Pretty Little Bones

Only Liars, but We're the Best

Only Liars, but We're the Best

Partying with Ava was a lot like walking into oncoming traffic: everything was either hit or miss.

You'd get so distracted by the beautiful lights that the pretty lies would either escape you or come crashing down on the pavement before you knew what was happening.

There was only one way down the road when you were walking with Ava. You just had to be fearless.

When you were partying with her, she'd take your hand in hers and wouldn't let it go until you'd outrun the world. There wasn't a shadow that could scare her when she got it in her head to help someone.

Like hunting quail, someone would fire a shot and everyone would scatter. It was a game of chance and luck, but if you were with Ava, you could bet you'd be safe. She knew places to hide and she could get there quicker than anyone you'd ever seen.

Trying to track her down was like going on a ghost hunt and if you weren't partying with her, you'd just end up chasing your own tail. In hunting that little fox, timing was everything. There was a time to hit the fence, there was a time to jump the ledges, and there was a time to stay perfectly still, and she knew the game forward and backward.

It wasn't even a challenge for her. There was nothing she couldn't outrun.

She always said she loved the way I knew how to get lost, but the thing was, no one was better at hiding than Ava.

She spent her whole life hiding away the things she didn't want people to know so making herself disappear was like a reaction. That's why she loved taking people with her: more baggage meant more effort. More effort meant less thinking about her own secrets.

Running the maze with her was like spinning out of control. You'd go on your way and take two lefts, or perhaps there was a right, or maybe you were staying straight. It didn't matter.

Just take her hand and never let go and she'd take you away.

Her one goal in life was to make everyone happy. It wasn't a desire to be liked—it wasn't like that at all. Ava didn't give a shit if people liked her, because she didn't like herself.

It was about making sure that no one ever had to go through the things she'd faced since she was five. It was about the fact that she wanted people's lives to be easier. Because that was the one thing she wanted.

Ava always wished her life had been easier instead of longer. But she'd never say that to anyone. That wasn't a happy subject.

When you were partying with Ava, you were happy. She always made damn sure that was the case.

Ava could read people like life was a game of poker and she was counting the cards. I guess that's pretty easy to do, though, when you're the one stacking the deck.

She could read the ghosts in people's past and would slip into a suite that would make people trust her. They'd open up instantly because she knew the game better than anyone else. All those personalities she possessed—the sweet girl, the party girl, the athlete, the bitch, the smart girl, the quiet girl—could get under anyone's mask.

And it made good conversation for people hiding from the world to spill their darkest secrets into a fanciful maze of Ava.

She knew intensely personal things about everyone, because she listened. When they spoke, she didn't. If she ever played her hand, she could take anyone down.

We always thought Ava was so small and so happy. We all believed that those long, blonde waves and pretty pink lips were as innocent as she made them seem. Those gray eyes were so wide and trusting.

And yet, you didn't just fuck with Ava.

You could never read her face and those long sleeves made people wonder what she was hiding even though they already knew—they were the one who'd given her the cards.

She could destroy anyone with one snap of her long fingers.

But she never did. That wasn't the game to Ava. She wanted people to be happy. Telling intimate details of everyone's life wasn't going to get her revenge.

They could take their shots, but after a while, it seemed like Ava was bulletproof. It seemed like she never heard a damn word people said, but that wasn't true. She heard everything.

She was just so good at hiding.

When partying with Ava, she'd bounce from person to person and take them on a trip to wonderland. She grab their hand and off they'd go, through the looking glass, down the one way road Ava always traveled.

And as soon as someone lost their mind, Ava would pick it up and slide the card up her sleeve, counting her aces as she went. In and out of personalities she'd go, hopping back and forth between people and problems, like a white rabbit that knew timing was everything.

But all that work was tiring and by the end of the party, Ava was inevitably starting to go mad. All those secrets would be swimming in her head, begging her to take bites out of them. They'd make her bigger, put her on top, but leave her feeling small and petty on the inside.

So she tried to keep them under her hat and keep them from slipping out while she pretended to be prim and proper at the tea party.

That's when I'd wake her up, pull her out of the rabbit hole, and take her home. She always partied with me at the end of the night, because she didn't have to have a new personality.

Maybe she could hide, but I could get lost.

Those gray eyes would be so tired and those long lashes would fall heavily on her cheeks, like stitches sewing her together again before she came undone. It was exhausting being so many different things to so many different people.

After partying, she leaned on me like a crutch. In wonderland, she was perfectly capable, but in reality, she crumpled under the pressure people put on her.

She was always right, but I was always real.

When we were alone, I'd sweep the long, blonde waves over her shoulder and kiss the back of her neck to hear her sigh. It was like I was releasing her from the maze of personalities, because finally she got to be vulnerable. Her back wasn't against the wall anymore; it was against me.

I'd put my hand to her chest, my thumb and index fingers tracing her collar bones. Occasionally, I'd run them up the length of her neck, under her chin and I'd push her head back to kiss her.

Her lips always pulled back into that Cheshire cat grin.

I could always feel her breathing, my fingertips pressing against her ribs. And I could hear her heart beat like a ticking clock, keeping her timing steady and true. It was like she was a fantasy, the way she could calm fears and carry worlds for people.

Sometimes I had an urge to dig my fingers into the hollow of her throat and pull at the pale skin until I'd picked the flesh away. Surely there had to be nothing but bad blood running through those veins.

And if there was, I told myself I'd use that bad blood and spend forever painting flowers for her.