Chapter Text
Ava’s going to start bleeding out of her ears. Probably.
It’s not exactly the way she’d imagined dying, but there’s only so much overemphasized bass, repetitive synth, and way-too-processed vocals she can take from a playlist that sounds like it was made circa 2013 when everyone and their mother took a little too much pleasure from playing with a mixing board and getting dance-high on beat drops and EDM. And okay, maybe she’s being dramatic. And mean. Avicii definitely doesn’t deserve her slander, especially considering how he had literally kept her head bopping when she had nothing else going for her.
Still, she’s in a club that’s way over capacity on a Saturday night in a country she’d only ever dreamed of visiting. Life should be good, great even. Except she’s nursing the worst Cuba Libre she’d ever put in her mouth—she’s half-tempted to vault the bar and make one herself just to show the bartender how it’s really done, but she’d spied the shelf and their room temperature cola and their sorry excuse for a lime and it’s… it’s just not worth the effort—and she’s had to resign herself to having sticky fucking everything from the number of times someone spilled their drinks on her. She feels itchy in her dress, the fabric not the least bit comfortable for all its fancy silver sparkle, the collar too restricting around her neck, the sleeves too tight around her wrists—I look like I’m wearing a Christmas gift wrapper, she’d told Chanel; Good. You deserve to be unwrapped like they can’t wait to see what’s underneath all that, Chanel had answered. And really, what was Ava supposed to say to that and what else was she supposed to do other than put the goddamn dress on?
The point is, she doesn’t want to be here. Not anymore.
She’s been hopping from country to country and seeing the sights and living the nightlife ever since JC and his friends found her on a beach in Hawaii two years ago and got drunkenly indoctrinated into their squat-party-and-run gang. It was good for a while. It was something new, at least, and different from how she had experienced half of the world backpacking alone, bartending wherever she could or whenever she needed to, taking odd jobs to keep herself afloat. But that was then, and this is now, and Ava’s now is loud and hot and crowded, and she swears that if this playlist repeats for a fourth time or if someone so much as breathes within two feet of her or if God doesn’t grant her the power to make this drink miraculously better in the next sip, then she’s going to lose it.
She doom scrolls on her phone, aggressively thumbing the screen, convinced that if she swipes hard enough, she might just phase into it. Which—not surprisingly—is how she ends up tapping on an ad.
Ava very briefly gives up on life.
This is it. This is her last straw.
She locks her screen and shoves her phone back into her bra. She’s sure that she can find her way to their mansion for the week. The others are adults and perfectly capable of handling themselves. She doesn’t need to be here. She doesn’t even have to finish her drink. She leaves a tip as she stands because the bartender looks like he’s going to chug a whole bottle of vodka after his shift, and she can deeply sympathize with that. She gets up, takes a deep breath, and plots her way around sticky, sweaty, smelly bodies.
“Ava!”
She can’t hear shit.
She starts moving toward where she thinks the exit should be.
“Ava!”
Nuh-uh.
She can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel (the yellow and red neon Exit sign) when a hand wraps around her elbow and tugs her to a stop. Chanel’s face greets her, and Ava thinks it’s really unfair that she can look that good in mustard-yellow bell-bottoms paired with the frilliest top Ava has ever seen. How is she even walking in those heels? Ava shakes her head in awe, which Chanel takes as an answer to whatever question she’d asked with vague hand gestures and a tilt of her head. She tugs on Ava’s elbow, and Ava supposes that she can be glad about the fact that they’re at least heading straight for the exit.
The club spits them out into the hot, humid night air of Bangkok, and Ava gulps a breath in as Chanel moves them to the side of the building, far away from the crowd in front of the entrance. Ava slumps against the wall as soon as Chanel lets her go, stuffing the tip of her index fingers into her ringing ears and trying to get her bearings.
“Here,” Chanel says, passing her a lit cigarette.
Ava takes it. “Thanks,” she manages, wincing at the way her voice sounds muffled to her own ears.
“You looked like you were about to lose it.”
“I was,” Ava admits, taking a long drag. “I didn’t want to be in there anymore.”
Chanel raises a perfect eyebrow, a small smile playing on the corner of her lips. “Was it the drinks or the music?”
Ava huffs a laugh. “I think just the whole thing in general actually. Shouldn’t you be with the others?”
Chanel rolls her eyes. “JC’s busy with a girl he’s been bothering all night, Zori’s found a group to get high with, and Randall’s… I don’t even know where he is. They’re fine.”
“No one for you?”
“Oh, honey, I could be in the midst of a devil’s three-way right now if I wanted to be,” Chanel says, waving her hand dismissively. “But right now, I want your company.”
Ava tips her chin up jokingly, allowing herself to relax. “Well, fuck, who am I to say no to you?”
“Stop flirting and start talking.”
Ava snorts. She takes another drag from her stick, feeling the smoke scratch its way down her throat and settle heavily in her lungs. She’s never been much of a smoker, but there’s a thrill to it that never gets old. It’s all about the choice, she thinks, the way she can choose to light a cigarette, hold it to her lips, and have no one stop her. It’s freeing in a way. She exhales and wonders when freedom started leaving a dry, bitter aftertaste in her mouth.
“I’m just tired,” she says, or whispers, half hoping it gets lost in the thumping bass and errant barks of drunken laughter.
There’s too much of the truth in it, and they’re not the kind of friends you spill your deepest, darkest, saddest secrets to. Not that Ava would know what it feels like to have that kind of friend. Not that she had ever let herself have that kind of friend. Well, technically, she has one, but he’s thousands of miles away and living a life Ava hadn’t wanted to be a part of.
Chanel doesn’t say anything, and Ava’s starting to wonder if she’d really scraped something honest out of herself for nothing when Chanel drags the end of her cigarette against the wall and tosses what’s left of it into the pile of garbage a few feet behind them.
“What do you want, Ava?” She asks, apropos of nothing.
It startles a thought out; I want you to tell me that smoking’s bad for me.
Ava scoffs. Aches in her chest too, but that could just be because Chanel only smokes heavy reds. “I want to get out of this dress for starters. I’m not in the mood for any kind of unwrapping tonight. Beyond that, I have no fucking idea.”
