Page 8 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Hayes

I t takes a few days to tie up loose ends on base—prepping the team, making plans for my absence, pretending I’m not preoccupied with the girl who’d soon take up my passenger seat.

Josie’s texts didn’t help. Flirty. Playful. Too damned charming for her own good. But they did provide a brief distraction.

Between work and packing, the anticipation of seeing Ava again and the quiet dread that always follows calls from home, Josie’s ridiculous messages gave me something else to think about.

Something lighter and tangible. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I caught myself smiling at the screen.

On Monday, I checked the biggest item off Ava’s list, tracking down a vintage Volkswagen van for the trip.

That alone felt like a major mission. Apparently, VW campers from the 1970’s aren’t exactly scattered around like fast food chains.

But after days of digging, I finally found one within range to not cause more delays—tangerine, of all colors, retrofitted with a kitchenette and, unfortunately, a full-sized bed that takes up most of the back.

But I’m not going anywhere near that thing so long as Josie’s around. She can have it. I’ll sleep on the roof if necessary to maintain my distance.

Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, I load up my supplies and a few gifts for Ava and head out to meet the driver I hired to take me to the van. From there, I’ll visit with Ava and Mom in Charlottesville before picking up Josie in Richmond on Wednesday.

Josie Jones.

Sigh.

How did I let this happen?

◆◆◆

When I arrive at the Pediatric Cancer Center, I text Mom. We thought it would be fun to surprise Ava and agreed to keep my plan a secret.

I can't wait to see her reaction.

Twenty minutes later, the automatic doors open, and Mom emerges, pushing Ava out in a little wheelchair.

My heart caves in at the sight of them. Mom’s dark hair, pulled tight into a low, no-nonsense ponytail, has thinned.

And so has the rest of her. She isn’t taking care of herself because she’s stretched too thin.

I wish she’d let someone help, but I’m not the only stubborn member of this family.

Her light blue eyes, matching Ava’s, find mine and glisten instantly.

I swallow my concerns and force a grin as I make my way to them, my gaze dropping to Ava.

She looks smaller than I remember—swallowed by an oversized sweatshirt and pants despite the warm spring temperatures.

A knit beanie covers what used to be a wild mess of auburn hair.

No hair peeks out now. The bruise-like tone beneath her eyes accentuates just how pale her skin has become.

She’s leaning back, staring off into the trees beyond. Mom whispers something, and she sits up, finding me in the parking lot. Her face breaks, trembling between a smile and something I can’t read until tears streak down her cheeks.

Running up to her, I crouch to see her face. “Don’t cry.” My hands settle gently on her knees. “I made a promise, and I’m gonna keep it. I’m ready for our trip.”

Mom sniffs and pats at her wet cheeks.

“I’m so happy,” Ava chokes out, her voice barely a whisper among her own tears.

“You don’t sound like it,” I tease and attempt a distraction. “What do you think of my van?”

She peeks around me. “I love it. It’s like the Barbie van I have. Just a different color.”

“Really? Isn’t that an awesome coincidence?”

“Hush, you silly goose. I know Mom told you.”

“Guilty,” Mom says. “But I didn’t tell him everything. Only you can explain the rest. ”

“It needs explaining?” I narrow my eyes at her, earning me a raspy giggle. “Should I be scared?”

“You’re silly.”

Taking over wheelchair duty from Mom, she wraps an arm around my waist, and we head inside. For the first time in a long while, our troubles seem to pause long enough for us both to take a breath.

◆◆◆

“It’s time.” I tap the top of the small kitchen table in their temporary apartment and sit beside Ava. “Where’s this infamous list.”

Ava drags a crumpled notebook out of her pile of art supplies and opens it to a page covered in her loopy handwriting and drawings.

“These are the things I want you to do.”

She passes me the notebook, and I read the activities aloud.

“Swim under a waterfall. Go to a concert. Find a fossil. Ride a rollercoaster. Ride a horse. Make s’mores by a campfire. That’s very specific.” I stop and raise an eyebrow. “Gamble at a casino?”

“That’s for Momma.” She smothers a laugh behind her hand.

“Fine.” I continue down the list. “Sunset at the Grand Canyon. Hot air balloon ride. Dive into the ocean.”

This is more than a list. It’s a dream.

“Is that all? ”

Mom shoots me a look from the kitchen that says not to encourage her.

“I mean, are there any rules I need to be aware of?”

“Duh.”

“I should have known.” I drop my head to the table with a thump.

