And cry.
And cry.
I cry so long and so hard that I start yawning through my sobs, and it causes the tears to start damming themselves. Even though I just slept for ten hours, I’m ready to go right back to sleep. But then my phone starts chiming on the nightstand. This particular chime isn’t a regular incoming call, rather it’s a video call from the Facebook message app. The only reason I roll over to pick up my phone is that it might be Pearl since I just told her to find me there.
It’snotPearl.
It’s Lucky’s fake personal account, which he used to contact me in the first place. Seeingthatjust makes me angry all over again, and I immediately decline the call and send a regular message.
Ava Herald: I guess I pissed you off by showing my face on your livestream. Are you calling so you can verbally assault me again?
He doesn’t reply, rather he calls again, and I decline.
Ava Herald: FUCK OFF, ASSHOLE.
D. Luca: I know you’re pissed at me. I deserve that. I’m sorry for everything I said. I’m so sorry, baby. You didn’t deserve that. I was just terrified about you getting sick from traveling with that guy.
The little blinking dots indicate he’s typing another message, but I’m drowning in a blind rage, and I call him just so I can tell him to fuck off once and for all before blocking him.
He answers immediately, his face filling my screen. His eyes look paler blue than I’m used to seeing, and his dark brows are knitted. “Ava doll, listen, I owe you—”
“I am not yourbaby,” I snap with such intensity that my voice catches on a pain in my throat. “I am not yourdoll, and you—” A coughing fit overtakes me, and I pull the phone away from my line of sight. I gasp for air, but seem to have trouble catching my breath.
“Ava, are you sick?” Lucky asks urgently.
I jerk the phone back in front of my face. “I’m sickof having to be reminded that I ever met you. That is what I’m sick—”
“Holy shit. Ava...you look awful.”
“And you’re a hateful son-of-a-bitch,” I snap, coughing again. “You’re the most hateful, heartless person I’ve ever...ever...” I can’t even finish my sentence because I’m suddenly out of breath again, likely from crying so hard minutes ago, and that just makes me angry. And unfortunately, being angry while tired and truthfully notfeeling well just causes my tears to fire up again. I drop my face into my free hand and let the phone fall onto the bed next to me as a sob heaves out of my throat and hurls me back into the throes of weeping.
“Ava…” he starts to say, his tone gentle, soft, and totally guilt-laden. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was so wrong to say those things and treat you like that. I would do anything to take it all back, and...” He pauses. “Baby, you’re really scaring me right now. You sound so sick.”
I sob again. “I’m not your baby...I’m not your anything...leave me alone.”
“Ava—”
I blindly end the call and power off my phone. I even stuff it into the drawer of the nightstand for good measure.
And then, I go back to sleep.
I dream of vintage jazz piano music, and the sun setting over the flat-topped buildings of the French Quarter, and the scent of rich bourbon and fine tobacco, and the feel of soft lips brushing the spot below my ear lobe, and a deep, baritone voice murmuring the words, “Lucky loves you, Ava doll.”
* * *
There’s a pounding noise.
Over and over and over again, something pounding on something.
Blinding sunlight spears my eyes as I peek through my eyelids for only a second, and then I close them again. I pull the sheet over my head and bury my face in the pillow.
My room isfreezing. My whole body hurts. My throat feels shredded.
The pounding continues, but nothing makes sense. On some level, my adult responsibilities are hollering for attention, and I reach for my phone.
It’s not charging on the nightstand. I squint at the ceiling, racking my brain for information about where I was when I last used it.
Oh yeah.