Chanel nods. “Please, you know you look good in that dress. And I did not spend all that effort on your face just for you to end tonight scowling. So we’ll go with what I want. Come back inside and dance with me.”
Ava sighs, kills her cigarette the way Chanel did, and contemplates it purely because she’s not sure that being alone in a mansion surrounded by nothing she can call hers is going to salvage her night.
“I do look hot in this dress.”
“If you’re not going to let anyone take it off you, then the least you can do is show it off.”
“Only if you don’t ditch me for a threesome.”
Chanel waves a dismissive hand. “I told you. I want your company.” She winks. “And who are you to say no to me?”
Something in Ava cracks a tad open and spills into a smile that feels too fragile, too telling, too grateful on her lips. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Chanel waits until they can hear the fourth repeat of Zedd and Foxes’ Clarity to tug her back by the elbow, stalling them a couple feet away from the line of hopefuls waiting by the entrance.
“You won’t find it here,” she says, serious but kind.
“What?” Ava asks, confused.
“You always seemed to me like you’ve been looking for something in every place we’ve been to. I don’t know anything substantial about you—and I don’t need to—but whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.” Then, she smiles the way she so rarely does, soft and understanding. “For what it’s worth though, I hope you find it.”
Ava doesn’t even know what she’s looking for when she already has everything she thought she wanted. Even so, she appreciates the sentiment. She slips her elbow out of Chanel’s hold and takes her hand instead, lacing their fingers together, hoping it says all the things she doesn’t think she can say without ruining her makeup.
“Come on, hot stuff. Let’s go make someone wonder if they want to be us or be with us.”
“It’ll be the whole club and they’ll want to be both if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning starts with an incessant buzzing. Ava groans, wriggles a hand out from underneath expensive covers, and roots around for her phone, grasping blindly at silk sheets whilst attempting to pry her eyelids open just enough to see the green button. It’s mildly surprising that her phone still has battery enough to vibrate, but on second thought, maybe not. She’s got no one to have late-night and/or drunken conversations with and there’s really only one person who’d bother to call her. And wow, that’s an astoundingly depressing thought to have first thing in the morning. She shoves it aside and answers the call.
“D.”
“Were you still sleeping? What time did you get home last night?”
Ava hides a smile into her pillow. “When did you become such a dad?”
“So you don’t know,” he drawls, his 21-year-old voice making it sound more damning than he probably intended it to be.
Ava rolls onto her back, inhaling sharply at the movement and wondering when Diego grew up and got the disappointed-but-mildly-amused dad voice. She could have sworn he was still that 14-year-old kid just yesterday, the one who had cried into her shirt by Arq-Tech, sniffling and messy and unwilling to let go, clinging to her until Ava promised to come back and get him the moment Jillian and Michael Salvius proved to be anything like the nuns at St. Michael’s Orphanage.
“Excuse you, I do know,” Ava defends herself as she drags herself out of bed, pinning the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she fills a glass of water, hating the taste of shit drinks and cancer sticks in her mouth. She downs it before continuing, “Four. So, like, five hours ago. I didn’t drink much last night. I did rock the dance floor though. And before you nag me, yes, I’m about to stretch. I’m gonna put you on speaker now and then you’re gonna tell me about how your date with Amy went.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
Ava sets her phone down on the bed and starts her routine, rolling her neck then shrugging her shoulders to wake herself up. She gets down on her knees and hands as Diego enthusiastically launches into his story about the girl he’s been trying to ask out on a date for months. She smiles to herself as Diego gushes and speaks rapidly, his voice faltering here and there like he’s breathless or moving about.
“She’s just…” Diego’s voice drops into something soft after recounting their study session at a café near his university. “Why can’t I ask her out, Ava?”
Ava huffs a gentle laugh as she arches and bends her spine. “You tell me. You’ve had girlfriends before. What makes Amy so different?”
Diego pauses, and Ava lets him think as she moves on to child’s pose. She sits on her heels, stretches her arms out before her, and presses her forehead to the ground. She groans quietly, reveling in the instant relief and breathing deeply. She doesn’t regret the dancing from last night, but she could do without the consequences of doing it in heels and going at it with reckless abandon.
“Do you think she’d want to go on a date with me?” Diego asks.
“Why wouldn’t she? You’re the best man I know.”
“I’m the only man you know.”
“Hey!” Ava says indignantly, more to the floor than Diego. “I have met many men in my life.”
“J.C. the fling doesn’t count, you couldn’t care less about Randall even if you found him bleeding in a ditch—”
“—I’m not heartless—”
“—and any other man you name, you’ll have known for literally a night. Who else?”
This time, Ava sits up, thinking. “There’s Michael.”
Diego pauses. Then, he laughs. “I forgot.”
“How do you forget your own brother?”
“He’s Michael. I don’t think of him as… a man.”
Ava snorts. “Well, he counts so. Take the compliment. Also, I think you’re scared.” She sighs and leans her back against the bed. “Listen, I know it’s been years since St. Michael’s, but I won’t judge you if this is about that. You don’t just forget huge chunks of your life when someone kept telling you that no one would ever want you. But they were wrong, D. We both know that. Hell, we’ve had therapy to process it—bless Jillian, seriously.”
Diego hums. “She’s been asking when you’ll visit.”
“Deflection. That doesn’t work.”
“You would know.”
“Fair,” Ava says and smiles when Diego chuckles. “But seriously, you’ve been wanted before. I’d have nosed my way out of bed and bitten someone if they had tried to take you away from me. Jillian and Michael adopted you. And pretty, amazing, smart, kind Amy sat with you in a café while you rambled about your theories on alien life. I love you dude, but not everyone will sit with you for four whole hours listening to that.”
“You did.”
“Not by choice. I was paralyzed. How the fuck was I going to run away from you?”
She’s joking, of course. She would sit with him for hours and hours on end, debating about what would alien currency look like if they’d also somehow fucked themselves over by inventing their own version of capitalism. It’s always been her and Diego. Even now, to her, it’s just her and Diego. No one else comes close. Except maybe Grandpop Oliver, the handyman who offered his Maine house up for couch surfers like her and very nearly charmed her into staying forever. To be fair, the man lives alone and is nearing his 80s, and Ava had—against her better judgment and years of allegedly processed trauma—gotten attached enough to worry about his joints. Not that he needed her to worry about him considering he once lifted a whole sack of potatoes like it weighed nothing.
