The Evolution of Ivy: Poison

by Lauren Campbell

  But it’s not Emily’s fault. She was only trying to help. She did what she thought was right by telling me—what was right. And even though the kiss was wrong, I don’t judge her for it. It was my responsibility to push her away, just like it was Eliza’s responsibility to not bang Mark.

  Regardless, I still think about that kiss.

  I can’t get it out of my mind.

  March 17, 2016

  Lucy circles me, sniffing where the passing dogs just walked. Suddenly, she darts off in hot pursuit, the strength and determination of her gallop forcing me to run behind her. We approach the bridge, my commands for her to stop going ignored. We’re halfway across when a familiar smell floats past, igniting a memory.

  I turn. Realize I just passed him. Brooks. I just passed Brooks. Lucy is still pulling, chafing my wrist as I fight the pull, then tug hard on the leash. My eyes stay glued to the angel sporting green shorts in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day, the rising sun glinting off his skin. His head turns—as if he smelled me, too. Or … saw me.

  We make eye contact, and I pull the leash harder. Brooks stops running. Turns his body toward me. He looks happy. He smiles. His body deliciously sweaty. “Emily!” he says breathlessly.

  “Brooks.” I smile back. Lucy jerks harder, and the leash slips from my hand.

  I start to run after her, acting on pure dog mommy instinct, and momentarily forget about Brooks and the sweat sparkling on his chiseled chest.

  But suddenly he’s there, running alongside me, our feet in sync. “I’ll get her,” he says, his voice a raspy pant that gives me a chill. Wonder if that’s how he’ll sound when we fuck.

  “Okay.” I smile.

  We turn our heads forward, eyes on my four-legged daughter. Running after her, we steal a peek at each other again, and he smiles, his white teeth blindingly white. I grin back, then look to Lucy again, the pain of the past quickly fading away with every stride.

  Fate has intervened.

  We are meant to be.

  He will be mine again.

  March 17, 2016

  They say positive thinking gets results. They say if you can think it, you can achieve it. Today I am living proof that such is true. Today I am a beautiful woman, something I never expected to be. And today, Brooks has returned to me after months of patience and uncertainty. His smile tells me that he harbors no animosity toward me, that he doesn’t think I’m a terrible slut for kissing him when he came to my apartment in an attempt to tell me of Deacon’s change of heart. His smile tells me that it wasn’t a permanent blow to his perception of my character. It tells me he doesn’t care that I’d had a “relationship” with his best friend, that he doesn’t care that we’d fucked. Most importantly, it tells me he wants us as much as I want us. That he’s back … back for good.

  Lucy sprints farther away from us despite my calls to her, and Brooks leaves me trailing behind, and I enjoy this view. I enjoy this view so much. I love the way his ass moves with his stride, the way his calves seem to bob up and down as they flex with his steps. The back of his shirt is drenched with sweat, and I wouldn’t protest if he took it off and wrapped it around my face so that I could permanently imprint his pheromones into my mind.

  He reaches Lucy’s leash and wraps it several times around his hand. “Got her!” he calls.

  I catch up to him, and smile with gratitude. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He smiles again. Unwinds the leash from his hand, and passes it to me.

  Lucy paws at his legs, begging for a pet. He reaches down and scratches her head. “When did you get her?”

  “Oh, uh … about a month after … you know,” I say, averting his eyes.

  “I had to get rid of Janie.”

  “Really? Why?”

  He folds his arms, then looks off into the grass. “Well, I didn’t get rid of her exactly. I gave her to Deacon to keep for a while. I was too depressed to give her the attention she deserved. And Deacon, well … he’s been going through his own hard time.”

  I ask the obligatory question. “How’s he doing, by the way?” The leash tugs, but Lucy is staying close this time, being a good girl and panting away.

  “Ah, you know … he’s all right, considering.” I know exactly what he means. He means Deacon lost out on me.

  “Yeah.” I decide to test him. Play it cool. “Well, it was good to see you, Brooks. I better get this girl home.”

  Except he doesn’t take the bait. “Yeah, it was good to see you too. Good meeting you, Lucy girl.” He reaches down to pet her again. She wags her tail and jumps at his legs before he turns around and walks away.

  I stand there for a moment, my happiness fading to disappointment. I shouldn’t have brought such an abrupt end to the conversation as part of some stupid test that obviously didn’t work. I’d walk away from me, too.

