’s books that we could read to our children … until I realize there is, in fact, a child involved. Then the dream is no longer sweet or one that you can’t wait for a quiet moment to imagine.