Diego laughs. “Fine, I get your point. I’ll ask her out.”
“Do it today so that you don’t get a chance to overthink it. Actually, why are you still talking to me when you could be asking her out right now?”
“Trying to stop you from talking to yourself because that’s just sad,” Diego shoots back. “Seriously though, Mom’s been asking when you’re coming to visit. We miss you.”
Ava hums. “Soon.”
“You said that last time,” Diego says gently. “Are you… You’re not ready to stop yet, huh?”
Ava closes her eyes. “Not yet.” She chews her bottom lip. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No, Ava,” Diego answers immediately. “If I were you, I’d probably be doing the same. I just… I worry about you. I love you, you know?”
“I love you too, D,” she says, tasting the sentence like it’s a delicacy she can only have on special occasions and rare exceptions.
“Go everywhere. Do everything. And when you’re ready, you can come visit and we’ll outdrink Michael, yeah?”
Ava smiles. Diego loves her like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world. “You’ll introduce me to your girlfriend too?”
“Of course. And I’m not getting married without you, don’t worry.”
“Love that you’re thinking about marriage already when you can barely ask her out.”
“Law of attraction or something. I’m manifesting it.”
“Just so you know, I’m totally telling everyone about this in my best woman speech.”
“I expect nothing less,” Diego chuckles. “I’m gonna ask her out before your pep talk runs out of power. Call me when you go somewhere new?”
“Always. Let me know how it goes with Amy. And tell Jillian and Michael I said hi.”
“Will do. Love you, Aves.”
“Love you, too, D.”
Ava gives herself a couple minutes after the call. She won’t lie to herself; a part of her wants to go back and see everything that she’d missed in the years she had spent traveling all over the world. She wants to see exactly how much Diego has grown, how Jillian has managed to make aging look like she got hit by a second wind, how Michael has been managing Arq-Tech, his mother’s company.
She sighs. She can hear J.C. and Randall arguing downstairs, catching enough snippets of their conversation to glean that they’re trying to figure out how to get into an exclusive party for tonight. She grimaces, and the part of her that wants to stop grows a little more. J.C. and his friends have been good to her, but she’d known early on that they’re not the invite-to-your-wedding kind of people, which had made it easy for Ava to say yes when J.C. asked her to come with them.
She picks up her phone and unlocks it, intending to look at a world map and see where she can go next before she ends up at another party. It opens with an ad she vaguely remembers accidentally tapping the night before.
The photo underneath the headline catches her attention before she can figure out what she’s looking at. It’s a landscape shot of a lighthouse sitting atop a cliff and silhouetted against a bold sunset, its beacon lit. Ava pauses her attempts to find the close button that won’t lead her to another ad and stares at the photo. It looks like it’s at the end of the world, surrounded by rocks and the sea.
Ava frowns. The ad is for a relief lighthouse keeper. She hadn’t even known that there were still staffed lighthouses. She tentatively scrolls down to look at the duties then the requirements, fully expecting to find that she’s unsuited for the job. Except she’s kind of… perfect for it?
First aid training? Jillian had paid for her course under the guise of preparing her for the life of adventure Ava fought to have but she’d suspected that it was more because it had been a way for the Salvius family to keep her with them for as long as possible.
Maritime restricted radio operator certificate? Ava had stayed with a former marine with an elaborate radio system in her house and refused to let Ava touch any of it no matter how much she puppy-dog eyed and attempted to charm her way into it—you’re not licensed, kid, which had been why Ava went ahead and got certified in two days just because a) she loves learning new things, b) she can be pretty fucking petty when she wants to be, and c) the thing had so many buttons that for a moment there, her only aspiration in life had been to press all of them.
Building maintenance, cleaning, and repairs? Easy. Grandpop Oliver had made sure that she can tell the difference between a nail and a screw before working her to the bone for her right to flop gracelessly on his couch.
Ava blinks at the red, obnoxious, and slightly desperate-looking Apply Now!
Unmoored, a little lost, and always impulsive, she thinks fuck it, and spends the next three hours fixing her resumé, digging for her certification details, and writing an overly enthusiastic cover letter.
A month, two interviews in between hopping all over Asia, and a mind-bogglingly expensive flight back to Spain later, she gets the job.
Ava stares at the email and wonders if she had been careless enough with her red solo cup for someone to take the opportunity to slip a psychedelic into her drink. She locks her screen, places her drink down on a random log, and walks away from the beach campfire-turned-rave she’d been pretending to enjoy all afternoon. She weaves her way around people, hopping on one leg then the other to slip her shoes off before digging her toes into the sand.
She walks until the thumping bass and screeching laughter fade into the background, the world’s volume turning all the way down until there’s nothing but the ocean in front of her, the whistling wind in her ears, the waves lapping at her toes.
Just hours ago, she’d been seriously contemplating going back to Madrid, especially when Diego found out that she’s in Ibiza and that she has very nearly wiped out what’s left of her savings. She’d begun plotting her way back, looking up ferry and train schedules, and wondering how she's going to swallow her pride and ask Jillian if she could stay with them until she figures out how to answer the daunting question of what comes next.
Then… this.
Ava would call it an opportunity to experience something new, but if she’s being honest with herself, it’s a final desperate attempt to figure out what she’s missing, the thing Chanel thinks she’s looking for, the same one that Diego thinks she’s chasing. So, now, she has two options. On one hand, she could go back and be with Diego and his family. On the other hand, she could see where this new thing will take her.
She inhales until she thinks her lungs might burst.
