Ava had spent hours in Papa’s truck, sometimes in the cracked vinyl passenger seat in the front, sometimes in the back with the lutes. She wasn’t supposed to ride in the bed of the truck. No seat belts and all that. But Papa said kids used to always ride in the backs of pickup trucks, so he let her, if the route was on country roads and not highways. Ava loved the freedom of riding in the open air, her hair whipping around and the warm sun bringing out the tingly scent of the linseed oil Papa buffed the lutes with.
Ava loved Papa’s dented-up old truck. She did. But Angela’s blue truck was SO CUTE. Ava felt disloyal for thinking such a thing, but there was no denying it. Equally undeniable? How cool it was that Angela, all delicate bangles and dangly earrings, drove a truck, period.
Ava wouldn’t mind driving such a truck one day.
Ava would adore driving such a truck one day.
And if Mama were here, and Angela were for sure just a friend of the family, Ava would gush over Angela’s truck and maybe ask if Angela would give her a ride in it.
But Mama wasn’t here. Neither was Aunt Elena, who, if she were present, could run interference and do all she could to remind Papa that he was already taken. Not just “taken.” He was married!
Instead, Angela was here, and she’d clearly taken care with her makeup and her outfit. She wore perfume that smelled like what Ava imagined the ocean smelled like, fresh and exhilarating. Ava wanted to hate it, but couldn’t.
And Aunt Vera! Aunt Vera was Mama’s older sister, and yet all evening long, Aunt Vera had treated Angela like a welcome guest. She seemed pleased that Papa was coming out of his long hibernation. If only Aunt Vera knew that Mama was back in Willow Hill! Rather than offering Angela more corn bread, maybe she’d throw a piece at her.
Well, no, Aunt Vera would never throw corn bread at anyone. But maybe she wouldn’t fawn over Angela, refilling her iced tea and making polite conversation.
Ava stabbed a spear of asparagus with the tines of her fork, accidentally scraping the china plate.
“Ow!” Darya cried, pressing her hands to her ears.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” said Ava. She tried to be mindful of the fork-on-plate thing. Everyone did, for Darya’s sake. “I’ll be more careful!”
“It’s okay,” Darya said, still wincing. “Just, it really does hurt. It’s like an ice pick in my head.”
Angela looked concerned and interested, both. “Do other sounds hurt your ears, too? Fingernails on a chalkboard, that sort of thing?”
“We don’t have chalkboards anymore,” Darya said. “We have Smart Boards. But yeah, pretty much any sound that’s high-pitched. Also, Jolly Rancher wrappers. When people unwrap Jolly Ranchers, I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Jolly Rancher wrappers?” Ava said. This was news to her. She felt weird knowing that she and Angela were both learning this for the first time. She felt . . . like a bad sister, somehow.
“And those dried wasabi peas,” Darya went on. “When people bring them for lunch, and they make that squeaky, crunchy sound?” She shuddered. “I have to get up and leave.”
“Maybe you have misophonia!” Angela exclaimed, sounding delighted.
“Misophonia?” Darya said.
“Do you hear sounds that other people don’t?”
“Sometimes I’ll hear a refrigerator humming when no one else can,” Darya said dubiously. “That sound doesn’t hurt, though.”
Angela nodded as if every word out of Darya’s mouth was a gem. “Highly sensitive people are more sensitive to the world around them,” she said. “Highly sensitive people are also likely to have vivid dreams and be quite artistic.”
“I guess my dreams are vivid,” Darya said. “I’m not artistic, though. My friend Tally? She’s artistic. She’s an amazing artist.”
Ava’s eyes flew to Darya. Darya’s cheeks reddened.
“Well, your father tells me you’re very creative,” Angela said. She smiled at Papa and touched his arm.
Ava shoved back her chair. “May I please be excused?” she asked. She didn’t wait for a response, just picked up her plate and utensils and headed out of the dining room and into the kitchen. “Thanks for the—” She broke off. Thanks for the delicious dinner, that’s what the girls usually said to Aunt Vera.
“Thanks for dinner,” Ava said. She was being petty, and she was ashamed of herself. After all, it wasn’t as if Angela had claimed the word “delicious” for her sole usage. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to. “It was really good.”
As Ava rinsed her dishes, she heard a soft knock on the back door. Ava slid her plate into the dishwasher and curiously flipped on the outside light.
She froze. Then she shook herself and flung open the door. “Mama!”
Mama smiled nervously, placing her finger over her lips.
“Sorry, right,” Ava said, dropping her voice. “But . . . hi! Come in!”
Mama slipped in, more of a scuttle than a step. She wore faded jeans, a soft white T-shirt, and red shoes styled like ballet slippers. She had on red lipstick, too. A slender gold necklace circled her neck, a single rose-colored pearl resting in the hollow of her throat.
“You look so pretty,” Ava whispered. Her heart thumped like crazy. Gesturing at the platter in Mama’s hands, she said, “And you made brownies! Papa’s favorite!”
“How do you remember my brownies, silly girl?” Mama asked with a smile.
“Because Papa talks about them! Well, he hasn’t in a while, but—”
From the dining room, Angela’s happy laugh rang out. “Nate!” she said playfully. “That’s very sweet. Girls, do you know what a sweet man your father is?”
The color drained from Mama’s face. Her eyes looked wide and afraid.
“Mama, please don’t leave,” Ava pleaded, reaching instinctively for her.
Mama backed away, shaking her head. She pushed open the screen door with her hip and stepped
