Except when I’m around Emily.
I should have discouraged Deacon. Should have told him Emily wasn’t that special, because when I’m around her, I feel something I don’t want to feel. When she’d fallen off the boat and hadn’t come back up, part of me had felt … crushed—like the worst thing that could happen in my life was happening. I can’t even express how glad I’d felt when I’d jumped in and she’d opened her eyes. I felt so guilty about it, I barely spoke to her after that. There has to be something more to this than simple attraction. It’s torture sitting next to her, getting whiffs of her perfume, feeling her hair brush against my arm, watching Deacon’s hand rub hers. I feel like I’m missing something—like my brain is attempting to spell out a message for me, but no matter what I do, I can’t read it. I don’t think what’s going on with me is about sex. I wish it were.
I listen as Deacon painfully introduces her to his parents as his friend, Emily. It screams rebound, and is also testament to the feelings he must still have for his ex. I have to talk to Eliza and figure out what’s going on.
But when dinner is over, Eliza disappears—happily skipping off with Emily and her mom before I can confront her. What the fuck? Instead of trying to eavesdrop, I join Deacon for a beer in the garden.
“So what’s up with you and Emily? You two friends with benefits or what?”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Nah, dude. Nothing like that.”
Relief. Thank God. “Cool.”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason, other than you bailing on the trip. I know you’re still hoping things work out between you and Kara. Eliza just assumed you and Emily were headed toward a relationship, hence inviting you both.
“I’m not worried about Kara.” He shakes his head. “I have to move on. Emily and I haven’t talked about labels yet, but I really like her.”
Shit. It is more. “Oh. I thought you were just friends.
“I guess we’re in between.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, but I like her a lot.”
I take a long swig of beer in effort to control myself—to catch the question wanting to spill from my mouth. But I miss. “You fuck her yet?”
Deacon blows out a long, shaky breath, then grins. I know the answer before the words even pass his lips. “Last week after our date.”
“As in a real date?”
He nods. “Sun Dial. It was great.”
At breakfast last week, when Emily had said she’d be seeing him later, I had no idea she’d meant for a date. It seemed like forever before he took Kara on a real date. I try to be happy for him, and I punch him in the bicep. “I’m happy for you, man.”
“Thanks. Best sex of my life.” He leans in, lowers his voice, and looks around before locking eyes with me again. “And between you and me, man … Emily has the tightest pussy I’ve ever been in. She must do, like, a thousand of those vagina exercises a day.”
I’m sweating. I feel like I’m on the tail end of having the stomach flu. Not close to throwing up or shitting myself, but just queasy enough to where I don’t feel normal. “Happy for you,” I repeat, and it’s all I can spit out as I loosen my tie.
For the first time in my life, I’m jealous of another guy, and I must say it’s not a good feeling. Why couldn’t this situation have occurred before I proposed? Every good woman needs and is worthy of a guy who is incapable of thinking these things. Eliza is a good woman, and now I feel like I don’t deserve her. It’s deplorable that I can sit here and sweat and feel sick over another woman. Eliza may be insanely and unjustifiably jealous, but she’s not that bitch from high school she once was. Everyone is allowed to be an asshole when they’re a kid, and everyone is allowed to have a freak-out when they’re planning a wedding. She changed. She’s a kind and caring woman, volunteering with cancer-stricken children once a month, donating money to animal rescues. She brings me lunch at work. Puts up with my hectic schedule. And she waited ten fucking years for me. Ten fucking years for me to make her my wife.
I don’t even know Emily. She’s a stranger. What I do know is I feel some spark there that’s not entirely sexual, and this is the shit you see in movies that brings two people together while fucking up other people’s lives in the process.
October 9, 2015
After Eliza’s mom wanders off to mingle with others, Eliza ushers me into a corner.
“So, good news.” She smiles. “Brooks wanted me to tell you he’s sorry for being a dick about the wedding. He changed his mind. But honestly, the thought of trying to alter the dress when there’s already so little time sounds stressful, so I hope you’re okay with just attending?”
