When I check the message, part of me is annoyed, but part of me is thankful.
Mom: Your aunt and uncle have invited us over for dinner. You need to be at their house by six. I expect you to be there, Ava. After everything you’ve done, you owe me and the memory of your father that. I’m beyond disappointed in your behavior yesterday,and if I could’ve found you, I would have. Hopefully you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere, but that’s where my thoughts have gone. You should think about what you’re putting me through.
Her message makes me think a lot as I head to my car to get some dog food. Once I have that, I make my way back into the hotel with my thoughts mainly stuck in my past. I can recall many times when my mother spoke to me this way, and it’d often take root in my brain and affect my self-esteem. Each time, her words fed my self-doubt. I’m unsure if she does this intentionally, but regardless, I no longer want her words to affect me so negatively, so I don’t respond to her message. And I make a mental note that she’ll be gone from the house at six o’clock, which means Clara and I can get our stuff then.
That’s one problem solved. Now just a few dozen more to go.
When I enter the hotel room, Clara is still sleeping. I quietly feed Bailey, then deliberate what to do next. I could go back to sleep, but I feel strangely restless. And thirsty. I grab a cup off the table and fill it with water in the sink. Then I notice Clover’s diary on the table. Faint memories trickle through my mind of me giving it to Ellis last night after my drunken meltdown. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t leave it on the backseat of my car, because with all the strangeness happening, there’s a chance it might’ve gotten stolen.
Although someone is clearly aware of its existence, since pages are missing? Or maybe Clover did that? Why, though? What would she have written that she wanted to forget?
I’m unsure if I should read it, but I pick it up anyway. Then I get situated on the bed and open it up to a page I haven’t read yet.
With each turn of the page, it’s more apparent that Clover was drowning in grief and was channeling all of that into tryingto figure out what happened to Zoey. It hurts my heart, and that sensation grows?—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My gaze snaps to the door. Who could be here? Ellis? Maybe it’s just housekeeping.
I wait for them to announce who they are, but all they do is knock again.
I hesitate, unsure what to do. But finally, I decide to get up, pad over to the door, and peer out the peephole.
No one is there. Did I hear something else, like another door getting knocked on?
I grab the doorknob, carefully open the door, and stick my head out into the hallway, which is vacant. Shrugging it off as my imagination, I step back inside and start to shut the door. But that’s when I spot it.
A vase of dried-up daisies is on the floor, and a note is underneath it.
Breathe, Ava. Just breathe.
My fingers tremble as I bend over, scoot the flowers to the side, and pick up the note. One side is blank, but the other side has words scribbled on it. Words that make my heart practically stop. Words that should no longer exist.
I’ve missed you, Daisy friend.
7
AVA
Clover had an obsession with daisies. I was her daisy friend. Her wallet had a daisy on it. She wore shirts, dresses, and skirts with daisies dotting the fabric. And she’d often tuck a freshly picked daisy behind her ear or weave a few into her hair after she braided it. She even did that to my hair once.
It was when we ditched school and were hanging out in the park. I was sitting on the bench, and she was on the table right behind me, braiding my hair. The air was chilly, and the branches swayed back and forth, causing wisps of my hair to flutter around my face, making it difficult for her to get all of the locks tucked into the braid. But eventually, she managed to finish it.
“There,” she declared, letting go of my hair. The braid hung down my back. I started to stand up, but she quickly said, “Wait, just a second.” She swung her feet off the side of the table, hopped off, then wandered over to a patch of grass across from us.
“Where are you going?” I called out as I touched the braid.
It was the first time I’d ever had my hair braided—usually, I wore it down, since I didn’t know what to do with it.
“Getting the finishing touch.” She stopped at the patch of grass and picked the last daisy growing in the area. Then she returned to me. “It’s the last one of the season.” She tucked it behind my ear.
“Maybe you should put it in your hair, then,” I suggested. “Since you like them so much.”
“I like you more,” she replied. “Besides, it looks good in your hair. And when you take it out, you should dry it and keep it. That way, you can always have a piece of me with you.”
I wanted to ask her if she said that because she believed that one day we’d no longer be friends, but I was too afraid of the answer. Looking back, I wish I had.
I wish I’d asked her a lot of things.