  He’s gone now, having just passed around the curve. “Come on, Lucy,” I say, my voice hopeless. I want to yell for him, but it’s almost as if I can’t override my brain telling me to be patient some more.

  She walks me to the front of the park, and I want to cry as I spot my car.

  “Emily!” I hear. Lucy’s ears perk up. She does a circle around, and I get tied up in her leash as I turn.

  Brooks is jogging my direction, waving, and I saunter toward him casually.

  My heart is hopeful again until I see him holding Lucy’s tag. “This must have come off when she was running.”

  “Oh.” I take it. “Well, thanks again.”

  “No problem. Good to see you.”

  He’s walking away again. I didn’t wait four months for him to disappear again until the next time we happen to run into each other, and I’m not pitching a tent in the park. Sometimes people just need a little prompting. “Hey…”

  He spins around. Raises his eyebrows expectantly.

  “You don’t know anything about garbage disposals by any chance, do you?”

  “Hmm … no, can’t say that I do.” He chuckles. “What’s up?”

  Fuck. Why not TVs or my car? Men love TVs and cars. “I dunno, it’s clogged or something. I tried to fix it myself, but no luck. But it’s fine, I mean … if you can’t do that type of thing.” Men love a challenge, right?

  “No, no. I could take a look. I mean, there’s always Google. I could come by at seven. That work?”

  “That would be perfect.” I smile. “I moved, though. I’m renting a bungalow nearby.”

  “You have my number still?”

  I nod.

  “Cool. Text me your address. Gotta get home and brush up on my garbage disposal fixin’ skills.” He laughs.

  “Okay. See you later.” I wave at him, then turn in the opposite direction.

  I text my address once he’s out of view, then set an alarm on my phone titled Clog Your Garbage Disposal.

  I dumped half a box of cereal down the disposal, but the motherfucker still works. I tried leftover spaghetti, too, but it also ninja-chopped that shit. There’s no way I can let Brooks in here with a working disposal. What a loser I would be. He’d know I made the shit up. Drumming my fingers on the counter, I rack my brain. After retrieving a jar of toothpicks from the pantry, I dump half of it down the disposal and light a candle, waiting for the top portion to liquefy. Once it’s hot and ready—just like I am when I think about him—I pour the hot wax down the drain and top it off with the remaining toothpicks. If that doesn’t work, Brooks and I aren’t meant to be, I laugh to myself. Letting ten minutes slip by while I finish my makeup, I pray the damn disposal doesn’t work.

  When I flip the switch, it runs for no more than a second before grinding loudly and then slowing to a stop, nothing more than a stalled hum. Perfect.

  I pace the living room with twenty minutes to spare before he arrives. My eyes keep drifting to the vase—to Mom and Dad. It feels awkward, like I should say something. I haven’t talked to them directly in a long time. I’ve been so caught up with Brooks and Eliza that my par
ents took the back burner.

  My pulse quickens as I remember the notebook—Ivy’s notebook—with all the old photos and letters is in the bedroom. It shouldn’t be within 1,000 miles of this house. There’s no telling what could happen tonight. I go to my closet. Retrieve it from under the mattress. I carry it into the living room—in front of Mom and Dad. I know what I must do, and I should have done it long ago, but it’s hard. The three photos I have of Mom, Dad, and me make the thought of burning it all seem excruciating. And while it will hurt to destroy this notebook and lose these records of Brooks’s and my memories, we can make new ones. He’s alive. A living, breathing soul. But I can’t see my parents again. Can’t ask them back for a photo op.

  I turn on the fireplace, the glowing heat burning my eyes as I place the notebook on the brick. I pull down the vase, and set it beside it. Run my fingers over it, my eyes closing as I begin to choke up.