Interesting. “I told you before ... I’d love to just be a guest.” I smile. I don’t argue with her, because there’s not going to even be a wedding anyway.
“Oh, good. Sure you aren’t mad?”
“Of course not.”
“Also, I didn’t mention this before, because the plan was already set, but I really want you there, so … will you come to my bachelorette party, too? It’s in Vegas!” she squeals.
This is so good. “Is that a real question?”
She claps excitedly, and I do, too, but for different reasons. Is it wrong that I hope she does something while we’re there that Brooks would get upset about? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except when you take Emily Brandt.
Brooks revoking the invite hurt me, but I forgive him. The poor guy is “engaged” to someone who has habitually ejected friends from her life since high school, someone trapped in a bubble of jealousy. Someone incapable of making her own good decisions. Regardless of whether I end up victorious, and regardless of whether he licks me or not, I’ll make sure Brooks doesn’t marry her. I’ll frame her if I have to.
Deacon should have said these parties are insufferable even with a date. Don’t rich people get tired of this sort of thing? Eliza’s mother comes back and begins to drone on and on about nauseating wedding crap.
Deacon appears and puts his arm around me. “Mind if I steal her away for a bit?” he asks them.
Eliza smiles, of course, and her mother nods. He takes me by the hand, and we find his mother and father standing in the kitchen, cackling with another couple and having a great time. I guess they don’t get tired of this. Though we were introduced at the table, it was a name exchange only, and then his parents went on to talk to Brooks’s parents, so nothing else was said. Either he brings random chicks around a lot, or they suspect I’m a rebound girl.
“Mom, Dad,” Deacon interrupts.
His mother turns to Deacon and smiles at us. His dad follows suit, and Deacon asks if we can interrupt the snobby conversation they’re having about vacationing in Belize.
The four of us step away as a group. His mother has had a lot of work done on her face, but it isn’t good work like mine. Her platinum blonde hair much too long and inappropriate for a woman of her age. I can’t imagine having her plastic face between my legs, pulling a baby from my vagina. From their view, it must look like they’re birthing the sun.
“We didn’t get to talk much at dinner,” Deacon says to them, gesturing toward me.
His mother laughs. “You’re right, honey.” She turns to me. “Emily, was it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I hate this shit. This meaningless chat with a woman who is undoubtedly judging me because she thinks I’m banging her precious son. Everyone always talks about dads being overprotective of their daughters. Well, I think mothers with sons are much worse—a force not to be reckoned with.
“Dr. Sanders. Wonderful to meet you.” She smiles. Sticks her hand out to mine and shakes it firmly.
“You too,” I say, but I don’t mean it, because what kind of arrogant person introduces herself as Dr. Sanders unless you’re in for an appointment?
“Beautiful girl,” Deacon’s dad says. “I’m Deacon’s much older, but much better looking father, Rick. It’s a pleasure.” He laughs, and I laugh, too, followed by Deacon. His mother just smiles and clears
her throat—that prissy, apologetic thing rich women do. His dad is fairly attractive for an older man, though I’d argue the fact that he’s better looking than Deacon.
Deacon puts his arm around me again. “I wanted you to have a chance to talk to her, because Emily and I have—well, we’ve been spending some time together,” he smiles at me, pulling me closer, “and we’re going to see where it goes.”
His mother doesn’t look pleased with her fake smile and her single raised eyebrow, but his dad smiles widely, to which I smile back. Fuck Deacon for putting me on the spot like this.
“Honey, that’s wonderful,” she lies, pulling him in for a halfhearted hug. She doesn’t want me around her son. I can feel it. What I wouldn’t give to see the look on her poorly done face after telling her he knows what I taste like. But I don’t have time for pettiness. It’s not her son I’m after.
“That’s good news,” his dad says. “Emily, I’m delighted my son has met such a beautiful woman.” He turns to Deacon. “And I’m glad to see you’re moving on, son.”