There have been a handful of moments when she’d thought that life is an enormous thing, overwhelming and intimidating in its choices and doors and paths, terrifying in the way it only ever moves forward and never back. The first time had been at St. Michael’s, a day after she turned 18, Jillian by her bedside, saying things like “experimental treatment” and “no guarantees” and “but you could one day”, offering something so impossible that Ava had to ask for a night to think about it, to confront what it means to have nothing to lose and everything to gain, to grapple with the hope of it all. Then, there was the time at the Salvius’ home—Ava’s putting it lightly, that fucking building is a whole ass villa—and she’d been sitting—sitting—at the dinner table, surrounded by people she could have called family, people who had already offered to take her in if she wished it so, people she had ultimately said no to, every inch of her aware that yes and no could shape two different tomorrows and it had been a choice of one or the other. And then, the moment before she bought her first plane ticket with what she’d saved from bartending part-time and being Jillian’s assistant at Arq-Tech full-time, the closest she’d ever been to freedom, so close that she’d been a click of an ancient trackball mouse away, so close that she’d hesitated because this isn’t real, there’s no fucking way and a part of her had been convinced that she’ll wake up to the dull white ceiling of her room at St. Michael’s, irrevocably devastated and horribly alone, just as she had always been.
Ava unlocks her phone.
Congratulations!
She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Savors.
The details—how she’s going to tell her travel buddies that she’s leaving them, how she’s going to ship her ass to a random coast in Norway, how she’s going to have to let Diego down—can wait. For now, there’s the uncertainty in her furrowed brow, tense and cautious, asking all the questions she wishes someone would ask her: Are you sure? Will you be okay? Are you really doing this? There’s the anticipation in her insides, all twisted guts and sweaty palms, the same feeling she gets seconds before she dives off a cliff. Then, there’s the joy, light and bubbling in her throat until it bursts out of her in a hoarse laugh, the thing that’s always there when she thinks about the what, the when, the who, the why, and the how, when she thinks about how none of it matters, not right now, not when it’s so fucking beautiful that she can.
She can say yes or no, can choose to stay or go, can confront a chance in all its seductive glory, can leap at something new, can change what tomorrow will look like, can feel the ocean at her feet, can jump off a cliff, can move, can live, can, can, can.
Later, she’ll worry about the details and answer the questions and figure out everything else.
For now, she savors her life in all its petrifying, impossible, cosmic beauty, once again utterly wonderstruck that she gets to have it at all.
The details, Ava finds out later, matter a hell of a lot when you have barely more than 500 euros left in your bank account, a start date in 48 hours, a ferry, train, plane, and bus ticket to buy, travel buddies to say goodbye to, a pseudo-brother to update, and belongings to pack.
She’s not above admitting that she had whimpered and died a little bit inside when she checked out the tickets. She knows that Jillian would offer help if she asked for it, but Ava has spent years trying to avoid that, had even been a phone sex operator at one point—good times, if she ignores the one or two or three times someone had asked her to role-play being their mother, which… is when she had decided that she’s better at tending a bar than she is at trying not to laugh when someone calls her mommy—that she would rather save that as a last resort in case her remaining 100 euros slips through her fingers before her first paycheck as a lighthouse keeper.
Packing had involved plucking her toothbrush from a gold-lined cup that probably costs more than all the tickets combined. She had considered stealing it and pawning it off for extra money, but as it turned out, you don’t spend 11 years of your life in an orphanage run by nuns and not develop some sort of a moral compass. So, she had shoved her toothbrush into the pocket of her backpack, annoyed about obscenely rich people and grateful that she has a weird habit of neglecting to unpack her stuff and keeping it ready to go at all times.
Telling everyone who needs to know had been relatively painless. Diego was disappointed but genuinely excited for her. J.C., Zori, and Randall couldn’t care less even if they tried. Ava tries not to take it against them, but she’d at least thought that J.C. would try to convince her to stay considering they’ve exchanged bodily fluids. She cringes at the image, which earns her a mildly concerned look from Chanel, who had decided to forego whichever rave J.C. and the others are at just to see her off.
Chanel fixes her collar and tugs lightly at the half tuck before stepping back to give her a once-over, eyes dragging from Ava’s plain white button-up, down to her jeans, then to her travel-weary shoes. She predictably grimaces at Ava’s feet, probably judging the frayed laces and scuffed soles and the hint of dried mud and sand caught in the netting that Ava couldn’t get out no matter how hard she tried.
“You look like my shoes offend you.”
“I wouldn’t touch it with a fingernail,” Chanel admits. “Maybe replace them?”
Ava smiles as she toes the floor. “Nah, sentimental value.”
Chanel shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She looks around the room, putting her hands on her hips. “Are you all packed?”
Ava moves around her to get to the bed, dropping on one knee to tug the backpack out from underneath, yanking when the front pocket catches on the bedframe before hauling it onto one shoulder. She turns around and shows it to Chanel.
“Yep,” she says, laughing when Chanel frowns deeply at the black backpack, studded with pins she’d collected here and there.
“Let me guess. Sentimental value?”
Ava slips her other arm through the strap. “I know it looks like it’s about to fall apart—”
“—An understatement. It looks like you’ve sewn that strap back on far too many times.”
“But my brother saved up his allowance to buy me this before I left. I’m not gonna give up on it until it gives up on me first.”
Chanel shakes her head and chuckles. “Two years traveling with you, and I’m only now learning that you have a brother.”
Ava looks away, moving to grab her phone and wallet from the vanity table. “We’re not related,” she offers, or mumbles really. It’s been a while since she’d given away pieces of herself.
“You don’t have to be related to call someone your family.”
Ava smiles to herself as she turns to check herself out in the mirror, feeling bashful for the first time since Chanel first offered to help her dress.
Chanel lays her hands on Ava’s shoulders, thumbs resting on the wonky red stitches on the backpack, looking at her through the mirror. “This may be a little too late, but we could be friends, Ava.”
Ava sucks her top lip between her teeth, blinking faster. “I—” She swallows. “I’d like that. I’ll text you when I get there?”
Chanel nods. “Do.” Then, she laughs. “You’re horrible at this.”
Ava scoffs but doesn’t quite manage to stop a grin from forming. “Sorry, I have attachment issues.”
Chanel raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a story.”
Ava studies her. Chanel had been the one to teach her how to dress, how to make the most out of every part of her body, how to walk with slutty heels and make it look like she was born with stilettos strapped to her feet. She’d been the one to teach her how to know what she wants and how to get it, how to wear confidence like she’d never been ashamed a day in her life, how to love herself a little more. If Ava was looking for a sister, she’d pick Chanel without a shadow of a doubt.
