Splintered Souls

Chapter 1

2014

In all my eighteen-almost nineteen-years, I couldn't remember a colder day in August. Instead of drenched in sweat like usual, I'd woken to temperatures colder than a witch's tit. And in Annandale, Virginia, that was almost unheard of.

I shot off a few texts, responding to the handful of people who actually gave a damn that instead of taking advantage of my academic scholarship to my father's alma mater, the school I'd busted my ass for four years to get into, I was moving to bum-fuck Maine with my mom and my little brother. Then I unplugged my phone from the charger and crawled out of bed, twisting my honey-colored hair into a loose topknot before stalking off to the bathroom. The movers were due to show up at eight, and I still had to grab a shower and something to eat before diving into what would be the second worse day of my life.

I only had myself to blame. It was my choice to go to a small local college-a branch campus of U-Maine-so I could stay close to Mom and Josh. After everything that had happened, I just couldn't leave them. But I would have done almost anything to take my mind off the move, even sit through one of Dad's exaggerated stories about his years as an Army brat, moving from one end of the globe to the other, all before he was my age. Then again, if he'd been there-if he hadn't died-we wouldn't have needed to move at all.

My cat-pee-yellow cap and gown and the brand new red bikini I'd ordered the minute the new swimwear catalogues showed up in the mail back in February taunted me from my empty closet. I couldn't decide what to do with either of them. Pack or pitch? Those were my choices. With one last lingering gaze, I wadded them together and shoved them into an open box along with the rest of my memories.

The air conditioning didn't kick in once while I stuffed my entire life-what was left of it anyway-into two-foot-by-two-foot boxes, but I wouldn't have minded if the furnace had. Unfortunately, Mom'd had the gas disconnected a week ago, so I had to settle for one of my dad's old Georgetown hoodies and a pair of his thick wool socks. Somehow, I knew he'd sent the cool weather to take the sting out of packing or maybe to remind me of what was in store for me in New England: snow up to my eyeballs, from October through April.

So much for the red bikini.

One by one, I sealed each cardboard square with clear tape and stacked them by the door for the movers. Five boxes and one hot pink duffel bag later, I stared at the vast emptiness of my room as if we were total strangers-every hint of Ava Elizabeth Flynn wiped clean. I shivered and pulled my hands into the sleeves of Dad's worn, blue and gray Hoyas sweatshirt. The only clues that I'd ever lived there at all were the imprints in the carpet where the bed and dresser used to be and the clean spots on the wall where my classic rock posters had hung. I'd started collecting them when I was thirteen, and Dad introduced me to Zeppelin and The Stones. Soon, even those faint shadows of me would be gone like footprints after a fresh snow.

"Ava, you about ready?"

I flinched and spun around to find my mom leaning against the doorframe. Her haggard appearance made her seem much older than thirty-nine, especially without a stitch of makeup to cover the dark circles under her honey-brown eyes-eyes that were an exact match for mine-and with a new crop of gray peppering her dark hair. She'd obviously skipped her last hair appointment, and instead of wearing it in shiny waves over her shoulders, she'd taken to haphazardly tangling it into a loose bun at the back of her head. I guessed losing a husband would do that to a woman. Not that I knew firsthand, but I did feel as if I'd aged a dozen years after losing my father.

She must have felt my eyes dissecting her appearance like a science project and pushed a loose curl behind her ear. "Honey, did you hear me?"

"Oh, um, yeah." I pointed to the stacked boxes by the door. "That's the last of them, I think. Hard to believe my whole life fit into five boxes, huh?"