  “Mom. Dad.” My voice cracks on the words as I open the notebook to the last page, three photos of all of us together—my favorite the one of us at the panda exhibit at the zoo. “I know I haven’t talked to you in a while—not like I used to, anyway. I’m so sorry for that. I’ve just…” Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to cry. I look to the ceiling, keeping them open, praying they’ll dry and not spill over to ruin my makeup. My hands find the vase. Hold it tight. “It’s just that I want you to be proud of me, you know? You didn’t have a backup kid. You just had me. And I was always miserable and depressed because of what everyone did to me … what they said to me. I spent every second missing Brooks because I couldn’t have him anymore. I didn’t know it was possible to miss anyone more than that until you guys left me. I wish I could have made you proud while you were here, even though you always said that you were. But, I finally did it. I got revenge. I didn’t want to tell you until Brooks came back, but I did what you always told me to do. I had faith, and that faith is bringing him here in a few minutes.” I let go of the vase, and wipe at the tears beginning to leak onto my face. “I’m finally a pretty girl, too. I’m going to do everything I can to live a good life, one that you’d be proud of. But I have to let you go now—the pictures, at least. I hope you aren’t mad at me for it, but I can’t take any chances.” I take the photos out, kissing them one by one, running my fingers along my mother’s hair and my dad’s shoulder. Reminisce about my mom’s hugs, and my dad’s special-occasion pancakes—somehow knowing they forgive me.

  I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to burn these memories. I can hide them somewhere, just for tonight. Get a storage unit, and keep it safe from discovery. No. Holding onto this book of tragic reminders is holding onto Ivy. And I don’t need her anymore. I close the notebook slowly.

  The doorbell rings. This is it.

  I hug the notebook against my chest, and then toss it into the flame. “I love you so much,” I whisper.

  I put Mom and Dad back on the mantle, the vase cold against the press of my kiss. I dust off my hands, then head to the door, and open it to my future.

  The End

  BOOK TWO COMING SOON

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my amazing sons for being so patient during this adventure I’ve been on. The boys whom I love beyond words could ever convey. Little boys who have believed in me in a way that can only be described as magical, and also a little comical. Of course, they’re not allowed to read this book until they’re twenty one, maybe even twenty five. But they know Mommy is “a writer,” and they say I’m the best one. For that, I love them even more than I did before I started this journey.

  Secondly, I want to thank my husband for putting up with my shit like no one else can. For dealing with a dirty house so that I can type words. For bringing fast food when I am too busy writing, or too busy networking. For believing I can make this a career. For not always being a jerk. Just half the time. Okay, sometimes.

  Thanks to my mom and dad, who apparently passed down the crazy gene that allowed me to write this kind of stuff. To my sisters for reading it, or wanting to, or pretending to, anyway.

  I also want to thank my friends for pushing me to write. Because they are all bitches and will complain about who is listed first, and who is REALLY the best friend, I’m just going to say thank you. Thanks, bitches. I love you all. If you’re the Real Best Friend, you know who you are. Ha! Kidding.

  Thanks to Madison Seidler, who is the best damn editor I know, and her sister Chelsea for proofreading my crazy story. To Murphy, for designing my amazingly beautiful cover that Ivy wouldn’t be complete without.

  To Kim Buckpitt, your input and support (and your friendship) are more valuable to me than you’ll ever know. To author J.A. Derouen, who compared Ivy to Joe Goldberg—I’ll do jumping jacks forever for you. I’m your new biggest cheerleader. NYT list, here you come! To ALL of the CoHorts who have supported me, who have spammed groups and blogs and Facebook about my book—thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ll always be an O.G. to me.

  Lastly, to Colleen Hoover. Without you, I’d have never written this book. Without you, I’d have never written at all.

  Lauren Campbell lives in Atlanta, GA, with her family, and is author of The Evolution of Ivy: Poison. She was raised in Columbia, SC, with her three sisters who annoy her greatly. An avid reader since early childhood, Lauren discovered her love for writing several years into owning a successful newborn photography business. After reaching out to author Colleen Hoover in 2013 for advice, Lauren painstakingly pieced together a heap of garbage loosely based on her personal life that she decided to trash. After one year of being on hiatus, Lauren subsequently came up with the idea for Poison after being inspired by a photo on the internet. She wrote Poison in three weeks. It is not a heap of garbage, has no personal ties, and is filled with characters Lauren cares more for than some of the real people in her life. But don’t tell anyone that.Lauren’s social life is pretty boring, but she loves reading, coffee & hot tea, and living in her pajamas. She’s a glutton for punishment, and regrettably signs up for things like Room Mom in her children’s classes, leaving her up all night doing things like baking dozens of cookies between swear words. Her favorite food is avocado. If she could, she’d find a way to put it on everything. Lauren is done writing in third person now. (I’m super lame, I know.)

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