She turns around and takes Chanel’s hands. “I’ll tell you about it someday. It involves a car crash, an orphanage, and Satan’s nuns,” Ava tests because she owes it to herself to try.
Chanel’s smile softens, almost fond. “I can’t imagine you anywhere near a nun but consider me intrigued. I’ll tell you about fashion school, the dream, and that one time I stepped on an ex-boyfriend’s balls.”
“Oh?” Ava drawls, trying not to seem too eager. “I kinda wanna hear everything now.”
Chanel squeezes her hands. “You have a ferry to catch.”
For the first time since she got the job, Ava thinks about staying.
Chanel shakes her head like she can tell. “You have to go. This isn’t your endgame, Ava.”
“Is it yours?”
Chanel scoffs. “Definitely not.”
“Another story?”
A hum. “I’ll tell you about it too.” Chanel pulls her into a hug. Whispers into her ear, “Take care, and be safe.”
Ava allows herself to hold her closer a little too late. “I will. You, too. I’ll miss you.”
Chanel huffs a laugh. “Of course you will.”
Alone again, Ava muses as the ferry takes her away from the life she had for the last two years. A long time ago, she would have been terrified. Now though, she’s gotten good at being alone – a little too good, according to Diego. That was by design. It had been one of the reasons why she had decided to see the world on her own. She had wanted to prove to herself that alone is something she can be. After the accident, after being paralyzed from the neck down, after being in the hands of nuns who knew nothing about kindness and devotion, Ava had decided that she was done.
Done begging someone else for what she wants, done being treated like a burden for everything she couldn’t do, done being afraid of getting left behind. It took years and a lot of mistakes, seedy situations and one too many nightmares, hours spent crying on a stranger’s couch and days spent thinking that Sister Frances was right about her when she said that she will never be able to do anything on her own, but eventually, alone became something she didn’t have to be afraid of. She simply is.
So, she can do this. This is easier than trying to take care of herself when she’s sick and simpler than trying to figure out how to make sure she doesn’t go broke and stranded in a foreign country. She’ll hop off the ferry as soon as they get to Valencia, take a train to Madrid, then get on a plane to Norway. She’ll meet the contact person that her last interviewer—Suzanne, if she remembers correctly—assigned to her and trust them to get her to the lighthouse to meet her partner for the next three months. From there, it’ll only be a matter of adjusting and adapting, both of which she excels at.
Yes, she’s sure. Yes, she’ll be okay. Yes, she’s really doing this.
The ferry plows on. She clasps her fingers together. She holds her own hands.
(She ignores the ache in her chest, the one that feels hollow, the one she can no longer blame on Chanel’s Marlboro Reds.)
Ava steps off the bus, shivering as soon as she’s welcomed with a cold breeze, instantly feeling out of place when she accidentally catches the eye of a passing resident who shakes his head at her. It’s rude, but also kind of fair considering she forgot to check the weather, which means she’s wearing a thin button-up in a town that demands sweaters and heated blankets and hot chocolate. The late-afternoon sky’s at least clear, so Ava hurriedly steps out of the shade and into a patch of spring sunlight, sighing in relief when it warms her nape. A low chuckle interrupts her basking.
Ava startles slightly and finds a woman leaning against a red truck parked next to the bus stop, keys dangling from her finger, one hand shoved into the pocket of her patinaed leather jacket, obviously well-worn and deeply loved. She gives Ava a critical once-over, and Ava blinks at the sense of déjà vu that nearly bowls her over.
“You’re Ava Silva?”
Ava smiles tentatively. “Depends. Who’s asking?”
The woman smirks, and Ava wonders if she practices that look in front of a mirror because there’s no way she can just do that and make it look so cool.
“Shotgun Mary. Suzanne should have mentioned me.”
Ava blinks. There’s no way. What kind of parents—
“Is Shotgun your first name or…?”
“It’s a nickname. Just call me Mary,” she says, straightening and stepping closer to Ava. “You got any other clothes?”
Ava snorts, warm familiarity replacing caution because Mary reminds her of Chanel. “You know, you’re not the first person who’s asked me that. I’m guessing I need to go shopping?”
Mary nods. “If you don’t wanna freeze your ass off, then yeah.”
Ava shrugs. “Okay, cool. Anything to keep my ass.”
Mary raises an eyebrow at her. “That’s your priority?”
“It’s a nice ass,” Ava defends. “It’s one of my best assets.”
Mary shakes her head. “Tell me that pun was unintentional, and I just might leave my heater on full blast.”
“Okay. It was unintentional,” Ava lies through her mildly chattering teeth.
Mary studies her, face caught somewhere between bewilderment and amusement. It’s not the first time Ava’s had that reaction—sometimes, it’s exactly how she feels about herself—but she hopes she’s been delightful enough to earn warmth.
“I like you,” Mary decides with a nod. “Beatrice isn’t gonna know what to do with you.”
Ava’s not sure who Beatrice is, but she’s starting to shiver now so she’ll have to save her questions for later. “Great. Love that, seriously. Heater. Please?”
Mary snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Come on, baby girl.”
Ava loves small towns. Of all the places she’s been to, the cities she’s wandered, the beaches she’s roamed, nothing is ever quite like a small town in the middle of nowhere. She loves that there seems to be a blueprint that every small town follows; there’s the bar everyone goes to, the repair shop that fixes everything from broken radiators to wonky tables, the salon where all the moms and aunts and grandmas converge to discuss matters of great day-to-day importance. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone from diaper to old age, a pocket of space that somehow exists outside the rest of the world, distant from skyscrapers and city noise.
This one’s no different.
Mary marches into a clothing store like she owns to place, and Ava almost asks if she is the owner until she bellows, “Cam?”
“Yeah?” A bubbly voice answers from somewhere in the back.
“Got a customer for you.”
“One sec!”
Ava looks around and spots a couple of sweaters she can’t wait to wiggle her way into. She’s pretty sure she can afford a few days’ worth of clothes and maybe some fleece socks. She has a hoodie in her bag that Chanel forbade her from wearing over the button-up, but it’ll definitely do for laundry day. She also has jeans and sweatpants, so really, she just needs like two or three sweaters to rotate.
She gravitates toward one, running her fingers over the navy-blue threads and nearly sighing at the texture. “Holy shit, was this made from clouds?”
