𝔸𝕧𝕒

Zane unlocks our front door and it swings open. He drops his keys in a bowl beside the door and sits down at the kitchen bar, pulling his phone out for a moment before placing it to the side.

"So, do you want to talk about it?" he asks, his eyes soft and questioning.

"Which part?" I ask.

"Any of it?"

I feel a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. Even though I trust Zane, I can't shake the fear that the more he knows about my broken family and all my damage, the less he'll want to be with me.

Sometimes it feels impossible to outrun my past. I thought I could get away, start fresh in a new city, and never have to deal with my mom being gone or the only family I have left being manipulative assholes who completely messed me up. Yet here I am, back in my home town and dealing with the same old crap as always.

I sigh, sitting beside him and resting my head against the cool countertop.

I guess I'm going to have to deal with this at some point.

"I told you, my family is messed up," I say. "That was just my dad trying to get me to talk to him again so that I'll give him whatever it is that he wants this time."

"How are you feeling about it?" he asks.

"Is that your way of asking if it's okay that you punched my dad?"

He chuckles slightly before turning to me with a smile.

"No, love," he says. "I saw you fighting back a grin when I punched him, so I took that as your approval. I mean how are you feeling about seeing him and... what he said."

"You mean the part where he accused you of being a drug dealer?" I ask, lifting my head from the counter and giggling. "Or the part where I accused him of wanting to buy off you?"

I'm pretty sure that one seriously scandalized our concierge, because when I had said it he looked like he got about twelve inches shorter shrinking behind that front desk. This place was used to the kind of clientele you see on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and my dad and I were going full Real Housewives.

"George seemed pretty afraid of you at that point," Zane says, smirking.

"Is that his name??"

"The concierge? Yes, George."

"Of course it is. That's such a fancy kind of name. You name your kid George and they're immediately limited to jobs done in suits and tuxedos."

"Baby," he says. "I'm 200 years old. Do you think I'm not going to catch on to your attempts to change the subject?"

"Well, that's not fair," I say, scrunching my lips sideways. "You have an advantage."

"It's not supposed to be a competition, love."

I sigh and lie my head back on the bar.

"I just..." I mumble, groaning slightly into the countertop. "I get away from him and I think I'm immune to all his garbage, but then he shows up and I'm right back to letting him get under my skin again. I don't even like the guy and he still manages to affect me and tear me down."

"You know, love, we don't really get to choose our emotions," he says with a soft, empathetic smile. "Otherwise, why would we ever choose the bad ones?"

"I just don't want him to win. He says these things to hurt me, and if he succeeds—then he wins," I say, sitting back up again. Zane looks at me with a mix of pity and concern and his eyes flash green for just a moment.

When will I be able to get past never feeling good enough?

"Should I go find him and knock him around a bit more?" he smiles slightly, but his offer is definitely serious.

"Whoa there, maniac!" I say with a giggle. "Haven't you ever heard that fighting never fixes anything?"

"It fixed Mike's nose."

I can't help but burst into laughter.

"You're so mean!" I tease him, getting up and walking over to the living room so I can lay down on the couch.

"Feeling alright?" he asks, joining me on the couch.

"I'm okay, this kind of stress this early in the morning just really took it out of me."

I close my eyes for a moment and sigh. Emotional stress has never been particularly great for my health, nor has interacting with my dad in general.

Some people are just so bad for you that they drain your energy simply by being in the room.

"Do you want to talk about your mom?" he asks.

Shit.

"You... you heard that part?"

He nods his head in response.

"I..." I start to say as a tear drips from my eye. "I know I don't really talk about it... I don't know. It's still hard."

I feel more tears welling up and before I know it, they're pouring down my cheeks. Zane looks physically hurt by my crying and rushes to wrap his arms around me.

"I know, baby," he says. "It's okay."

"It's his fault," I say, my voice wavering slightly. "He always ripped her apart, criticized everything she did—just like he did to me, and to Dylan. I just learned to ignore him, Dylan became desperate for his approval, but my mom—she listened."

The tears fall faster as I burrow into Zane's shoulder and he strokes my back with his hand.

A knock at the door pulls my attention and Zane hops up to answer.

"Are we expecting someone?" I ask.

"I hope you don't mind," he says. "I invited a friend over."

Before I can reply, he opens the door to reveal Jen with a box of cookies in each hand.

"Guess who!" she says, walking inside and setting the cookies down on the table. "Aww, honey, you're crying? That stupid dickasaurus made you cry? I owe him a kick to the shins!"

She sits beside me and pulls me in for a hug.

"It's cool," I say, with a slight sniffle. "Zane already punched him in the nose."

"Oh shit!" she says with a gasp, turning to Zane. "For reals? Didn't you punch Dylan too?"

Zane gives her a slightly guilty shrug and she laughs.

"So you're the only Reynolds he hasn't punched in the face, huh?" she says with a smirk. "I mean, you better not have or I'll kick your butt, crumpet-muncher!"

She jabs a pointed finger at him in warning.

"Did you just call me crumpet-muncher?" he asks indignantly.

"Just if you hurt my girl," she says with a smile. "In all seriousness though, you're kind of my hero. I'd love to punch Ava's dad—that guy is a grade-A assface."

"You brought cookies?" I ask.

"Yep," she says, holding up two boxes. "Oreos in case you want to stuff your face with saturated fats, and really—who doesn't? And the peanut ones that help your stomach in case you make yourself nauseous on Oreos."

"You're the best!" I say.

"World's dopest BFF, that's me!"

My eye catches the reunion invitation on the side table.

"By the way, did you get one of these?" I ask, picking up the envelope.

"Oh shit," she says. "When is the RSVP deadline? I totally forgot!"

"You're actually planning on going?"

"Duh, Ava! And so are you! I am NOT going alone to our reunion!"

"Why on earth would you want to go? High school was terrible and I can't stand all those people."

"Okay, yes, high school wasn't that great, but that's the whole point! I'm so much cooler now and we've gotta stick it to all the popular kids."

"What are you talking about? You had tons of popular friends... oh. This is about Tess, isn't it?"

"Tess?" she asks, in a voice that I know very well as an attempt to feign innocence.

"Your arch enemy, mean girl, and girl you 'totally didn't have a crush on'—that Tess."

"I did not have a crush on Tess!" she shrieks, slapping my shoulder and shooting me a glare. "I'm already missing the you that didn't have a memory."

"How rude!" I say, smacking her with a throw pillow.

"I don't have a crush on her, I want to show that bitch that I got hot, smart, and fabulous."

Gotcha.

"So you admit, it is about Tess!"

"Okay, fine Ava, but you have to go with me and we have to show them that we're cool and hot now!"

"I dunno," I say with a sigh. "I hate this stuff."

"You can bring your hot, rich, British boyfriend," she says with a smirk.

Damn. She's good.