The Connection

”It happens after you turn seventeen,”

Their mother’s voice was whispery, melding with the crackling of the slowly burning log in their fireplace. She spoke with the sense of someone sharing a great secret… one Quinn never got tired of hearing. She would sit on their mother’s lap, listening to the story over and over again with rapt fascination. Her blue eyes wide and her pink bow of a mouth agape in wonderment. At six, she was too young to understand the concept of Soul Mates fully. But the part of her brain that soaked up all the true love notions inspired by Disney Princess movies she devoured, grasped the idea like a drowning man to driftwood. Avery was in the den, too. Sitting in the glow of the fireplace, stacks of paper in front of him, along with a brand new box of crayons, drawing whatever he could set his eyes on long enough. A vase of flowers, his father’s leather armchair, the bookshelf crammed with hefty volumes ranging from medieval literature to cookbooks his mother favored.

“Uh huh! What else, Mommy?” Quinn’s voice strained against her tiny vocal cords; pushing their mother into the real story of The Connection, as it’s called. Avery rolled his eyes, selecting a particular shade of green that looked right for the leaves of the bouquet of Valentine Day roses, setting on an inn table. Regardless of Avery’s birthright as an older brother to make fun of his little sister, he actually enjoyed the story his mother told of her’s and his father’s Connection… and eventual marriage.

Although, if anyone asked him, he’d say that it was girly and dumb.

“Alright, alright, calm down!” Their mother’s laugh was a tinkling sound, joyful and melodic, like a glass wind chime blowing in a spring breeze.

“After you turn seventeen, you’re able to see your Soul Mate, but only if they’re seventeen or older, too. “

“And how do you know?” Quinn asks quickly, even though she already knows the answer. Mrs. Reeves only smiles gently.

“When you and your Soul Mate are close enough for a while, you’ll both feel very warm, like you’ve been lying in the sun too long…” She places her slender finger to Quinn’s sternum, “But you’ll only feel it here.” She smiles, tapping her tastefully manicured nail on Quinn’s chest. Quinn giggles at the touch, making their mother’s smile brighter.

“What else, Mommy?”

“And then…” their mother’s voice is low, building the anticipation. Avery rolls his eyes again, but his breath catches in his throat and stays trapped there like it does every time the story gets to this point.

“…A teeny tiny ball of light will appear. And it’ll be so bright—“

“How bright, Mommy?”

“So bright that it’ll almost blind you,” Her smile is luminous in the orange light of the fire place, “And it will glow even warmer in your chest, and then…”

“What?”

“And then, the light will fade. And the warm feeling will leave, too. And then, you’ll know.”

“Like you and Daddy?” Quinn says excitedly, practically bouncing on their mother’s lap. Mrs. Reeves chuckles indulgently, smoothing Quinn’s dark hair from her chubby baby cheek.

“Mhm. Like me and Daddy.”

Quinn insists that she then tell the story of how their parents met. A story that both siblings have heard about a thousand times before. Avery pretends not to listen.

Their mother was working full time at a coffee shop, behind the counter, making drinks, cleaning, whatever she had to do when they were short staffed. It was a rainy Thursday morning, and their mom was beyond busy, taking all the orders and making quite a few of them as well. A man, with a crisp white shirt, neatly pressed slacks and a wild mane of dark hair came in, the bell above the door jingling merrily.

“He was so rude!” their mother would cry with barely suppress laughter.

Their father cut in front of the other costumers, swinging a briefcase that hit against the other costumer's legs. Their mother was too busy making drinks that she didn’t notice the arrogant twenty something… until he started to cough loudly for service, leaning over the counter. Their mother heard, of course, but chose not to notice him. She took her time making the cappuccino, taking extra care with the steamed milk and other workings of the scalding drink. All the while, their Dad was harrumphing for service and getting more and more annoyed with the much younger barista. When their mother had finished with the drink, she calmly faced him, with her pad of paper and a raised eyebrow.

But apparently, their father hadn’t expected the barista to be such a beauty. He faltered, ordering his large dark roast with a double shot of espresso with a much kinder tone. And when their father placed a whole twenty dollars in her tip jar with a charming smile, she rolled her dark blue eyes and shoved the coffee into his hands. Without so much as a good day, sir, she waited on the next customer with a dazzling smile. Their father was twenty minutes late to his class on Composition and Literature, and by the time he arrived, all the students had left for an early lunch. He was harshly reprimanded by the chair of the English department, and nearly lost his newly secured teaching position.

But he kept coming back to the tiny coffee shop just off of campus, leaving the pale haired, dark eyed barista with the dazzling smile huge tips in her nearly empty jar. He tried to be politer, waiting his turn in line, and trying to smile and chat up their mother. It wasn’t until he apologized for his behavior the first time that their mother agreed to go out with him. And after the dinner, while they ate ice cream on a park bench in the particularly warm September night, both their chests glowed beneath their shirts. They were married a year later. Their mother was nineteen, their father was twenty eight.