People have no tact these days, I swear. I wonder about Kara, whether or not she’s another Eliza. What could have possibly happened between them for him to be so upset? Deacon isn’t the male version of Ivy Hobbs. He’s not grotesque; he’s not poor. Hasn’t lost everyone in the world who loves him. He’s attractive. Grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, and could have any girl in the world except me. So why is he stuck on her?
The party has died down considerably. Deacon and I are sitting on the front steps when he spots Brooks and Eliza coming from the back of the property, headed for Brooks’s Audi.
“Where you guys headed?” Deacon calls out.
“Gonna catch a movie,” Brooks replies.
“Want company?” Deacon asks.
Eliza starts to say something, but Brooks says, “Sure.”
We follow them to AMC at Phipps, and I chuckle on the inside. Eliza must be shaking in her heels right now because of her thieving ways.
Brooks and Deacon order two tubs of popcorn and various packs of candy. Eliza is already nibbling at it, plucking piece by piece at the counter, before it’s even paid for, but I’m not eating any of that shit. I’d be fat again before I finished half of the tub.
Brooks and Deacon walk ahead of us, whispering about football or something. Eliza looks visibly nervous, looking down at the floor as we walk. I know it’s because of Bebe, without her even saying anything.
“I’ll be right back,” she says. “I have to use the bathroom.” I wonder if she’s so scared that she’s about to have diarrhea, and I can barely contain my laughter.
I follow behind Brooks and Deacon as we navigate our way through the aisles. It’s packed, and we’re forced to sit on a side aisle. Luckily, there are four seats in each row. Deacon takes the seat closest to the wall, and I follow behind him. Then Brooks sits next to me, leaving the aisle seat for Eliza. His elbow brushes against mine as we both go for the armrest, and my nipples harden.
Five or so minutes pass before I glimpse Eliza feeling her way up the aisle. She leans over and whispers something to Brooks, to which he holds his hands up like what the fuck. He starts to get up, but then she sits down and crosses her arms, the tension between them palpable. I wonder if she doesn’t want him sitting next to me because of her addiction to jealousy and the fact that I’m better looking. I have to get more serious with Deacon so that she’ll tone it down.
This theater is almost as dark as the lake was. I could unzip Brooks’s pants right now and give him the best blowjob he’s ever had, and no one would see. The movie is fucking stupid. I don’t care if the guy falls and dies, because he’s an idiot. Life is sacred. Love is sacred. And he’s shitting on both by walking on a piece of floss dangling in the sky. Brooks’s phone vibrates. He fumbles with it, tries to turn it off, but it slaps to the ground. His arm rubs against mine as he leans over to pick it up, and I get that feeling of need again. Everyone knows people fuck in theaters, but I wonder how often people masturbate in them? If he touches me again, I may have to try it out.
A light flashes up the aisle, held by an approaching employee. Eliza visibly tenses in her chair, followed by the slumping of her shoulders. She exhales as the guy passes us—he was merely scanning for smuggled food.
“You okay, babe?” Brooks whispers.
I can’t be sure, but I think she said he just startled her. She gets up again, bounding for the exit. “Where’s she going” I whisper to Brooks.
“Bathroom again.” The heat of his whisper tempts me to ask another question, but I don’t push it. How I’d love to tell him his perfect princess thought she was caught—one of the Blonde Bimbos. Thief of Bebe swimsuits. Stealer of boyfriends. Slut of Atlanta.
The turn of Brooks’s head toward the entrance moments later is unfortunately followed by his sudden departure from his seat. I wait a minute, and then tell Deacon, who is sloppily shoving popcorn in his mouth, that I’m going to the bathroom, too.
“Too much tea at dinner,” I whisper. He smiles before his head turns back to the screen.
I walk up the aisle and round the curve to the exit. I look back at the stupid movie I don’t care about, when someone slams into me—or maybe I slam into them—sending me stumbling back.
“Oh, God,” Brooks says. “I’m really sorry.” He doesn’t even look like he wobbled.
I stare into his eyes. It’s heart pounding and intense—the unexpected rumble of thunder on a clear day.
I shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
He clears his throat. “Eliza wasn’t in the bathroom” he says. “I called her name, but she didn’t respond.”
