CHAPTER 10
Tucker
My first real date with Ava was a perfect night of introducing her to all the things she’d missed. She became a teenager like the rest of us.
I’d already fallen for her, hard, but it was even easier to love this version of her. Without the rough edges of the hospital, trying to prove herself to every doctor and social worker, she was funny and light-hearted.
She thought my corny jokes were funny. She was astonished at my dumb quarter-behind-the-ear trick. All the dorky actions that made me weird at school were perfect to her. She encouraged me to dive deeper into being me.
Even Sarah, who was infinitely cooler than the rest of us, acknowledged that I’d found the crazy-shaped puzzle piece that fit me.
The next weekend, Bill and Sarah picked us up, but then dropped us off at the ghostly playscape at Zilker Park with a midnight picnic made by Gram.
We ate on a blanket beneath the labyrinth of stairs, slides, and bridges, our knees pressed close together.
For the first time, we were entirely alone.
“I wonder if I ever played here, or on any playscape,” Ava said. The dim light of a distant street lamp glinted in her eyes as she looked at the apparatus all around us.
“I guess not all moms take their kids to play at parks.”
“I don’t have any notes about it. Maybe I was too young to write.”
I picked up her hand and ran my thumb across her palm. I wanted to always be touching her. “Most of us quit playing at parks with our moms around fifth grade.”
“How old are you in fifth?”
I forgot how some of the most common things were unknown to her. “Ten or so.”
“Ten. I should have been able to write. I have been to parks before. I would sneak out to go with friends.”
A hint of jealousy sliced through me. “How old were you then?”
“I’m not completely sure. I didn’t put a date on everything. But I’m guessing thirteen.”
“How did you meet those friends?”
“I don’t know that either. I went to school when I was really young. Kindergarten. First grade. Mom only pulled me later.”
“Do you ever ask her about it?”
“Sure, but I don’t know if I trust her answers.”
“That sucks. I hate that your mom is so hard to deal with.” I wanted to ask about her dad, but Ava never brought him up. But then, I didn’t talk much about my parents either. Some wounds didn’t need poking.
She leaned in close to me, and I kissed her. She was becoming familiar, the shape of her lips, the brush of her hair on my cheeks. She always smelled of lemon shampoo.
There was no one to interrupt us. We were as alone as we’d ever been.
I cupped the back of her neck beneath her long fall of hair. I drew her closer so that our bodies touched. She settled against me.
Everything felt natural. Her hand moved to my shoulder, and her lips parted.
I could do this forever, although my body pushed forward with an urgency I had to ignore.
I figured Ava didn’t have much experience, or if she did, she wouldn’t remember it. I definitely didn’t have a lot. I didn’t know how to set a pace, how far to go, and when to make each move. I understood the mechanics of it, but not the steps, how to get there.
Ava leaned forward so far that I fell backward on the blanket. We knocked over the basket, spilling the plastic dishes.
