Glow Back

Jason McCoy

I pick up my suit from the damn dry cleaners. Yeah, a suit. Because there’s a wedding coming—Amanda Sinclair’s wedding—and she’s letting the whole goddamn state know about it. I swear she’s out there handing out flyers like she’s running for office. Wouldn’t surprise me if she hired a marching band and a skywriter.

Hell, maybe she already did. I’ve stopped questioning her chaos.

The only halfway decent thing about this whole glitter-and-tantrums circus?

Ava.

My best friend. The one person who actually gets me. We’ve texted almost daily for years, kept that thread going even when she left Rockwell and started doing whatever microbiology magic she does in her big-city lab. But I haven’t seen her in person since graduation. Not once.

Last time I did, she was this shy, chubby little thing with oversized glasses and the best laugh I’ve ever heard. Always looking down. Always clutching a book. Always sitting next to me on the bleachers, not giving a damn that I was king of the school or whatever dumb title people threw around back then.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder of my truck as I pull into the school lot. I glance at the screen.

Ava Sinclair: Tell me you didn’t forget Amanda’s wedding is this weekend.

I grin. Some things never change.

Me: I mean, it’s only been mentioned every 3.7 seconds for the past six months.

A few seconds pass before she hits back.

Ava: You’re being generous. She Snapchatted her veil fitting.

Me: She Snapchatted her veil fitting to me. I didn’t even know I had Snapchat installed.

Ava: Liar. You totally have Snapchat.

Me: Okay, but I use it for dog filters and fantasy football trash talk. Not... tulle.

I chuckle, tossing the dry-cleaned bag onto the passenger seat. It’s hotter than hell outside. The suit’s gonna suffocate me.

Ava: So what are you wearing? Please say it’s not your coaching khakis.

Me: You wound me. Picked up the suit today, thank you very much.

Ava: What color?

Me: Black. Classic. Sexy. Like me.

Ava: So… sweaty and full of bad decisions?

Me: You missed me.

Ava: I missed making fun of you, if that’s what you mean.

Me: Same thing.

Ava: Debatable.

Me: You flying in or driving?

I shove my phone in my back pocket, head toward the field. The kids are already throwing balls around, one of them nearly takes out the Gatorade cooler. I yell something half-coherent about drills and hustle.

Buzz. Again.

Ava: Flying. I get in tomorrow night. Amanda’s got me running around doing last-minute crap.

Me: Of course she does. Bridezilla in full effect?

Ava: Let’s just say she threatened the florist and cried over table runners in the same breath.

Me: Beautiful. Can’t wait.

Ava: You better save me a drink at the rehearsal dinner.

Me: Only if you promise not to cry when you see me. I’ve been working out.

Ava: Oh, I will cry—from laughter.

Me: I’ll take it.

I pocket my phone again, but there’s this dumbass grin stuck on my face. Probably won’t go away until she gets here.

Ava’s always been like… background noise. Familiar. Like the hum of the fridge or the buzz of stadium lights—constant, kind of comforting, but not something you really notice.

We grew up next door, our moms were tight, so yeah—we ended up hanging out. Not because I picked her, but because she was just there. Always tagging along, always with a book in her hand and some weird science fact she thought was hilarious.

She’s smart as hell, sure. Funny, too. The kind of funny that sneaks up on you and hits when you least expect it. But we never flirted. Never crossed a line. Hell, I don’t even think I’ve ever looked at her for longer than a few seconds unless she was holding nachos.

While I was hooking up with cheerleaders under the bleachers, Ava was… I don’t know. Studying? Doing her homework? Binge-watching MythBusters?

She was never part of that world. Never tried to be. And I sure as hell never thought of her as anything more than just… Ava.

My best friend. My backup brain. The one who reminded me about class registration and once made me flash cards for a final I definitely bombed anyway.

She was the girl you could text at 2AM and actually get a useful answer. Not the girl you kissed at the end of a party. Not the one you thought about when you jerked off in the shower.

So yeah. She’s flying in tomorrow, and it’ll be good to see her again. Like catching up with an old teammate or your favorite cousin—nostalgic and harmless.

Ava was always just... there.

She’d show up to my games because her parents dragged her, sit way up in the bleachers reading some thick-ass textbook while the rest of the school was screaming my name. I think she clapped once when I scored a touchdown. Once. And I’m pretty sure it was sarcastic.

She wasn’t like the other girls. Didn’t wear makeup. Didn’t try to flirt. Didn’t giggle or ask to wear my jersey or bat her lashes at me in the hallway. While I was slipping notes into cheerleaders’ lockers and sneaking out to hook up behind the bleachers, Ava was probably in the library. Or my kitchen, helping my mom with dinner because I was grounded and didn’t show up on time.

