Ivy’s expression turned all goopy as she cupped his jaw. “Aw, see? He even knows my celebrity crushes.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said, his face as serious as his tone. “If Zac Efron came here right now, begging you for just one night with a check for a million bucks in hand, I’d crumple it up and punch it down his throat.”
“This,” I said, gesturing to them. “This is a prime example of why Brock and I were all wrong for each other. I’d just convinced myself it was perfect, and he played the part of the perfect boyfriend. But he wouldn’t take a bullet for me. He wouldn’t sacrifice what he wanted for my sake. Not in a million years. I just wish I’d figured it out sooner.” My throat tightened, and I swallowed to open it up. “Thank you. For letting me crash.”
“Always,” Ivy said.
Dean stood, making his way around the couch. “I’ll get the bed ready and make sure the closet’s cleaned out.”
“Thank you,” I said with a weary sigh and a grateful heart. “I didn’t want to go to a hotel,” was the most I’d admit.
But my sister knew the truth: I didn’t want to be alone.
“You’re always welcome here. As long as you need.” She shifted to try to pull herself off the couch, but without abdominal muscles, she didn’t make it far.
I stood and offered my hand, hoisting her off the couch. But once standing, she didn’t let my hand go. I could tell she wanted to hug me but curbed the impulse.
“You deserve better than Brock,” she said, her blue eyes earnest.
“I know,” I answered, and I did.
But it sucked so bad that I felt like I didn’t. The pain I’d so proudly noted as absent wasn’t absent at all. It trickled under the surface, beneath the bedrock of will and anger. As Ivy gathered up some clothes and shepherded me into the bathroom, I considered that pain, the deceiving smallness of it.
When she closed the door and I was alone, it cracked open like the earth, spreading in a rumbling chasm. The hiss of the shower covered the hitch in my breath. The steam from the stream masked the tears in my eyes. And I stepped into its scalding rain, welcoming the punishment as pain swallowed me whole.
Pinging, stinging water against my scalp, rolling down my back, singeing my shoulders, teasing my skin to a dangerous shade of red. And every second brought another wave of memories. Brock in his tux, spinning me around a dance floor, my hand in his, his eyes full of love and a joke on his lips. His face, beautiful and tender across our pillows. The easy way he laughed, the easy way he loved.
But it was a lie, every moment, every kiss.
And I was a fool for believing him.
The water cooled by the time my tears slipped down the drain. I stepped into a pair of Ivy’s sleep shorts and a tank, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. The mist on the mirror receded slowly until my reflection sharpened. The girl peering back at me looked equally like the fresh-faced teenager I’d once been and a woman older than me, more world-worn and cynical. Gray eyes, bright from tears, sunken from grief.
So I reached for Ivy’s eye cream and did something about it.
Because that was who I was—a woman who did something about it. I was a fixer, a problem solver, a perpetual motion machine who only moved in one direction. Forward.
And forward I would go.
After tidying up and gathering my things, I exited the bathroom and stepped into the quiet, dark house. The sound of their voices were muted by distance, the light from their bedroom slanting into the hall. Ivy laughed, a soft burst, followed by Dean’s deep baritone, and a sudden longing struck me, a fissure in the patch I’d mended the chasm with. But I smoothed it, turning for the nursery and my solitude.
The baby’s room was shades of heather gray and white, marked by the occasional shot of coral in the way of the blanket hanging artfully on the crib wall or the throw pillow in the rocking chair. The velvet loveseat had been converted to a twin bed where I’d lay my head for a little while, and Dean had made it up, complete with sheets, two pillows, and a downy comforter that looked like a heaping pile of cloud fluff. Ivy had left a neat pile of clothes for me on top of the changing table, and on the pile sat a phone charger and a note.
Good riddance to bad lays.
Love you. Sleep tight.
-Ivy
I laughed as I picked up the charger and plugged it in. Brock really was a terrible lay, which I’d seen from a new, horrible perspective today. I’d settled in so many ways, convincing myself that he was perfect. A wealthy, beautiful doctor, charming and smooth. A man who had never had to work for a woman, present company included, which meant he’d never had to impress a woman in bed. He got what he wanted and never cared to learn the topography of a clitoris. Given that he had a medical degree, the oversight was as gratuitous as it was grievous.
Curse of the Adonis. Why would he be bothered to care? An endless supply of women was apparently at his beck and call.
I clicked off the lamp—a sweet, star-studded thing—and slid under the comforter, sighing the weight of the day into the comforting confines of the nursery. I’d have to find a way to be around Natasha, and there was only one plan: ignore her and pretend like nothing had happened. Business as usual, tally-ho, onward we went.
Of course, I also knew Natasha to be manipulative—the youngest of the Femmes had a penchant for drama that her sisters paled beneath—and wondered if she’d be trouble. I couldn’t imagine a reason for her to sleep with Brock unless she wanted to get to me. Maybe for the sake of their show and any excuse to spark a fight in front of the cameras. I tried to tell myself she’d probably never see him again. He was too old and established for her, as her taste leaned more to the latest breakout DJ, other celebrity offspring, and whoever was making the most trouble in the media. She didn’t want anything to do with Brock other than to humiliate me.
The best—and perhaps only—revenge would be to don my armor and show her just how unaffected I was. It would likely drive her insane, and if that was to be my only recourse, I’d wield it unflinchingly.
And with that happy thought clutched in my fist, I closed my eyes and sought sleep, though I never quite found it.
5
Labradoodle-dee-doo
KASH
I saw her the second I turned onto Fifth, standing at the foot of a flat-fronted onyx building.
There was no way to miss her.
She wore white again, stark against the glossy black wall she stood before. This time, she’d donned a tailored dress, the sleeves capping her shoulders and the hem brushing the top of her shins. Her profile was elongated, straight out of a fashion illustration from the fifties—hip cocked, chin high, that vivid red hair swept into a bun at the nape of her swan neck. With the phone pressed to her ear, her lips alternated between clipped words and a thin line, a slash of red against creamy skin.
Lila Parker was unhappy. I wondered if she existed in any other state.
Subsequently, I wondered if anyone had ever tried to make her happy.
With the hitch of my leather messenger bag, I picked up my pace just as she met my gaze. She stilled to unnerving stone as I approached. My brows notched—I’d dressed up as she’d asked, or implied. I’d worn a pair of navy slacks, for God’s sake, and ironed my pale blue button-down. I couldn’t be bothered with a tie, and I’d rolled the sleeves, unable to stomach the confines at my wrists. But I’d ironed. And if this wasn’t good enough for her, I didn’t know what was.