A laugh bursts out of her, floating freely, until she clutches her side and cringes. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry.” I rest a hand on her shoulder and wait for her pain to subside. “I’ll try not to be funny, but it’s hard to control sometimes.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Mom relaxes, a forced grin on her face as she gets back to the meal she’s preparing.

“Are there a lot of rules? Do I need to write them down?” I ask Ava.

“Only three, but maybe you should take notes. I don’t want you to forget. They’re important.”

She hands me a crayon, and I turn to a clean page in the notebook.

“Rule number one: You have to do each activity with someone.”

The blue crayon hovers over the page. “Why?”

“You’re always by yourself. I don’t like it.”

“There are plenty of people around where I live.”

“She wants you to make friends,” Mom adds gently.

“Would it make you feel better to know I’m not going on the trip alone? ”

Ava studies me, not buying it. She knows the only people I spend any significant time with are her and Mom, and thinks I avoid other people like they’re purple monsters with poisonous fangs.

Her big imagination gets dramatic at times, and it’s fun to get lost in her world . . . until it turns on me.

“Who is it?”

“Her name is Josie. She needed a ride to Las Vegas, and I’m taking her.”

“You’re taking a girl?”

“Yes.”

She blinks slowly. Something isn’t registering. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“No. She’s my friend’s sister. See? I’m not as hopeless as you thought. I have friends.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Ava.”

“Is she?”

I sigh. She completely glossed over the rest of the story. The part I'd rather talk about. “Almost as pretty as you.” That seems to satisfy her, and I quickly change the subject. “What else?”

“You have to send me a picture of you doing each activity.”

“Is that proof I followed directions?”

“Kinda. And I want to see . . . like I’m there.”

My throat tightens. “Of course. I’ll text them to Mom’s phone.”

“Rule number two: I want to see where you are. ”

“What do you mean?”

She asks Mom for help.

“She wants to track your progress with an app. I think there are a few out there where you can share your location with someone.”

“That sounds cool. Done. I’ll find one before I leave and set it up.”

“Rule number three: Collect a rock at every stop. We got you a jar.”

Mom sets it on the table—a clear plastic jar with a red lid, decorated with tiny drawings of everything we might see.

Lifting it, I examine every side. It’s downright adorable.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it. Do you want smooth rocks you can paint or any kind.”

She taps her chin as she considers. “Smooth. If you can.”

“Got it.” Her eyes sparkle with what I hope are happy tears, and I take her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you? We can do this trip together another time.”

She shakes her head fast. “I’m sure.”

“Okay. Maybe when I get back and you’ve kicked cancer’s butt, we can plan a new one. Scotland castles? Surfing in Australia? African safari? Whatever you want.”

Her arms stretch wide for me, and I carefully lift her into my lap.

“Thank you, Sprinkles. ”

I chuckle. That’s new. “Sprinkles?”

“Yeah. Cupcakes are better with sprinkles,” she murmurs, dropping her head to my shoulder. “And you make me feel better.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Honey is for bees,” she says, yawning. “Sprinkles and cupcakes. Together always.”

“Always.” Lost in my love for her, I kiss her hair. “I love you so much.”

◆◆◆

“Bye, Haysie!” Ava shouts from the front stoop as I head toward the van. We spent the morning doing whatever she wanted—board games, cartoons, coloring outside the lines because she thinks it’s more artistic that way—and now I somehow have to walk away. “Have fun with Josie!”

Knowing what she’s insinuating after the suspicious number of questions she asked, I don’t bother responding with more than a wave.

At the van, I go to say goodbye one last time, but Mom is already helping Ava’s overworked body back inside.

She wanted to walk with me instead of ride in her wheelchair—pride carrying her down the hallway and outside—but the short walk drained all her energy.

I want to run back and carry her the rest of the way, but swooping in would only defy the reason for the effort.

She’s being brave, and I need to let her.

But it’s so damn unfair.

By the time I shut the van door, the mounting pressure cracks open something inside me. I don't ease into it. I explode.

The heel of my hand hammers the steering wheel until the sharp pain in my palm cuts through the ache in my chest.

It doesn’t last.

I couldn’t stop the tears that break free even if I wanted to. They come fast, messy, raw. A strangled sound rips from my throat and echoes through the empty van.

I’m built for war, not this. Combat makes sense. There’s an enemy, a target, and orders to follow.

Watching my baby sister suffer and pretend to be strong? There’s no battle plan for that. No defense against it. I’m worse than helpless.

I’m useless.