She used to help me with homework—well, do it, mostly. I’d roll in half-asleep, reeking of beer and bad decisions, and she’d already have my math sheet half filled out. Never asked questions. Never judged. Just shook her head and handed me the pen.

One night I came home completely hammered—like, couldn’t-find-the-front-door hammered—and she was already there, sitting at the kitchen table like she owned the place, typing something up for a science fair or some crap. My parents were about to rip into me, and she just stands up, all casual, and goes, “It was my fault. I made him drive me to Walmart to buy glitter for a project.”

I don’t even remember what the project was. I just remember her covering my ass without hesitation. No thanks needed. No guilt trip. Just a muttered “you owe me” and a bag of gummy worms she stole from my pantry on her way out.

She wasn’t the kind of girl you dated. She wasn’t the kind of girl anyone dated, back then. She was reliable. Smart. Kind of mouthy. A little weird. But in that way where you roll your eyes and keep her around anyway, because she somehow makes your life easier.

She was never the girl you looked at twice. Especially when you were me—captain of the team, homecoming king, hooking up with girls who wore crop tops in February and smelled like vanilla lip gloss.

Ava didn’t wear lip gloss.

She wore ChapStick.

And she never once gave me shit for the dumb stuff I did, never tried to be anything more than what she was—my best friend.

She was dependable, I’ll give her that. The kind of girl who reminded you when your paper was due, and still printed a backup copy in case you forgot. The kind of girl who had Tylenol in her bag before you said your head hurt. She was like a one-woman crisis response team—quiet, fast, and never asked for a thank you.

I remember one time junior year, I forgot my gym bag. I was about to get my ass handed to me by Coach for showing up to practice without my cleats, and Ava? She just pulled them out of her backpack like she expected me to forget. Like she knew. I don’t even remember giving them to her. She probably just noticed I left them in the hallway and grabbed them on the way out. That’s the kind of shit she did—without asking, without drama, without needing credit.

She wasn’t exciting. She wasn’t wild. I never heard a single rumor about her. Never had a breakdown in the locker room over her, like I did with Amber or Chelsea or that one girl who tried to fake a pregnancy scare just to get a shot at prom queen.

Ava? Ava was boring.

Stable. Predictable. Like a fucking metronome in a lab coat.

When we were seniors, she used to sit in the stands with my mom while I was on the field. I’d catch glimpses of her reading between plays, flipping pages like she couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about what was happening. And honestly, I kind of liked that. Everyone else treated me like a god. She treated me like I was still the dumbass kid next door who once got stuck inside his own treehouse because he brought up a ladder and forgot to tie it down.

She never looked at me the way the other girls did. Never tried to impress me. Never cared if I was dating someone or had a new car or got interviewed for the local paper. She didn’t give a damn about any of that—and I guess that made her safe.

Comfortable.

Like old sneakers you don’t even realize you wear until someone points it out.

When I blew out my shoulder in college and the scouts stopped calling, it was Ava who texted. Not the girl I was seeing. Not the teammates. Not the fans. Ava. She didn’t say anything dramatic. No pep talk or “you’ll come back stronger” bullshit. Just sent me a meme of a flaming dumpster and the words: “That’s your career, huh?”

I laughed so hard I almost threw my phone.

That’s just who she is.

Never emotional. Never heavy. Always cracking some dumb joke at the exact right moment. She didn’t pity me. Didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Just kept texting, kept being Ava, like nothing had changed.

And I guess I needed that. Still do, sometimes.

We’ve had this thread going for years. Dumb check-ins, ridiculous memes, her nerdy science facts that go way over my head. Like the time she tried to explain something about bacterial resistance and I told her to shut up unless it involved pizza or football. She called me an evolutionary disappointment and then sent me a playlist of songs titled “Too Dumb to Live, Too Hot to Die.”

That’s Ava.

My smartass. My backup brain. The sarcastic voice in my pocket that always tells me when I’m being a dumbass—but still shows up when I need her.

But sexy? Nah.

She was never the girl you made out with in your truck after practice. Never the girl you wrote a song about. Never the one you bragged about to your friends.

She was just… there.

A footnote in every big moment. Quietly existing on the edges of my life while everything else burned bright and loud and fast.

And now she’s flying in for Amanda’s wedding. Probably wearing her usual jeans and sneakers, hair pulled back in that lazy ponytail she always had when she was focused. Probably dragging a backpack instead of a suitcase, because she’s practical like that. Probably going to lecture me on hydration and remind me to shave.

Same old Ava.

Same glasses. Same sarcasm. Same no-nonsense bullshit she’s always had.

And when I see her tomorrow?

I’ll probably ruffle her hair, crack a joke about her height, and offer to carry her bag like the gentleman I pretend to be.

Because that’s what we do.

We tease. We roast. We show up.

And then we go back to our separate lives, like always.

I’m not worried. Not even a little.

Because if there’s one thing in this world that never changes—it’s Ava Sinclair.