A woman steps beside her, chuckling. Camila, Ava assumes and smiles instantly at her curly hair, warm eyes, and bright grin.
“Alpaca,” she says, nodding at the sweater that caught Ava’s attention. “And no animals were harmed in the making of this sweater.”
“I trust you. Did you knit this?”
Camila nods. “I did. It was supposed to be for a friend, but I got the size wrong.”
“Too bad for your friend, but lucky for me,” Ava says before extending a hand. “Sorry, hi, I have no manners. I’m Ava.”
“Ava as in Beatrice’s partner?” Camila asks, taking her hand and giving it a shake. “Also, hi, I’m Camila. Are you a hugger?”
Ava grins. “I don’t know who Beatrice is, but yes, I’m definitely a hugger.”
Camila immediately throws an arm over her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. Ava feels the smile on her lips stretch to her ears. Mary moves toward them.
“You just met.”
Ava shrugs. “I don’t turn down free hugs.”
“Do you want hugs too, Mary?” Camila says teasingly. “Ava’s very warm.”
Mary wrinkles her nose. “Surprising, considering she looks like she’s about to get hypothermia.”
“I’m right here,” Ava reminds them both as she pulls the hanger out of the sweater. “Anyway, who’s Beatrice?”
“She’s your partner at the lighthouse,” Mary explains. “She usually does everything on her own up there if Suzanne isn’t gone too long. Not this time though.”
Camila lets Ava go before grabbing another one—a white cardigan with little rainbows on it—and shows it to her. Ava nods immediately because that’s just adorable.
“Suzanne’s the usual keeper?” Ava asks.
Mary nods. “Yeah. It’s the first time she’s leaving the lighthouse to Beatrice for longer than a week, and as anal as Beatrice is, no one can take on all the duties for three whole months.”
“Which is where you come in,” Camila adds. “You look good in that sweater, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Ava grins, burying her nose into the soft collar. “This isn’t gonna cost me an arm and a leg, right?”
“Maybe just a pinky,” Camila winks, and yeah, Ava definitely likes her too.
Ava ends up getting the navy-blue sweater, the rainbow cardigan, and a cream pullover. It nearly eviscerates what’s left of her savings, but Camila waves her attempts to return the pullover back on the rack, assuring her that she can just come back and clear up her tab when she gets her first paycheck.
“Do you want them in a bag?” Camila asks as she folds the items.
“Nope. They can fit in here,” Ava answers, hauling her trusty backpack onto the counter.
Mary tilts her head at her. “Do you always travel light?”
Ava nods. “Yeah, easier that way when you’re a mostly solo backpacker. Well, that and this is actually everything I own. I leave some stuff with my brother, but I usually just borrow clothes or buy some and then resell them before I move to a new place. I travel… a lot.”
For a second, Ava’s fingers freeze around the zipper, the tail-end of her sentence sounding a tad confused even to her own ears, not entirely sure why she’d offered up that information so easily but ultimately deciding not to question it. She chalks it up to the small-town charm.
“Where’s home then?” Mary asks.
Ava carefully places the cardigan and pullover into the backpack, humming. “You know,” she murmurs as she pulls the sweater over her head, smiling at Mary the moment she manages to tug it back on. “I have no idea.”
Mary shakes her head at her. “Sounds like something to talk about over drinks. You’re really fucking weird, kid.”
Ava laughs. “Thanks.”
“Are you stopping by your bar?” Camila asks before handing Ava her receipt with a note for how much Ava still owes her.
“No time. We’re gonna be late, and you know how Beatrice feels about that.”
“You own a bar?” Ava asks.
Mary nods. “Yeah, a few blocks away from here.”
Of course it is. Ava can’t help but chuckle.
“What’s funny?” Mary asks.
Ava throws her hands up in surrender. “Nothing. It’s just… bar owner definitely sounds like something you’d be. Shotgun Mary. Shoot your shot, literally.”
Mary huffs a grudging laugh while Camila outright snorts.
Ava beams and remembers why small towns are dangerous. It has something to do with the people in it, the way they can make Ava want to stay long enough to get to know them, the way they can lure her in with their warmth and welcome, the way they seem like they have stories to tell, stories Ava would want to hear. She tugs the sleeves of Camila’s handmade sweater down to her palms and tries not to wonder what it would take to earn a belly laugh from Mary as she follows her back into the truck.
The drive up to the lighthouse is bone-rattling at best and life-flashing at worst. Mary maneuvers the truck like it’s got wings and jets and propellers, cruising along winding roads and going way too fast for comfort. Ava spends the entire ride clutching at her seatbelt and praying to everything even remotely holy—yes, even Cate Blanchett, that woman is fucking divine—and hoping that she won’t get into another crash because once was already way too many. She distracts herself by running her mouth, which is how she learns that the town has a resident hellspawn named Lilith (little on the nose; also, Ava’s pretty sure Mary’s fond of her), that Lilith is sweet, adorable, perfect Camila’s girlfriend (Ava makes the mistake of saying that this Lilith can’t be too bad if Camila loves her, which earns her the pitying look of someone who definitely knows better), and that Beatrice loves a good pun (automatically a plus for Ava).
In the end, Ava survives the two-hour ride, dropping out of the car with shaky knees and a warbly thanks. Mary snorts at her, telling her to remind Beatrice that they’ll come to visit at some point to make sure that no one’s at risk for a murder charge (not at all comforting, but okay) before driving off with a loud rev of the engine, a wave out the window, and a wonderful spray of grainy dust and loose asphalt.
Ava turns to her home for the next three months, and it’s… bigger than she had expected it to be. The whole place is sitting on a cliffside, surrounded by grudging patches of grass and imposing rocks, a clear path of gravel connecting each building to another. The red and white lighthouse stands tall at the farthest end, its beacon already lit and signaling its messages to sailors and lost souls. Before that, there’s a two-story house, looking like an American dream, picture perfect from a distance, only lacking a white picket fence, dogs running around, and a grandmother on a rocking chair. Sheds and small cabins line the left and right of the house, and a part of Ava wants nothing more than to spend the next few hours opening each door and finding out what’s in them.