And, no. The nearly ten years between them made no difference.

“And then you had us, right?” Quinn asks, knowingly. Their mother nods, smiling brightly.

“Mhm, first Avy and then you a year later.” She smiles, poking Quinn’s thin nose.

“And you love Daddy?” Quinn asks, happily already knowing the answer. Their mother’s face glows in the firelight.

“With all my heart.” She smiles softly.

“And us?” Quinn asks, throwing her thin arms around their mother’s long neck. She nuzzles her cheek against their mother’s, who laughs and nuzzles back.

“More than anything.”

Avery tucks the crayons back in their flimsy box. He loves the story of his parents, even though he would never say so. But he wonders what if he doesn’t like his Soul Mate either? And what if they turn out to be rude, too… only they don’t get better?

“How nice, Avy. Can I pin this one to the fridge?” Their mother asks, looking down at his drawing. Avery looks down at his drawing. It doesn’t look bad, but it doesn’t look like the painting his father has hanging in his study. It isn’t good enough, so he shakes his head, crumpling up the rose drawing for good measure. His mother sighs, the puff of her breath fluttering her bangs.

“Maybe next time then, Mr. Perfectionist.” She smiles down at him, and ruffles his dark hair.

“Alright, time for bed.” She sings, picking up a groaning Quinn. Avery goes without complaint, already thinking of how he could improve the jagged petals and the smooth contours of the vase for next time.

That night, Avery dreams of his Soul Mate and of red roses in crystal vases.

____

And today had started out so well, too.

He woke up on time today, and surprisingly, Quinn didn’t use all the hot water in the bathroom they shared. And when he finally plodded downstairs, in his favorite purple zip-up, and cleanest pair of jeans he could find on his floor, the smell of coffee still hung in the air. And when he came into the kitchen, to his wonderment, there was just enough coffee for a cup (well, after he added a heavy shot of cream and a few too many spoonfuls of sugar). He drank his milky sweet coffee, as he flipped through the University newspaper that his father always brought home (when he was home, that is), and left on the island when he was done. It was all football news, and a minuscule article on the rising price of admission. He rolled his eyes, before picking up a ballpoint pen and doodling in the margins of the sports pages.

“Did you drink all the coffee?”

Quinn stood in the doorway, hip cocked, and a scowl playing on her freshly made-up face. Avery merely raised his nearly empty coffee cup, adding shading to the feather that had grown out of his newspaper doodle. Quinn grumbled all the way to the car, munching moodily at a cereal bar. School was as well as could be expected. Chemistry was brutal, as usual. But Drawing and Design was wonderful as always. English went as well as could be expected. It was always hard for Avery to determine if he liked English or not. On one hand, he knew almost all of the material, with his father being an English professor, his bedtime stories were more Shakespeare than Seuss. Yet, on the other hand there were quite a few football players in this class.

This fact, in itself held both pros and cons. A pro was that the footballers usually hijacked the class, with their funny stories that always ended with some kind of physical humor, or their borrowed Comedy Central punch lines. The class would laugh, and Avery could safely sketch in the back of the classroom without being noticed. On the other hand, they were footballers. It was ingrained in their DNA (right next to the gene that gave them broad shoulders and short tempers) to pick on the underdogs. The nerds with glasses, the kids that sucked at sports, the kids that would rather do art than Auto shop, and the boys that were slightly feminine where all fair targets.

And lucky them, Avery Reeves was all four traits and more rolled into one five six, one hundred and twenty-two pound package. His personality and skinny build practically screamed, Right here! Come pick on me! I won’t even fight back! Which was only partially true.

It was absolutely true, that Avery was far too short, and far too skinny to actually fight back against the beefy Vikings footballers. However, when the inevitable time of the day came (usually his last class of the day, P.E.) and the Football Admiral (Sargent? Captain? Hell, Avery had no idea), Max Matthews came to call, Avery did not go quietly. This was probably the worst idea ever, and Avery had the bruised ribs and stretched shirt collars to prove it. But there was something about being beat up every day for three years that made you really not give a shit. And besides, the burning cheeks and hard line of Matthews’ mouth when Avery delivered a practically good verbal blow was worth it.

And, as expected, Avery’s pretty decent Monday had crumpled around P.E, his last block of the day.

When the bell had rang, singling the end of the period, as well as the end of the day, everyone trudged to the locker room. Avery, as always, offered to help Coach what’s-his-face, to collect the scattered rackets and birdies that had littered the gym floor, forgotten in lieu of escaping home. The old man, clad in a whispy dark blue windbreaker, with a silver whistle hanging underneath his neck flab rolled his eyes, but let Avery do it anyway. He walked away mumbling something about ‘weirdo's' clutching a huge silver thermos. Thankfully, Kat noticed Avery. She rolled her eyes and sighed, but started to gather the fallen rackets, as usual.

