27 Truths: Ava's story (The Truth About Love Book 1) (18 page)

“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 6
th
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.

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.

I walk out onto the private patio where there are flower boxes scattered about and hug myself. Then I sit on the bench built under the wooden arbor.

I pull my feet up, hug my knees, lean back, and look at the sky as snow falls down softly. Closing my eyes, I imagine that spring is here as tears fall. I can picture it perfectly.

A girl who had wasted her youth dreaming of a life full of love and happiness, a love more beautiful than she ever saw in a movie or read about in a book, and a boy who never dared dream because his reality wouldn’t allow it. Both broken, both unloved until they found each other. And in each other, they found a love that was even more beautiful than her most vivid dreams.

It’s beautiful. They are beautiful and happy and in love.

I picture T and myself planting flowers and watching them bloom and them growing as the baby grows inside me. I picture us happy. So happy.

The pain in my chest causes me to press my hand against it. It hurts to think I could have had it all if only love wasn’t so complicated … if only there were no possibility of Luke being the father of this child.

When I become too cold to sit outside any longer, I walk in, close the door behind me, kick off my boots, take off my coat, and climb in his bed, allowing myself the luxury of smelling him on his pillow before falling fast asleep.

I wake up to a loud, rumbling sound, and it’s dark out. The rumbling is my belly.

I sit up and notice my feet hanging out from under the covers. I take my phone off the base on the nightstand and take a picture. Even though he hasn’t texted me, I send him the picture. I want him to know I have seen the posts. I want him to know I think about him, too. I want to know he’s not with someone else. Deep down, I know he’s not, but I can’t stand even the thought of it.

Two minutes later, I’m standing in front of his refrigerator when my phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Ava,” he says with a smile and not a sigh.

“T, how’s your trip?”

“I miss you.” He sounds as torn as I feel. I want to hear a smile in his voice.

“Me or my feet?”

He snickers, and I laugh in response.

“You’ve seen, then?” he asks.

“Your ode to my feet on social media? I hadn’t until my father pointed it out to me today.” I can’t help laughing.

“So he’s a fan?” he asks, and I can imagine him smiling.

“Something like that.”

“You’re home?”

“I’m …” I pause and look around. “Yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” I say, opening drawers in his refrigerator.

“There should be plenty of fresh food in the icebox, and I filled the cupboard with those crackers you like.”

“There is, but there’s no chocolate, and right now, I want a Snickers bar so damn badly I may go out and get one … or twenty.”

“I’ll have them delivered,” he practically rushes to say.

“No, I’ll be fine until tomorrow.” I continue to search for something that looks good, asking, “How was your meet and great?”

“It went well,” he says sweetly, but I think I hear longing in his voice, and I hope it’s for me.

“So, you aren’t doing backstage meet and greets anymore?”

“Yes, of course. VIP ticket holders.”

I immediately feel jealous and decide I have no right to feel that way. Not really, anyway.

“Well, I hope you have fun.”

“I will.” He uses the same clipped tone I did.

“T …?”

“Yes?”

I don’t want to talk and to feel jealous. I want to sleep.

I shut the refrigerator. “Good night.”

“Did you eat?” he asks.

“I will.”

“I can stay on the phone,” he offers.

“That’s okay. I’m sure you’re busy.”

“No, not really.”

I sense his annoyance and wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s thinking that he would be busy if he didn’t have to deal with my mess. Or maybe he’s just waiting for me to let him off the hook.

“I’ll just talk to you later, okay?”

He doesn’t answer, so I hang up. Then I get a message.

I love you, Ava.

I would like to think I couldn’t sleep because I had taken a five-hour nap, but it wouldn’t be true. I have been sleeping nearly twelve hours a day since last weekend. Even before I found out I was … pregnant.

I grab my phone and look at Instagram. He posted the picture I sent him of my feet.

She sent me this. What am I going to do with her?

I want to post: Tell her you don’t want her; she’ll get the hint. Tell her, see you in nine months when she knows whose kid’s growing inside her. But what I want the most is for him to post that he loves me and still will regardless. However, I know that is probably the biggest fairytale lie I have ever told myself. As he said, he doesn’t know what to do with me. It’s there in black and white.

Three more weeks before a doctor even wants to see me to do bloodwork to confirm my pregnancy. I know I am. I took two more tests, both positive. Then I googled paternity tests during pregnancy, and the two that popped up were amniocenteses and Chorionic Villus Sampling. Both tests are invasive and can cause a miscarriage. I hold my hand protectively over my stomach. The path of putting my child at risk is not one I want to take.

Then I see one that is a simple blood test that can be done at eight weeks for two thousand dollars. I feel both joyful and nervous. Both emotions cause me sleeplessness.