She turns her attention back on the lighthouse, breath catching in her chest because she’s here and she’s really doing this. A wild laugh slips out of her throat, her feet carrying her forward before her brain can catch up to her reality, stumbling and slipping slightly as she makes her way up, the smoothened soles of her shoes struggling to grip the ground beneath her feet.
“Hello.”
Ava screams a little, instinctively jumping away from the voice and clutching the straps of her backpack. She’d been so focused on the lighthouse that she hadn’t noticed the woman now standing on the front porch of the house, dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks, hair pulled up into a neat bun, an actual clipboard in one hand. She looks about as startled as Ava feels, and dear fucking God, thank you. She must be the token Hot Person™ of every small town, and if Ava’s about to spend the next three months with her, then she’s docking about a thousand points from the debt God has accrued over the course of her entire life.
Hot Person clears her throat. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Definitely British. That accent. Ava docks a few hundred more from God’s tab.
“I—no, that’s my bad, sorry. I was—I saw the lighthouse and didn’t notice you there. Not that you’re unnoticeable because that’s definitely not it—” Ava shuts up, takes a deep breath, and attempts to be normal about this whole thing a little too late. “Let me do that again? Hi, I’m Ava Silva, human trainwreck. Seems like you’re stuck with me if you’re the Beatrice I keep hearing about. Sorry about that.”
“A little too soon for apologies, don’t you think?” Beatrice says with a small quirk of her lips that’s almost a smile. “Yes, I’m Beatrice Young. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You sure about that?” Ava jokes.
Beatrice tilts her head, evidently confused. “Quite sure. That’s the name on my birth certificate at least.”
Ava laughs. “No, I mean—never mind.”
Beatrice frowns for a moment before composing herself into a polite countenance, clasping her hands in front of her. “Should we go inside? I imagine you’re tired from the travel, and we do have a few things to talk about.”
“Actually,” Ava tests, hands squeezing the straps of her backpack, feeling sheepish and maybe a little intimidated by Beatrice’s please-don’t-touch-me-with-a-ten-foot-pole energy. “I wanted to see the lighthouse first, if, um, if that’s okay?”
“Oh,” Beatrice breathes. She checks her watch. “We have a little time. Would you like some company?”
“That’d be great!” Ava grins, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet. “We can talk about some of the things on your list on the way.”
Beatrice nods. “Alright. Let me lock up then I’ll join you.”
Ava’s not entirely sure who’s about to drive two hours away from civilization to steal from a lighthouse keeper, but she’s not going to ask her that. She’ll probably get an answer along the lines of better safe than sorry and it’s always good to be prudent. Beatrice seems like the type. She’s got perfect posture and pressed pants, plus she seems like the kind of person who sets her watch 10 minutes in advance and considers arriving five minutes after an appointment to be an unforgivable crime. Ava’s not looking to make the whole three months hell for herself, so she waits as patiently as she can manage, glancing at the lighthouse and considering the sky above instead of asking Beatrice for answers to questions that might be common sense to her.
“Let’s go?” Beatrice asks as she steps beside her with a respectable four feet between them.
Ava nods eagerly as they begin trekking up the path. “The photo of the lighthouse was the first thing I saw on the ad for this job, and it’s been living in my mind rent-free ever since, so I might’ve sworn to myself that getting up there will be the first thing I’ll do when I get here. Kudos to the photographer, seriously.”
Beatrice gestures for her to turn right to the back of the house, where rows of solar panels frame either side of the path. “No need to explain. I understand. It was also the first place Suzanne showed me the first time she brought me here. I’m happy to show it to you, and I’ll be sure to let Camila know that you appreciated the photo.”
“Camila, as in sweaters and knitting Camila?”
Beatrice glances at her as they come up to the lighthouse. “You’ve met?”
“Yep,” Ava answers, tugging the front of her sweater. “She hooked me up with this. And oh, by the way, Mary wanted me to tell you that they’ll come up to visit sometime.”
Beatrice sighs almost inaudibly though she also smiles in the way people do when they’re helplessly fond of someone. So maybe she’s not too strict if she can deal with sharp, confident, reckless driver Mary. It relaxes Ava.
“Noted,” Beatrice says, stepping aside to let her through the door. “You can leave your bag here if you like. I don’t imagine you’d want to carry it through five floors.”
Ava nods and gingerly sets her bag on the dilapidated table by the door, mildly relieved that it doesn’t fall apart from the weight of her stuff. She looks up and finds nothing but the bright red steel steps leading up to the top, and she briefly considers leaving the sight for tomorrow given how many sets of stairs she’s going to have to climb to get to what she came here for. Except Beatrice breezes past her, confidently beginning to climb, and okay, Ava’s going to have to be respectful about this as she follows her because there’s no way they can both fit on each step and she’s really going to fall to her death if she focuses on Beatrice’s behind instead of her feet.
“There’s nothing in here other than the beacon?” Ava asks as they climb, both of her hands gripping the railings.
“That’s right,” Beatrice answers. “The windows are old and have been here for decades, so some of them don’t close properly. Suzanne had all the equipment removed a long time ago to prevent weather damage.”
Ava hums, nearly missing a step when she glances up to see said windows only to be reminded that she’s trying to be respectful. “I feel like I can do something about the windows. I’m good with my hands.”
Well, fuck.
“Do you have experience?” Beatrice asks but not unkindly and definitely not in the context Ava’s doing her damnedest not to think of.
“I do. I travel a lot, so I picked up a few things here and there.
“I see. It’ll be interesting to see how we’ll divide the tasks then.”
The conversation hits a lull as they climb higher. Ava’s a little out of breath, and she cringes at the way the sound bounces off the bare walls. She realizes that this job is going to be more physically demanding than she thought if every day requires going up and down these stairs alone.
“Are you alright?” Beatrice asks, voice steady because of course it would be.
“Yeah. Just… stairs. You know.”
Beatrice exhales what might be a laugh.
“Don’t judge!”
“I’m not,” Beatrice reassures her, a bald-faced lie, if the amusement Ava thinks she can hear is anything to go by. “We’re nearly there.”
“Are you the type to say we’re almost there when we’re nowhere near it?”
Beatrice chuckles. “I always mean what I say, Ava.”
Ava clutches at the railings for dear life. “Good to know.”