“You don’t have to…” Avery mumbles, pushing his glasses back up his sweaty nose. Kat shrugs, flipping back her burgundy bangs.

“What? I might be a stone cold bitch, but I’m not that heartless.”

They finish, and head down opposite ends of the gym.

“By the way, you’re giving me a ride.” Kat calls over her shoulder, slipping into the overly perfumed locker room before he could pretend to protest. He always gave Kat a ride home, and always pretended to be upset about.

When he slips into the locker room, he hurriedly walks through the rows of rusty lockers, counting on the chorus of yells, laughter and obscenities to camouflage him. He turns the combination in, and dresses in turbo speed. Being slammed against lockers always hurt more without a shirt on, trust him. He had just finished wrestling with his left sneaker, when a hulking shadow falls over his bent head.

“Purple’s a chick color, Reeves.”

“Not really,” Avery sighs, he stands up; his face inches from a worn Led Zeppelin shirt clinging to a chest the size of Texas. “It’s was exclusively worn by royalty, so princes and kings, until the about the 17th century. And if I remember correctly, all kings had wives, lots of them even. So that would make them straight and therefore not gay.” Avery says dryly, craning his neck up to look into the smirking green eyes of Max Matthews. His lips curl over his teeth, the cruelest rendition of a smirk Avery had ever seen, before Avery’s right shoulder collides with a locker, the knob burying itself into his bone. Avery makes no noise, only looks up at Max with bored disinterest.

“You think you’re so smart, huh?” Max’s breath ghosts over his face. And it would be so much easier if Max smelt like rotten fish or garlic, instead of spearmint toothpaste. Avery can count the dark smattering of freckles across his nose, and see the faintly ginger tint of his stubble... and it times like this when Avery realizes that although Max is a totally and complete fuckhead, he’s undeniably unattractive. Avery feels it vaguely, like a passing breeze blown away quickly by his remembrance of the circumstance… and instead he feels anger.

“My ACT score points to yes. And teachers seem to think so.” Avery replies, raising one eyebrow. Max’s smirk melts into a harder grimace, and Avery is lifted by the front of his undershirt, and slammed harder into the lockers, the scuffed toes of his sneakers dangling a few inches off the floor. Avery holds back a whine, as his already bruised shoulder blade grinds against the jutted metal knob.

“You’re starting to piss me off, Reeves.” Max growls, giving Avery’s dangling frame a jerk. The back of Avery’s head bangs into the locker, making his eyes blur slightly. Avery vaguely registers the jeers of the other two footballers in this period, from behind Max. But by their skinnier frames and pimpled faces, Avery figures that their probably freshman. Fledgling footballers, who must complete the trials, set forth by the veterans, like Max. Get drunk at a party, and then feel up one of the cheerleaders, beat up a freshman who they deem to be beatable, make a basket during a game or whatever.

“More than usual, Matthews?” Avery taunts cracking the teeniest smirk. Max’s jaw juts forward, as his fists tighten around the fabric of Avery’s shirt. Their foreplay is over, and Avery can feel the axe about to fall. Max leans closer, teeth bared.

“Listen here, you little queer—“He rages, his usually gruff voice becoming even more so in his louder tone. Avery waits, refusing to cringe as Max pushes him harder against the rusted metal lockers. The Fledglings are jeering, crying for blood. And Avery wouldn’t be surprised if Max feed off the bloodthirsty praise, like a gladiator against a poor sickly slave, spurred by the crying of the crowd.

“Matthews! Come on, practice in ten!”

Avery looks towards the voice. Another coach, clad in a navy polo that’s too tight across his ample beer belly, he carries a clipboard and looks bored by Max’s terrorist act rather than concerned for Avery. He must be the Football Father. Max grits his teeth, but won’t dare disobey. He gives Avery one last hard look before releasing the hold on Avery’s now crumpled collar with a final jerk. Avery barely catches himself as he falls the few inches to the cement floor; his knees buckle as he lands.

“We’re not done here.” Max barks, giving Avery one last hard shove against the lockers.

“Oh, I can hardly wait.” Avery mumbles softly. And Max casts him a glare, despite the boisterous laughter of the Fledglings. They leave, Max leading the way and slamming the door behind him. The sound echoes in Avery’s pounding skull.

Kat and Quinn are waiting in the parking lot next to Avery’s old white Volvo. The both look up as he strolls across the parking lot; carry the enormous weight of his backpack on his uninjured shoulder. He’s sure the already there bruise has grown. Larger and darker, more tender. He unlocks the door, ignoring Quinn’s griping about him taking forever, and Kat’s far too knowing glances. Kat won’t say anything while Quinn’s in the car, but he can bet tomorrow her mouth will get the best of her. The drive home is mostly silent. Except for the sound of a new indie band Kat found, whispering through the car’s speakers and Quinn’s bitching about classes.

And, of course, the sound of blood pulsing unpleasantly in Avery’s skull.