Page 48 of Call You Mine
What I haven’t spent much time thinking about is the emotional fallout and what it means to be living with her,marryingher, for it all to end when the adoption is finalized.
“I work tomorrow, but you guys are free to come over.” The thought of Ava and Georgie coming here after a busy day for both of them has me feeling all warm and tingly inside.Maybe it’s because it seems like Ava isn’t used to being the one taken care of, or maybe it’s the way that Georgie has been through more than anyone her age ever should be, but I want them here—and I want to be the one to cook them dinner and make sure Ava isn’t too cold, and Georgie knows how to change the record.
The thought has me realizing how invested I am in this relationship—fakerelationship—and Ava has no fucking clue.
But having Ava and Georgie under my roof gives me a feeling of completeness I can’t quite put into words, least of all to Ava.
Georgie looks to Ava. She doesn’t say anything, probably trying to “play it cool” the way teenagers think they have to, but the question is in her eyes—“Can we?” written in the way she waits for Ava to say something.
Ava exhales. “We’ll see.”
Georgie looks like she wants to argue, but she must decide against it. Shifting her attention back to me, she asks, “Can we do this one then?” She holds out myAll The Right Reasonsvinyl, the familiar Nickelback album cover bringing me back to my own teenage years—the classic black convertible driving down a highway at sunset was a staple on my shelf.
I take it from her, my eyes roaming the worn edges of the sleeve, the faded graphic and text from years of being one of my most listened to records, starting from when I was Georgie’s age.
I lift my brow at her, surprised—and maybe even a little impressed—that this is the one she chose to listen to as her last record of the night.
“Is that a no?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Go ahead, put it on,” I tell her, handing the vinyl to her.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” she says, shaking her head. The faint buzz of the empty platter spinning fills the silencebefore she adds, “You should probably just do it.” She pulls her hands back like she’s already decided she’ll get it wrong.
“You won’t,” I assure her, keeping my tone easy. I walk her through it step by step—where to hold it, how to line it up, how to lower the lever slowly.
She watches carefully, but there’s a tightness in her shoulders that doesn’t match the situation, similar to when I was showing her how to take the record from before off.
It’s just a vinyl—an old one at that. It’s nothing worth being nervous over.
Unless you’re used to little mistakes turning into big reactions.
Unless you’re used to making yourself smaller to keep the peace.
And when she quietly asks, “Like this?”, there’s something cautious about it. Not curious.
Careful. Like she’s learned that asking questions can come with consequences.
I keep my voice steady. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
Because there’s no reason for her to be afraid of this. Not here. Not with me.
So I tack on, “Great job! You’re a natural,” wondering when was the last time her presence was not just recognized, but appreciated.
The gleam in her eyes tells me it’s been a while.
The first notes crawl out of the speakers, low and slow, that gritty guitar dragging across the room just as the drums kick in, heavier and deliberate. The low, raspy voice cuts in, the lyrics bold and unapologetic, and somehow, a perfect soundtrack to my feelings about Ava.
Thick with want, borderline obsessive, and hitting way too close to comfort.
Because she could do anything she wanted to me, anything and everything sung in the lyrics—and worse—and I’d still follow her home.
“I should’ve known you were a Nickelback fan,” Ava surmises before turning her attention to her sister. “Georgie, on the other hand, I’ve got to admit, I did not see this coming.”
Georgie shrugs. “I don’t get why they get so much hate.”
“I’m surprised you even know who they are,” I add, now not only surprised that Georgie picked this record on purpose, but that she knows about Nickelback and their reputation of being that band everyonepretendsto hate.
“Me too, actually,” Ava adds, standing from the couch. She swings the blanket I gave her around her shoulders, coming to sit between Georgie and me, having to maneuver through the scattered records. “Wouldn’t have been my first choice,” she says as she crosses her legs under her, her knee bumping into mine.