As it turns out, Beatrice is the trustworthy kind as they step onto the last landing a mere minute later. Ava gulps air in, which earns her a concerned look that she waves away half-heartedly, her attention immediately caught by the beacon sitting in the middle of the platform. They’re encased in a red lantern pane, the windows huge and clean. A grin splits her lips even as she tries to catch her breath. She looks at Beatrice, unable to hide her giddiness.
Beatrice returns the smile. “Come on, it’s better out there.”
Ava follows Beatrice as she leads them through a glass door and out onto the gallery.
“Oh, wow.”
Beyond them, the sea stretches out for miles and miles, huge boulders and stacks popping here and there, holding firm and steady against the push and pull of the waves. The sunset steals what little breath Ava had in her lungs as it makes a canvas out of the world she once yearned to see, splashing warm orange and bold red and gentle pink everywhere she looks in a final effort to make something out of its leaving before giving way to night. The sky is nothing short of a miracle, a once-in-a-lifetime snapshot of Norway’s spring dusk at nine in the evening. The wind is cold but gentle, calming almost, as if to say hello. Ava wraps her hands around the freezing guard rails, needing to hold onto something as she lets the world sweep her off her feet and remind her that it is much bigger and more beautiful and far better than anything she can imagine. She is small, and she is surrounded, and she is humbled. She takes a deep breath until it hurts, blinks tears away from her eyes, feels her resilient heart in her chest.
What a wonderful thing to be part of a world like this, she thinks.
Her cheeks ache from smiling when she finally turns to Beatrice, the stretch on her lips growing when she finds her already looking at her.
“It shore is bea-utiful.”
Beatrice blinks.
Then, she laughs, low and quiet.
“Was that a pun or a pick-up line?”
Grinning and feeling impulsive, Ava says, “For you? Let’s say both.”
Beatrice hums, apparently unaffected. “Smooth. I’d say that’s a keeper.”
Ava throws her head back and lets her joy out into the world, infinitely delighted and unexpectedly charmed and giddily wondering where she might find an eleven-foot pole.
“If this is going to be our thing, then we’re going to work out just fine,” she manages in between giggles.
Beatrice smiles, genuine and warm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
They decide to leave the impending discussion of tasks for the next morning. Or—to be more accurate—Beatrice decided because Ava had released a jaw-cracking yawn that she couldn’t stop, unintentionally cutting Beatrice off mid-sentence. Ava wasn’t trying to be rude, but in her defense, she’d been traveling the whole day and had contended with a wide range of human emotions. That, and listening to Beatrice talk about generators and fuel houses is weirdly soothing.
Beatrice had mercifully paused to consider whatever face Ava was wearing (she hopes it was as genuinely apologetic as she felt), frowned at her clipboard, then nodded to herself while Ava tried not to feel like she was standing in front of a judge, jury, and executioner. She’s pretty sure she didn’t hide her relief as well as she hoped she did when Beatrice relented and asked if she wants to leave the planning for tomorrow instead. Beatrice took it gracefully though, merely inviting her deeper into the house and leading her to where she’ll be staying.
The house is charming and cozy. From what little Ava can see through her protesting eyes, there’s a brick fireplace in the living room and a table for five in the dining area. The windows are clean if a tad weathered, draped with brown curtains to compliment the dark wainscoting that seems to bleed down to the vinyl tiles. The walls are covered in white paint, and Ava groggily takes note of the scuffs and the parts where it’s peeling so that she can ask if she can do something about it if they have paint somewhere in the compound. She half-listens to Beatrice as she explains where the bathroom is and only blinks herself more awake when they stop at a door.
“Suzanne prepared this guest room for you. There should be towels in the closet. Feel free to use them as well as anything in the bathroom you might need,” Beatrice explains before gesturing at another room further down the hall. “That’s where I’m staying. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to knock. We’ll meet in the kitchen tomorrow at four in the morning for the first weather report. Will you be okay with that?”
On any other day, Ava might question why anyone would wake up a full hour and a half before sunrise. Not today.
“Yep, no problem,” she says instead like she isn’t planning to have four alarms to wake her up with increasing urgency, from the stock tones in her phone to that one screamo song she listens to. “Thanks again.”
“You’re welcome,” Beatrice says gently. “Rest well.”
Ava smiles. “You, too.” She reaches over and squeezes Beatrice’s forearm, completely forgetting herself and snatching her hand back when Beatrice stiffens in surprise. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to…”
Beatrice waves the apology away but clasps her hands behind her back. “It’s alright. See you tomorrow, Ava.”
“I—okay. See you.”
Ava waits until Beatrice disappears into her own room before pressing her forehead against the door and groaning quietly. She’s a tactile person—a byproduct of being unable to feel anything from the neck down for more than half her life—but she thought she would at least remember to consider other people’s boundaries by now. Beatrice didn’t seem too bothered though, so Ava shakes her head, moves on, and enters her room.
It’s simple like the rest of the house; a twin bed in the middle of it, bedside tables on either side, a cabinet by the door, and a desk by the window on the opposite side. It’s by far one of the better accommodations she’s stayed at, excluding the mansions she’d trespassed in the last two years. Ava much prefers places like this, places that are lived in, places that have histories recorded in the marks on the floor and the walls and the aged furniture.
She drops her bag on the desk chair and unceremoniously tosses her whole being onto the bed. It accepts her weight with a squeak, and the covers seem to wrap around her form instantly. She sighs. Tension flows out of her in waves, every part of her yielding to the soft sheets caressing her skin, the smell of laundry detergent and fabric softener, the feeling of a day well spent.
The world is much quieter here. If she strains, she might hear Beatrice going about her night routine or nocturnal animals scurrying outside her bedroom window or the creaking of aged wood. She can hear her thoughts as they come to her in fleeting whispers, can feel her steady heartbeat against the hand squished between her chest and the bed. The air is fresh and clean, carrying a note of salt and moss. The comforter is soft, the house is warm. She breathes deeply and slowly. She’s warm and tired and happy with where she is now. She still needs to brush her teeth, take a shower, and change out of her clothes. She has to text Diego and Chanel and let them know that she made it. She needs to set four alarms for the early wake-up call.
She will. But… in a minute.