“Maybe she went outside to make a phone call.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I’m sure she’s fine,” I offer. “We probably just missed her. We should get back to our seats so she doesn’t have to come looking for us instead.” I start to walk off.
His fingers grip my wrist. “Hey, Emily?” So close to clutching my hand, but then his drops.
“Yeah?” I turn around, a hint of something in his eyes … arousal? Anger?
His brow furrows. “Have we met before?” There it is. Recognition. I’m fucked.
“Huh?” The beating of my heart one single, long thud.
“I don’t know, I—I feel like I know you from somewhere, like we’ve met before. Have we?”
“No.” I’m not lying, because I’m not Ivy Hobbs anymore. I’m Emily Brandt. “But I kind of felt the same way when we first met.”
“Dude, what are you doing? You’re missing the movie!” Deacon says, bypassing us and headed to the counter for a refill of his soda.
“Did Eliza come back?” Brooks stuffs his hands in his pockets. Steps away from me a bit. “We can’t find her.”
Deacon backtracks to us. “Nah, she didn’t. You check the bathroom?”
We nod.
Brooks pulls out his phone, making several attempts to call her, though all go unanswered. “I’ll text her.”
Deacon and I peer over his shoulder: Babe, where are you?
No response.
We walk circles around the building, fruitlessly searching the same places twice and sometimes a third time. Brooks holds his phone out to a young girl with braces working the popcorn and asks if she may have seen Eliza. She shakes her head at first, then changes her mind and says thinks she left the building.
Brooks turns to us. “Maybe we should call the cops. This isn’t like her, to just disappear.” He spins around in a circle, eyes frantic. “I’m getting worried.”
“I’m sure she’s okay,” Deacon says. “We’ll find her.”
Part of me hopes she was abducted, because we all know abductions don’t typically end well. But then I banish that thought. As much as I hate her, I don’t want her to die. Not yet, anyway.
Brook’s phone chirps. “It’s her! ‘Really sick. Took Uber home.’ Maybe it was the food from the party. Her chicken looked a little pink.”
Deacon shrugs. “I had the steak.”
“Maybe,” I add. “Now that you ask, I think I do feel a little queasy.”
Despite Brooks having driven separately, we pile into Deacon’s car to go check on her. Brooks is overly concerned—too concerned to worry about his brand new Audi unattended in a shady garage. It hurts, because she’s not the one. I am. It’s me. What happened in the water proved we’re still connected. Something passed between us, something spiritual that I know he felt, too. I can’t explain it, but I believe it with every cell of my heart. Brooks still loves me. Just because he doesn’t know that I’m Ivy—or, was—means nothing, because our souls are connected, and that kind of love isn’t bound by the superficial. It’s pure and true. And no disfiguring accident, no amount of distance or time could change it.
Deacon parks, and Brooks jumps out of the car before we can even open our doors. He sprints for the access door, Deacon and I following him like he’s a boot camp instructor.
After taking the elevator to the third floor and reaching her apartment, Brooks knocks loudly.
No answer.
“Eliza, it’s me. Open the door,” he says.
Silence.
“Eliza. Let us know you’re okay, please.” He pauses, waiting. “Babe?”
I don’t understand his sense of urgency. It’s infuriating. I’d rather see them mid-sex again than witness him in panic mode over her.
Eliza, open the door! I text her.
We all wait, camped outside her door like the damn mafia. I call her, not expecting an answer. It rings and rings, but finally a weak, “Hey.”
“Eliza! Open the damn door. We’re all worried about you,” I say.
“Chicken,” she groans.
“I’m sorry you’re sick,” I say, worrying I’ll be joining her soon. “Let us in.”
“I’m throwing up,” she gags. “Just tell Brooks that I’ll see him tomorrow. Tell him I’m sorry.” She hangs up.
Brooks and Deacon are waiting, holding their breath. “She’s throwing up. She said she’ll see you tomorrow,” I say to Brooks, and he looks disappointed. “I think I am feeling a little off. I hope I don’t get sick.”
The Evolution of Ivy: Poison Page 12
